Saturday, 24 September 2011


File:Vombatus ursinus -Maria Island National Park.jpg
A filthy Commie.
Image via Wikipedia.
The heavy rainfall continued. You don't care though, do you? You think the weather's just for old people and owls, don't you? Well, I don't give a damn what you think.

"Can't we go in?" Max pleaded from the other side of two watery coffees.

 "No." I replied. "We're staying here until after 6."

 The reason for staying outside - beyond, of the course, the vague possibility that Max may catch hypothermia and die - was that Raiden (Yup, we're still doing that) was still plaguing my home, teleporting in and out of the living room to tell me about his day. His day was never interesting. The highlight of his week, I understood, had been seeing a documentary on seals. I used to like seals, but now I just want to club their adorable faces in and eat their fatty innards.

 "Besides, the rain's letting off a little."

 Max shrugged an indifferent agreement. The rain was definitely reducing in watery volume. Near the cafe table at which we had situated ourselves, the pavement began to bustle with life. Wet life, but life all the same.Seals are a type of wet life. Little bastards.
 Seemingly drawn out by the temporary drynessity, a few men and women began to stroll the aforementioned city streets. Their shoes splished and splashed into puddles and gutters, and little waves spread across the street. It was all nice and shit. Nearby, a wombat walked purposefully to the street corner and stepped up onto a soap box.

 "Is that a marsupial?" I asked Max out of curiosity.

 "Yea, wombat I think."

 Max's suspicions were confirmed a moment later, when the short-legged, muscular quadruped began to talk in a strong, clear Australia accent.

 "Good morning, comrades!" He yelled in a strong, inflected voice.

 I looked up in interest. Wombats, as is well known, hold strong Communist views. Whether you agree with them or not, they often make compelling, charismatic speakers, and I was eager to hear one in action. However, I quickly realised that I wasn't going to witness such a spectacle today.

"Hey! Hey you!"

 From the other side of the street, a haranguer emerged from a small crowed. Smartly dressed, he was some kind of creature made of potato sacks. In fact, as I watched him move across the street, I came to imagine him still filled with potatoes. His sack-arms heaved as he pointed and gesticulated, large bumps rolling and bulging across his personage. 

 "Yes!" He yelled as the Wombat looked to him in response. "I'm talking to you, you... you womb-bat!"

 I furrowed my brow, but continued to watch the ongoing scene.

 "Yes sir, you have a question. Or perhaps you want to silence me!" To this he raised an energetic jeer from the crowd. "Yes, you fear me talking! You want to stop me before I tell these people the truth!"

 This too raised a roar from the crowd, who turned in unison to see the newcomer's reply. Throwing back his cheeks, the man huffed and puffed in shocked, angry indignation. He shook, recovering himself, and prepared to speak.

 But Suddenly, a third figure arrived on the scene, riding triumphantly into the argument on the back of a lion. Her gown fluttering behind her, I recognised the figure of Britannia. Raising her trident, she thrust and jabbed in an arousing manner, knocking the Wombat aside her path.

 "Down with diesel! Oats, power cars with oats!" She yelled triumphantly.

 "But that isn't the argument mate?" The Wombat called out from the paving. "We're debating political ideologies. And you've gone and ruined it!"

 "Yea!" Yelled the sack of Potatoes, "How will I dispute this man's Capitalist stance if you go about knocking people down an' yelling?"

 "I'm a Communist!" Yelled the injured marsupial.

 "Oh." Potato-Sackman mumbled. "Me too."

 Britannia, dismounting and removing her helmet, explained that she too leaned far to the left.

 Joining arms, the three skipped merrily into a nearby hardware store, returning soon with red and yellow paint. First painting the town red, then gently painting the hammer and sickle onto the street walls, they made their way into the distance.

 I watched them go, their linked arms catching on lamp-posts and passers-by. This, I thought to myself through sips of coffee, was exactly why New Zealand won the Cold War.

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