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Satire
My spyfly device sat inconspicuously on the wall of the office of Justinda Ardeau, dictator of DPARONC, or The Democratic People’s Autonomous Region of New China, as it was unofficially known in the ever-decreasing circles in which Justinda moved.
Her unicornedness sat at her desk, brow furrowed, peering at a document that lay before her. A large packet of ‘special’ gummy bears sat on the desk next to a packet of crayons.
As I watched, the fly’s sensors sounded the ‘sausage rolls in close proximity’ alarm on my system, and the door opened to reveal the waddling advance of Grunt Robbingson, the Minister of Sausage Rolls and Mindless Interjections, clutching a twelve incher tightly in one of his pudgy paws.
Justinda glanced up as Grunter the Bunter crashed into a chair with a noise like a truckload of frozen sausage rolls landing on a glass ceiling.
“Listen to an example of what I have to put up with,” she said, without any greeting. “A letter from the ‘van Gogh Society of OurTearRoar’, saying that mask mandates are discriminatory against the one-eared and earless citizens of this country and demanding exemptions.”
“They have a point,” said Grunt, “how can they wear a mask without something to hang it on?”
“They can nail them to their heads for all I care,” snapped Justinda.
“I have a wedding to prepare for, people’s lives to destroy, Omicron to scare people with; important stuff like that. I don’t have time for this.”
Grunt held the twelve incher away from him so that he could inspect it more thoroughly, raised it reverently to his lips then took a lusty bite. “So, is this what you dragged me in here for?” he pouted petulantly. “To complain about a letter from the two members of the van Gogh Society?”
“Three actually,” she corrected him. “No, it isn’t. Have you forgotten the meeting here with Auntie Hellish in five minutes time?”
Grunt’s face took on an expression much like Billy Bunter when stuck immobilised in a pantry window. “I’d forgotten about that,” he croaked hoarsely through the crumbs. “And I think Cuddles will be here too.”
“If you’re referring to my Police Commissioner, that’s correct,” said Justinda firmly. “Cuddles Coaster will be here too. He’s so sweet; he does whatever I tell him to.”
“Well, he would hardly have got his job if he didn’t,” responded Grunt, chewing fervidly on his sausage roll.
At that instant, a thunderous knock on the door, reminiscent of Justinda’s father doing some early pre-breakfast visits back in the good old days, was followed by the door bursting open, and Cuddles Coaster and Auntie Hellish penetrating the threshold. Cuddles paused briefly to bark, “Hagar and Rawsprat, guard this door with your lives,” before closing the door, nodding briefly at Grunt, and arranging himself stiffly in a chair between Auntie Hellish and Grunt.
When they’d all sat and looked at each other for a few moments, Cuddles Coaster broke the silence. “What can I do to assist you, my führeress?” he asked mildly.
There was an icy silence. “I have been threatened,” Justinda whined. “I demand your protection. And don’t assume my gender. Führeicher is my title. Remember this in future. I have received a death threat. I’m devastated to find that my team of five million is one short. Look at this! I’m in jeprady.”
She pushed a sheet of paper across her desk to Cuddles. He picked it up and read it.
“‘Remember Ceauçescu’,” he said. “That’s all it says. Maybe just a recommendation to remember a phenomenal socialist leader?”
“You do remember what happened to dear old Nicolae, Cuddles,” Hellish said, showing signs of emotion. “A fine upstanding leader, cut off in his prime, just as he was about to make socialism work. And I might add, he would have been the first to ever do so.”
“But what makes you think you are in danger?” queried Cuddles.
“I’m hounded everywhere I go by nasty people,” said Justinda tearfully. “One even asked me an unrehearsed question. They’re out to get me. I demand protection. One shouted at me that fear is used by weak people because they fear the strong. That’s hate speech! I’m scared. Yip, yip, that’s how it is, so yip yup.”
“Remember that there will be a demonstration right outside the Beehive on Thursday,” said Hellish. “We’ll make sure that Justinda isn’t here, but they may try to find her, and give her a bit of the old Nicolae treatment. And what about the wedding?”
“Nil desperandum, Cuddles of the Plodstapo is here”, said Coaster reassuringly. “I’ll assign officers Hagar and Rawsprat as your personal protection unit. They’ll never let you out of their sight.”
“Weren’t they removed from border patrol duty at the Auckland border for incompetence?” said Grunt.
“They aren’t cut out for routine duties,” Coaster said, looking rather embarrassed. “Fact is, we’re rather short-staffed and can’t be too choosy. The situation could be worse after mid-January.”
Grunt chuckled quietly. “It would be tragic if Justinda’s protection was deficient as a result of our vaccine mandates, wouldn’t it,” he sniggered.
“Enough of that, Grunt,” snapped Hellish. “This is serious. Well, we’ll just have to rely on Hagar and Rawsprat.” She glanced at Justinda. “Take your mind off things, Justinda. Here’s another bag of icing sugar.”
Justinda’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, thanks Auntie Hellish. Suddenly I’m not scared any more.”
Cuddles averted his eyes while the icing sugar was passed over, and then stood up, saying, “Well I think that’ll be all. Merry Christmas everyone.” He strode to the door.
“It’s Merry Baldmas,” shouted Justinda. “I told you all about that last year.”*
“I don’t think Baldmas is going to catch on,” said Hellish, also striding to the door, followed by the lumbering Grunt.
“Hagar and Rawsprat,” barked Cuddles, “you’re now the PM’s sole security detail. Looks like you’ll be at Waiheke on the fift…. Ooops!”
Merry Christmas to all BFD staff, subscribers and readers.
* See ‘Merry Baldmas, Justinda’ BFD 15/12/2020.
