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By just one seat, the Coalition of Hard Fighting Women, More Justice for Women and Green Now had won the election. At 12 noon on Giri (Wednesday), triumphant feminists would march from each end of Sydney Harbour Bridge to celebrate. Led by Prime Minister Bobbi. 

Some called for a recount of the election, others for legal action. Waste of breath. Herstory marches forward.

Like the French revolutionaries, feminists were renaming the days, months, and landmarks. All men over the age of18 were to be taxed then expelled to the country of their parents or grandparents. The tax was compensation for violence to women, of course.

The Aussie exiles will have to learn to love warm beer, laughed Suni the billionaire British Prime Minister. Male Trash to Rwanda read the protest banners in Westminster.  The exiles will be unable to work or claim any government benefits, Suni mused. Fine. They will turn to crime, said one Cabinet Minister. Return of the convicts, muttered another.  

Boys under 12 would be re-educated in country schools, males under 18 in remote work camps. Gulag 1 and Gulag 2, respectively. A much-needed cleansing, you might say. Boat people were beginning to leave.

Women’s Liberation, Anti-Sex and Woke had not done enough, Bobbi chanted. Not nearly enough.

Not even Wombat, Paul’s dog, knew the plot and he sniffed out everything. Rumours had started little by little that the opening of the new parliament would be bombed. No. Nani, aided by Jilly and Tan, would stage a health breakdown halfway through the March across the Bridge. They were crazy coots with more than enough ailments real and imagined. The ACDC squad would get them into position. Pairs of marksmen would be ready at both ends. 

If Bobbi came by car, bus, or helicopter, that would make it slower and easier. In that case, the drone teams would open fire. The North Sydney Pool was a handy launch pad, the towers in Milsons Point another.    

When the time neared, Paul would eke out information needed, accompanied by just believable misinformation. Best practice really. 

Meanwhile, there were protests in the streets and riots at the airports and banks. Ignored of course by the Correct Media. Yes, some adjustments had to be made; what do you expect? Bobbi emphasised Our Long March Forward to jubilant cheers.

What could go wrong? The day of the March may be changed. A double may take Bobbi’s place: the number one risk. The Crazies would forget the day; Alzheimer’s does that.

Time to feed Wombat again. But no sign of him. Was he surfing the net, checking his horoscope, or sleeping in a hidden corner? Had he been captured by aliens, heaven forbid? Paul fretted.

The gate rattled. Mrs Li and Wombat were sitting on the steps, back from the park. Just once, Wombat wanted to win the Dog of the Day award, but that belonged to collies and dachshunds, the blondes of the dog world. Mrs Li talked nonstop in Cantonese and gave Wombat a big hug; he gave her a sloppy lick. Love is where you find it.

Paul went through his checklist one more time, then dressed for work. He was a domestic cleaner to the rich and famous, today in Darling Point.  Leafy mansions and waterfront estates.  

Later, a newscast talked of a helicopter crash and shooting on the Bridge. Things had gone to plan. 


A man is a man, wrote Berthold Brecht. That covers it for Peter Wright, now writer.


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