Cold Politics - A Short Work of Fiction

Disclaimer: Contains coarse language. None of the characters are intended to represent anyone in real life.

“Martin, do you know what our job for you is going to be?”
Martin was sitting on a chair in the middle of an empty 6th floor warehouse. He had a stylist combing his hair, while a photographer was adjusting a reflector so that just the right amount of sunlight was cast onto his face. Dennis, who was there to discuss a decision made by his clients with Martin, was trying to stand out of the way.
“No. No, I don’t know. What is it?” Martin asked, trying to remain still as the stylist started to brush off the hair that had fallen onto his shoulders.
“Prime minister.” Dennis said. “We’re going to make you prime minister of New Zealand.”
No one said anything until the stylist broke the silence. She had started to touch Martins face.
“You’ve got a bit of a blemish there, darling, but I’ve got some make up that we can use to cover it up. Did you want me to do that?”
“Um. I… Um.” Martins eyes shifted from side to side, hoping the question would somehow answer itself.
“Yeah, I saw that before.” said the photographer. “And it messed me up, ’cause I had planned to do a shot that’s got that part of his face right in the centre of the picture. So if you can hide it that’ll make life much easier.”
“Oh, not a problem. I’ll just get it out of my bag.”
And so the stylist went to her bag, the photographer went back to his camera, and Martin and Dennis looked at each other awkwardly.

By nine o’clock that night, the warehouse was full of people partying. A bunch of art students had access to the warehouse to use for their projects, and they had decided to have a massive party there just for the sake of it. The instruction from these students to their friends was to invite everyone they knew, and their friends can bring some friends as well if they wanted. They had already handed in their final assignments, there was no need to look after this warehouse any more.

Fast forward to ten o’clock and the party was in top gear. The music was much louder than it should have been, but no one really noticed. People were laughing, a group of people had gathered near the speakers to dance. Some had met new people, single guys and single girls were chatting to each other, people who liked to staunch other people out had found like-minded people to try and staunch out. Some had started playing card games, while others had started to pass around a joint.

Fast forward to eleven o’clock and the police were showing up. Half the partiers scrambled out of the building as soon as they saw them, leaving the other half, who had no reason to feel guilty, standing around, oblivious to the stench of cannabis. The reason the police had shown up was because they got a call when a few people started to push each other around. The conflict had died by the time the police got there, but several were complaining about another party-goer.
“He was riding around on some bike he had found, and he kept falling over, he couldn’t even stay on the bike, and at one point he fell over onto some people I was talking to.” One girl said.
“Yeah, and at one stage, he came up to us while we were just playing a card game and he just lay down on the table and messed up our card game. He even licked one of the cards, he was just a real weird cunt and an annoying cunt.” said a guy.
A few people at the party had heard of him. They had heard of his commonly used nickname, The Maniac. But he had now left the party, some imagined that he was off causing trouble elsewhere, while the police were more concerned about the people who were still there, and whether they were allowed to be there.

*

“So you’ve just got vote counters in four cities? What’s it going to look like when he gets lots of votes from those and then hardly anything from the others?”
“We do have some counters in rural areas as well. Basically, we’ve done it according to demographics. Not to mention the media campaign we have planned is top notch.”
“I really would like to see some figures.”
“Of course you would, sir. But my sincerest apologies, I seem to have left my briefcase at the office.”
“Well, there’s no need for a long meeting then. I have to see them before we continue onto the next stage, you understand that don’t you?”
Dennis nodded.
“I’ll tell you what.” His client said. “We’ll meet tomorrow and you tell me the whole story, including the details because they’re what matters. Then we’ll do the money transfer tomorrow afternoon and you can get started.”
Dennis stood to make a lot of money. A group of rich and selfish businessmen wanted a puppet in the top seat, and Dennis, the businessman hired to arrange it, was to be given millions of dollars to play with, and was allowed to keep a decent percentage of it for himself. He had a copy of all his files in his briefcase. Of course he had a digital copy of everything as well, who wouldn’t these days? But somewhere out there were incredibly sensitive documents that he hoped like hell no one had found.

