Somewhere near Liberal Party HQ the comrades of the Black Hand gathered to discuss their next move in the overthrow of an effete political party. The room was dark, and not just because of the energy policies they had foisted on the nation. It was also smoky, given the need to burn wood to heat the room on that cloudy, windless day.
Each of the Comrades of the Black Hand carefully cast eyes on all of the others in the room. Amongst those in attendance was Mr. Sub, the $50 billion dollar man. He had been a loyal lieutenant to the Dear Leader, proclaiming on tape always to have voted for Turn Jong Bull at every spill. Over to the left, the far left in the corner, there was also the Puppeteer from New South Wales, Mr. Photon, whose loathing for democratic decision-making when it came to pre-selections knew no bounds. Mr. Photon much preferred filling vacancies himself rather than letting the deplorable rabble who were regular party members have any say at all. This rabble, who would be asked to give money to the Party whenever possible, were the useful idiot ground troops who were only good for a bit of door-knocking and poll booth manning. (Note to the Comrades – that last word would have to be changed in line with the new ‘Safe Parliament Program’ that some ex-communist would be rolling out for the Black Hand soon. Maybe the Black Hands could ensure that the next Australian of the Year dedicates his/her/its tenure to eradicating such misogynistic terminology?) But back to the deplorables, they were not to be let anywhere near the decision as to who would fill the next pre-selection vacancy, not if Mr. Photon had anything to do with it. And by Gaia he certainly did have something to do with it, as everyone in that smoky room well knew.
Nor was the Black Hand some boys-only group. Judy Mitre, the Deputy to Die For aka ‘the Black Widow’, had just glided into the secret room. Well, perhaps ‘glided’ was unfair as it is not all that easy to glide when wearing $2,000 Jimmy Choo shoes and the latest $30,000 dress. But you can’t really go to some Saudi Arabian chaired United Nations Human Rights Council Women’s sub-group shindig without being properly attired, not if you were also going to have to cover your head. Ms. Mitre always liked to sit directly behind whoever was at the moment the Dear Leader. It was the best position for her to be in if she decided she needed to remove her stiletto to use it for purposes non-perambulatory.
And of course no meeting of the Comrades of the Black Hand would be complete without the Law Man present. In full pomp and ceremony this was in fact the country’s top law man, he who could boast to the other Comrades that he had appointed more Lefties to top jobs than Righties. It was widely understood that he considered his staffing of the elite shock troops who comprised the Australian Human Rights Commission to be his finest work. ‘Ed Santow’, the others would mutter, ‘how did you possibly get that pick through the party room?’ The others all knew that even Labor would not have appointed Santow, who had somehow managed to spend his time as the HRC’s ‘Freedom Commissioner’ without saying a single, solitary word in defence of Bill Leak or the QUT three. ‘Brilliant choice’, muttered the others. And what about the Law Man’s most recent appointment, his pick for President of the HRC? It was almost as big a slap in the face to the Liberal Party faithful as was Turn Jong Bull’s pick to be head honcho at the ABC – almost, but not quite. Even the Law Man did not dare to outdo the Dear Leader in the ‘moving the party to the left by appointing loads of lefties’ stakes. The Law Man knew where his future High Commissioner in London bread was buttered; he may not be anything like the latter day John Stuart Mill he had advertised himself as, but he was no fool.
The ambience at this particular gathering of the Black Hand could only be described as gay, as the topic of same-sex marriage was being discussed. Mr. Sub was assuring the Labor-lite (well, perhaps Labor-full strength) Black Hands that everything was going to plan. It would be legislated for sooner than anyone expected. After all, no one could now seriously expect them to live up to election promises. As the $50 Billion Dollar Man reminded all the attendees, ‘We had promised not to go after the superannuants and the Catholics, and we had no problem breaking those election promises. We said we were small government tax cutters, not big spending tax increasers. And it’s pretty obvious to everyone by now, even the useful idiots still clinging to the Liberal Party boat, that we prevaricated about that one too. Sure, we haven’t yet pulled the lever on the Finkel de-industrialisation of the country, but be patient my friends. A target of 42 per cent is every bit as idiotic and harmful as 50 per cent, I assure you.’ This assurance was met with the sort of vigorous and lengthy applause Australians had now come to expect from these self-styled ‘progressive’ Comrades.
Of course no one quite knew why they had called themselves ‘the Black Hands’ to start. Perhaps one of them at the time had been re-reading old Agatha Christie novels. Whatever the genealogy they all liked the term. It suited them.
One of the latecomers to the meeting, a more recent convert to the Black Hand cause and the man who now filled the Treasury Benches, Herr Slow Mo, put up his hand and asked a question. ‘What about the Cardinal? What if he comes back? We’ll all be off the Frontbenches. No more limos. No more super-salaries. And the Liberal Party may even start moving back to the right. He’s dangerous, I assure you. I use to work closely with him on boats.’
There was much nervous laughter and guffawing. The Black Hands had been sure Turn Jong Bull had terminated the Cardinal and locked in the leftward drift of the Party. But now, truth be told, there were Comrades who worried and doubted. Best to double cross the voters on same sex marriage and ensure the Party’s demise for a decade. Time was of the essence, especially for all of the Black Hands.
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