The door was open at the warehouse where they had been taking photos of Martin the day before, and Dennis walked in. All across the floor were empty beer bottles, old burger wrappers, and playing cards that had been drenched in beer and ruined. Two men in their late forties were looking at a hole that appeared to have been kicked in the wall.
“Hello, who are you?” one of the men asked.
“Hi. Uh, Dennis Colde is my name. I was here yesterday with a photographer and thought I might have left my briefcase here.”
“A briefcase? Haven’t seen one. Although it might be buried under a pile of rubbish, but more than likely one of them young fellas here last night would have stolen it.”
That was a horrible thought for Dennis.
“What happened here last night?” Dennis asked.
“Well, I had some students who I’ve given a key to the place for a very generous fee, and they go and hold a bigger party than what you’d get from all the bloody nightclubs put together.”
“Gee, that’s rude. When did you hear about it.”
“Ah, the police called me up just before midnight. They had still had enough time to make a bloody mess though.”
“Did they mention anything else unusual?” Dennis asked. The man thought for a moment.
“No, not really. Some pushing and shoving. Apparently one or two were quite out of hand, but anything that those jokers get up to when they’re partying is going to sound unusual.”

*

“This isn’t right.” The Maniac said. “I believe that the prime minister should be a good motherfucker.”
The Maniac paced back and forth in the compact stone room that Mobster, The Maniac’s only friend, called his hideout.
“Nay. A good liar can also be prime minister.” said Mobster, he sat in an old armchair, with broken seams, and a red wine stain that continued onto the lap of his pants. He held a bag of wine, pulled from its box and half full, while his other hand held the documents that The Maniac had stumbled upon.
“The best of the good motherfuckers!” The Maniac exclaimed.
“Aye. But if someone seems to be the best of the good motherfuckers, how do I know that they are not the best at pretending to be a good motherfucker?”
The Maniac grabbed the documents out of Mobsters hands and went over what they said. Mobster used his newly freed hand to pick up a cold sausage roll off the coffee table that sat next to him.
“I need to tell the people what is happening.” The Maniac said.
“Alas,” Mobster said “the people have no reason to believe you.”
“But I can show people these documents.”
“Any old drunk can print off some documents, sir. But the people do not want to believe a drunk. A scientist maybe, or, or just an expert of some kind, or a respected celebrity…”
As Mobster spoke, an idea was spawned within The Maniacs demented mind. In that one moment, he discovered his ultimate calling and what he must do immediately.
“What about a politician?” The Maniac said.
“Well no.”
“What about someone who wants to be the prime minister.” The Maniac said.
“Not really what I had in mind, sir.”
“If I run for prime minister, then I can put things right.”
“No, sir, I think this is a bad idea.”
“Mobster, I must ask of you an important favour.”
Mobster remained quiet, waiting for The Maniac to ask his favour. The Maniac took a swig of wine out of a glass sitting next to Mobster before continuing.
“I need you to email the government. No, the boss of the government. Who’s the boss of the government?”
“We are the boss of the government, sir.” Mobster took a slurp of wine from straight out of the bag.
“Surely not.” The Maniac said. “Well, whoever it is, I need you to email them. Find out how I can apply to become prime minister of New Zealand.”
“If that is what you want.” Mobster said.
Mobster looked at the old square laptop sitting across the room, with its wires sticking out of it, and pieces of the case broken off. The Maniac saw him looking at the laptop, and he grabbed it for Mobster. Mobster opened it up, it’s screen had a large crack running through the middle. Where there should be the power button, there were two wires sticking out. Mobster touched the wires together and the laptop lit up, with it’s fans whirring, as it began it’s slow startup process.

*

The sun was setting. Out the window, Dennis could see lights turning on in apartments all across Auckland. He sat in a dimly lit room of a central city high rise building. Across the meeting room table was a man in a green suit.
“I can put anything you want into this big moving picture we call the media.” said the man in the suit, Rodney Tell was his name. “You want the reporter to say something funny in the news? Think of a word.”
Dennis shrugged. The man across the table from him picked up a remote and aimed it at a small screen on the nearby wall. The news was on.
“…this is likely to have a dampening effect on the sharemarket. The Reserve Bank has…”
“Come on. Did you eat on anything on the plane? We’ll throw that in there somehow.”
“Well, it was a nice dish, it had salmon and caviar-”
“Salmon and caviar? Crikey, splashing out are we? We’ll throw that in there somehow.”
Mr. Tell did something on his phone, and then he looked to the screen.
“…Meaning interest rates may in fact go up,” the reporter squinted as she struggled to believe what she was reading “which means you might have to think twice about ordering caviar with your meal the next time you catch a plane. We cross over now to-”
Rodney switched the TV off and the room was quiet.
“Very good.” Dennis said “Well done.” He thought about what else he needed to ask after seeing that. “What about newer ways that people find out about things. Say, news on the internet. What can you do with that?”
“Ha. Log on to any New Zealand news site. Tell me a story on there you don’t like.”
Dennis pulled out his phone and did so.
“Uh. I don’t like this one about the flu, I hate the thought of getting sick.”
Mr. Tell jabbed at his phone a couple of times.
“It’s gone.” said Mr. Tell.
“What?”
“You won’t see it on any major New Zealand news site.”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s going to help anyone.”
“You want it back on there? I’ll get around to it later. Now, I’ve talked about what I can do. What about you? Don’t think that tiny sum of money you mentioned earlier means anything when it comes to electing a government. The media is an important tool in democracy. To mess with it asks an incredible price.”
“It may not be much now, Mr. Tell. But if you can help me to get this man into the top seat, then the people who have arranged this sum of money may have more to offer later. This man we’re using, he’s not perfect. And one day he’ll say the wrong thing, and they’ll need you to play it down. One day he could have too much to drink, leave the media with some lewd behaviour to report on, they’ll ask you to keep it quiet, and the ball will be in your court to set the price.”

*

The man from the electoral office tried not to touch anything in the run down flat, he appeared nervous as he gritted his teeth, but it was just his normal manner. He was holding his clipboard, filling in details on a form.
“So if anyone wants to meet and discuss policies, Mobster says we can do it here in his hideout.” The Maniac said.
“You call yourself Mobster?” his words came out rapidly, again it seemed to indicate nerves but was completely normal for this man. “And you call this your hideout?”
Mobster was sitting in his armchair as usual.
“Actually, I call it my high doubt, because I highly doubt the police will find me here.”
Our friend from the electoral office was sure that last comment was odd, but he had no one else there that would share that feeling with him.
“Well,” the man began “if you don’t mind me asking, what criminal activities do you, uh, partake in?”
The only crime that Mobster ever committed was smoking the illegitimate plant he called ‘le herb.’
“I am the baddest motherfucker in this whole town. Ask anyone from the underworld about Mobster the Notorious-”
“-but we are going to run this country like good motherfuckers.”
Mobster decided to be silent.
The Maniac continued: “Last night, I made a list of all the things I’m going to do as prime minister.”
Mobster fished around in his jacket pocket for that list.
“It’s uh, it’s very ambitious of you to be talking about being prime minister like that.” the man from the electoral office said. “Is there a party that you’re thinking of joining.”
“Do you think any of them will let me be their leader for this election?”
“Well, no, uh, probably not.”
“Then no.”
“You do know how the system works don’t you? Here a party or coalition needs to have more than half of what is usually 120 seats in parliament, and then you can expect the leader of the winning party, or of the party with the most seats in the coalition, to become prime minister.”
Both The Maniac and Mobster were having trouble following what he was saying.

*

Martin finished one last read though of what he was supposed to say.
“Any questions that you’ve thought of since yesterday?” Dennis asked him.
“It’s not really a question about this material.” Martin said. “But I did want to ask what you thought of some extra stuff I came up with this morning.”
“Hm.” Dennis was hesitant. “Let me hear it.”
Martin took a breath.
“They say the big fish eats the little fish. And as your new government, we will accelerate this process, making sure it happens to the greatest degree.”
“We won’t be saying that, Martin.” Dennis checked the time on his phone, and pulled up a schedule. “What’s left for us to discuss before you go out there and debate.”
“I’ve got more.” Martin said.
“We’ve only got so much time.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Martin clasped his hands and prayed to Dennis: “Please?”
Dennis sighed and ran his hand through his hair.
“Alright, I’ll humour you, Martin, but I’m only listening to one more, so choose your best one.”
“Okay.” he thought for a second. “It’s naïve to think that everyone should be allowed rights-”
“Alright, never mind, Martin. You see you want the public to trust you. We’ll work on it and eventually, when you’re nice and comfortable in the big seat, we’ll see if you can come up with some of your own material. For now though, let’s make sure you know the material we have already. Now partway through, the presenter’s going to ask a question that no one is expecting except us.”

The leaders of each party were settling into their seats, except for one. The Maniac was still at the back of the studio, having his last bottle of beer. He called up Mobster.
“Mobster. I’ve finished all my beer and I’m still nervous. I’ve never been on TV before.”
“Close your eyes.” Mobster said. “Imagine you’re on the beach and it’s a sunny day.”
The Maniac closed his eyes, and swayed a bit due to his level of inebriation.
“Imagine that warm sand.” Mobster continued. “Imagine the waves. And then there’s like a big wave and it washes over you, and you’re spluttering, but it’s alright ’cause all up you’re pretty relaxed.”
The Maniac opened his eyes.
“Hey did you imagine yourself putting sunblock on?” Mobster was saying. “’Cause I can imagine it would be hard to relax if you had to worry about getting sunburnt.”
“Hey Mobster. It’s alright. I’m just going to go up there.”
“Alright.” Mobster said.
“Alright.” The Maniac said.
The Maniac made his way through the studios. Every now and then he would turn around and consider running. But eventually he made it to the debate. When he walked in, many of the leaders were looking uncomfortable from the last question, while Martin was fielding it confidently.
“So if we allocate our spending in that way, we solve one really big problem, and can I just say this shows just how little research the other parties do in regard to their policies.”
The other leaders started to get defensive, but all stopped when they saw The Maniac stumbling towards his seat.
“I’m sorry I’m late. You know, I hit the snooze button on my alarm, but then it didn’t go off again afterwards, I don’t know why.”
“Welcome to the debate.” the presenter said. “You must be Archibald Walter Michael Walters the third.”
“That’s me.”
This was not The Maniacs birth name either, he had changed his name several years back.
“Well, we were just in the middle of an interesting question about foreign investments, and the proportion of that compared to local investment, in order to maximise business growth, both here and overseas. I will repeat the question to you in a moment but to be fair to Martin over there, we should let him finish first.”
“This guy!” The Maniac said. “This guy’s the one! He’s the puppet!”
“Excuse me?” Martin said.
“Listen. I don’t know much about foreign whatevers, or anything about all that political stuff. But I ask an even more important question.” He stood up.
“Where are all the good motherfuckers?” He called out. And he fell back down in his seat. “Where are they? ‘Cause they’re the leaders. The caring motherfuckers. And that’s what I’m trying to be. I’m a bad motherfucker who is changing into a good motherfucker. Shit, I’ll be a real helpful motherfucker. And that’s why you should vote for me for prime minister of New Zealand.”

*

“He is an alcoholic no hoper, they said.” Mobster had the newspaper in his left hand, while he switched between a joint and a bottle of whiskey in his right. He read out lines from the newspaper in the same tone of voice with which he read poetry.
“Perhaps one good thing about him, they said, is that he reminds us all that we live in a democracy” he paused and inhaled on his joint “where anyone can run for parliament if they choose to.”
“Martin Staples, on the other hand, is a newcomer with a better plan of action than anyone we’ve seen in the political arena for years. Perhaps next term’s PM will in fact be parliament’s freshest face.” And Mobster took a swig of whiskey.
“I know what I need to do.” The Maniac said.
“Don’t feel bad if you have to give up, sir. I say you’ve done very well.” Mobster said.
“I have to quit drinking.”
Mobster dropped his bottle of whiskey out of his hand. It smashed on the floor.
“Damn.” Mobster said.
“If I want to do what I want to do, I’ve got to stay sober.”

The Maniac spent the next two days sober. Sure, he never did quite drink 24/7, but he had tended to get a number of beers into himself each night. He strolled along the street in the straightest line he had managed for months, thinking about what to do next, when suddenly that was decided for him. A car pulled up next to him, two hands quickly pulled him into the vehicle, and sped off again before anyone noticed.

The next thing The Maniac knew, a brown bag was pulled off his head, and he was sitting, tied up, on a chair in an empty room. The only other person with him was Dennis, pacing back and forth.
“I assume you found some interesting documents.” Dennis said.
“Are you going to torture me?”
“No, not my style at all. Hell, I’ll even grab you a drink if you like. But first, I just need to know where those documents are now.”
“I quit drinking.”
Dennis laughed. “Oh, well good for you. Hell, we’ve had word that you spend a lot of time at your friends house. What’s his name again?”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“Come on. We were hoping you wouldn’t waste our time.”
The Maniac kept his gaze down towards the floor. Just then, Martin and a couple of Dennis’s cronies came into the room.
“Mr. Colde.” one of his cronies said. “The corporates have asked that you attend an emergency meeting.”
“Oh hell, right now?”
“Yeah, soon as.”
“Well, I was about to ask you to kidnap someone else.”
“We can do that, Mr. Colde.”
“Then who’s going to watch this guy.”
The cronies looked at Martin.
“I’m not sure if he’s capable of that kind of responsibility.” Dennis said.
“Hey all I have to do is watch him, right?” Martin said.
“You reckon you can just do that?” Dennis asked him.
“Yeah, of course.”

Martin was left sitting against the wall of the room, watching the Maniac squirm on his seat.
“You sure you don’t want a drink?” Martin asked him.
“I’m staying sober like a good motherfucker.” The Maniac said, and then to himself he said “But I still feel like a crazy motherfucker.”
“You don’t really think you are going to win the elections do you?”
“And you think you will?” The Maniac said. He was surprised at how well he was able to think. “They’re going to find out sooner or later.”
“Oh no, we’ve got that covered. We’ll do it. Dennis is smart and organised. Once we get those documents, and burn them, we can safely say that everything is in order.”
The Maniac suddenly remembered something that his usual drunken self would have overlooked.
“You want your boss to respect you don’t you?”
Martin didn’t know what to say to that.
“Untie me.”
“Ha. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to earn me much respect.” Martin said. “You fool.”
“’Cause if you untie me. I’ll tell you where the documents really are.”
“You mean they’re not at your friends house?”
“Untie me, and I’ll tell you the truth.”
“I told Dennis I wouldn’t do that.”
“Did this Dennis person expect this? I’ll tell you where they are.”
“But if I untie you, you’ll just grab me, or you’ll escape.”
“Come on. Think about it. This is your chance to make the right decision. It’s the smart thing to do. And if you want people to like you as a prime minister, you gotta be a clever motherfucker.”
“A clever motherfucker, eh?”
Martin walked around The Maniac, he saw that there was four bits of rope around his wrists, once his hands were free, he could probably remove the rope around his torso and ankles.
“Here’s the deal.” Martin said. “You tell me around about where the documents are, and as long as you keep getting closer, I’ll cut another bit of rope. Deal?”
The Maniac smiled, he was impressed both with Martin for coming up with the idea, and with himself for being sober enough to understand it.
“Deal.” He said.
Martin grabbed a knife from a corner of the room where more of the rope had been sitting.
“Okay, first bit of rope.”
He sawed through the first bit of rope around the maniacs wrists.
“It’s right near the CBD.” The Maniac said.
“Vague. Very vague. You’ve got to get much closer in this next one if you want me to keep going. Second bit of rope.”
He sliced through another piece of rope.
“It’s in parliament.”
Martin was about to run out of there and make his way to parliament, when he thought again. Parliament grounds included a big area. And it would look strange for the future prime minister to be combing through every inch of it.
“Third piece of rope.”
The third out of four pieces of rope was cut. The Maniac started trying to wriggle his hands out of the last piece.
“It’s in the hedges.”
“I can work with that!” Martin said. And he suddenly turned and ran out of the room. He got to the garage of the house they were in and found two motorbikes. He kicked one over in case The Maniac got free, and he grabbed a helmet and jumped onto the other one. He figured he could get to parliament in twenty minutes, sneak a look through the hedges and grab the documents before getting out. If anyone had seen him, he would have plenty of time to think of an excuse. For now the important thing was to get those documents and destroy them. He sped out of the garage. He figured he would park somewhere secret, he wanted as little attention as possible.

Back in the room, the Maniac had managed to free himself from the ropes. He found the garage, picked up the bike, and sped out.

The Maniac caught up with Martin just as they were both in the middle of the CBD. Martins heart sunk when he saw that The Maniac was going to go straight into parliament grounds. He realised he would have to follow.

Martin managed to get close to The Maniac just as he was metres away from the parliament gates. Martin knocked into the side of The Maniac, causing The Maniac to swerve, but he managed to stay upright. As The Maniac struggled to get back on course and go through the gates, Martin got to the hedges. He rode along them, and part of the way along, spotted a badly hidden briefcase. However he couldn’t stop, The Maniac had caught up with him. Martin noticed a conveniently placed trailer sitting close to the Beehive. It was sitting in such a way that it could act as a ramp. Martin decided he would test The Maniacs agility on the motorcycle. He sped towards the trailer, approaching it with enough velocity that he was able to jump on to the top of the first level of the Beehive. The Maniac made the same jump and so they were chasing each other around the Beehive. Martin hoped that as he got faster, The Maniac’s lack the coordination would cause him to fly off to the side.

Crowds were now gathering on the edges of parliament grounds, aware that these people could be dangerous, but not wanting to miss such an odd event. Scores of people were posting updates on social networking sites raving about what they were seeing. Partway through the meeting between Dennis and the corporates, someone received an update about it on their phone. When they told everyone at the meeting about it, Dennis asked to be excused so that he could use the toilet. He knew who was riding those motorbikes. He knew that once Martins helmet came off and everyone saw who it was, it was all over.

As Dennis was running down the stairs to the exit, he pulled out his cellphone and made a call. There were several rings before it went to the answer phone message:
“Hi, I can’t answer my phone right now. Don’t leave a message after this beep,” there was a beep, and then a second of silence, Dennis was wondering whether he should or not, and then Martins answer phone message continued. “But do leave a message after this beep.” And there was another beep, Dennis had to wait a second in case something else happened.
“Martin. This is just a courtesy call to say I’m sorry it didn’t turn out as planned. I wish I could leave you with some sort of final paycheck, but I’ve got some powerful people that are going to be pissed at me, so… I’ve got to flee the country soon as. Ciao.”

Meanwhile, Martin realised that The Maniac was having no trouble keeping up. He had to render him unable to mention the documents. So as they were speeding around the top of the first level of the beehive, one after the other, Martin took his hand off the accelerator and jumped off his bike. The Maniac still managed to jump off just fraction of a second before his bike went ploughing into Martins. Both Martin and The Maniac found themselves falling from a dangerous height to the ground as both bikes exploded into flames just seconds afterwards.

Martin managed to get up and run across parliament grounds towards where he had seen the briefcase. The Maniac had got himself up and running shortly afterwards. However the police were on the scene now, and they got to The Maniac first. Martin found the briefcase, and opened it up to reveal hundreds of pages of incriminating documents.
“I’ve got them!” he yelled “Don’t worry!”
And he began to laugh as the police approached.