BY WILLIAM COLVIN
ONE QUIET EVENING LAST MONTH my fiance Katie and I were playing a parlour game of “name your lowest price” for acts involving members of the Liberal Government front bench.
Interestingly, we discovered that both of us would go as low as $1000 to allow Malcolm Turnbull to press his naked anus hole directly to our open mouths and fart – and that we would do so happily, with gay abandon.
We also discovered that neither of us would accept a cent less than $5000 to commit the – on the surface, less viscerally repulsive act – of simply whispering filthy sweet nothings into the ear of Government speaker Bronywn Bishop while she flicked her bean.
n the portrait of the scene that we painted together to ‘make the sale’ as it were, Bronwyn would be moaning and gasping away with her eyes closed like a very old and decrepit woman (which in every way I suppose she already is) asleep on a hospital ward as she suffers a chronic – but not fatal – respiratory illness (which unfortunately, to my knowledge, she currently isn’t.)
The mental viddy that we’d painted of Malcolm was, I suppose, a more cheerful one.
Malcolm would shake our hands and welcome us into his Woollahra office, draw the blinds so that his staffers wouldn’t bother us, and then after a brief exchange of pleasantries and an envelope containing the agreed upon rate, he would drop his fitted suit trousers and get to task, aiming a miniature starting gun at the sky and merrily shouting “PORP” at the moment of gaseous excretion.
Some terms for these fantasy transactions were agreed upon. For example, Bronwyn would remain fully clothed during the encounter, as would we.
Do we know what type of fart we’ll get from Malcolm? No. It will be a lucky dip, although we would receive a dossier with an index of his meals for the last week, so as that we could make an educated assumption.
With the ‘economic mess’ left behind by Gillard’s Labor and the rest of her lefty mob, Katie and I, like many other Australians, have fallen on hard times.
The rising cost of rental housing in Sydney takes it’s toll, as does the leper’s tax and the weekly tithes to Gina Rinehart.
Our jobs, as a writer/musician and an e-commerce manager for the fashion industry/DJ, respectively, don’t always make ends meet, and we often find ourselves doing odd jobs and mercenary chores just to survive.
On particularly rough occasions, I’ve been reduced to pan-handling for change on the corner of Bondi Rd while Katie sells her wet trout for tuppence to the leering richmen of Paddington and Double Bay, many of whom are the editors of publications competing with Sneaky.
These men are not easy lovers, but she is a tough girl, raised in Sydney’s far west in a desperate, hopeless place called Windsor, where she surely endured far worse.
After a lifetime of struggle these new hardships would likely seem a blessing to her, if only by virtue of the fact that they are taking place in the gleaming East, with it’s Sonoma breads, Bondi Pavilions, JOM Photos and other such wonders that a girl of low birth such as her could have only ever dreamed of seeing.
So finding ourselves in such a rough patch and with no coin or copper to our name, we agreed to send an email to the offices of Turnbull and Bishop just to see whether they would offer tenders that met or exceeded our already decided asking prices for the aforementioned deeds.
I had met the honorary Malcolm Turnbull once before, and I liked him very much. As the lord of these lands, it had been necessary for me to come before his court and ask his permission to propose marriage to my dear Katie.
As is the right of every lord, it is within Malcolm’s remit to have ‘first-go’ of Katie on her wedding night, and so I will always be grateful for his assurance that we are free to marry unburdened of the fear of such an event taking place.
I had never met Bronwyn Bishop, but I had seen her at the annual parade on South Dowling St, atop her chariot, smiling and waving at the peasants, and I neither liked nor trusted her sour face.
We sent our emails, with our terms and pictures of ourselves attached, and were surprised to get almost immediate replies from both parties, both of whom were interested.
Malcolm’s officer wrote to us saying that he was amused and delighted by the idea of farting into the mouths of pretty young things such as ourselves and that for the service and terms we were offering he would pay the handsome sum of $2200 each, and that we were to meet him at his Woollahra office the next day, in the late afternoon.
Bronwyn responded herself, and said that our offer had come at the very right time, as she was recently bereft and seeking comfortable companionship to ease her troubles and grief.
Her offer was $3500, which was $1500 lower than the rate we’d both thought we’d settle for, but times were very, very hard and we accepted. We were to meet her the very next day also, in the morning.
The next morning we rode at dawn in an Uber cab to Bronwyn’s mansion, a stately home with beautiful antique furnishings and a permanent staff of seven servants.
Oliver, the head servant, let us in, and led us to the parlour to meet with Bronwyn.
In person, she was much less foul than I had imagined. She greeted us with a warm but gentle smile, grasped both of our hands and thanked us for coming.
She had tea and cakes brought in, and asked us about ourselves and made pleasantries for an amount of time that seemed appropriate but not dull, she had Oliver retrieve an envelope with our pay and then we got to business.
The scene, too, was far less foul than we had imagined. She was not interested in pornographic descriptions or lurid filth and wished only for us to say gentle, caring, loving things to her.
Over herself was draped a blanket so thick we could barely tell her hands were moving, and there was no gasping or moaning but just dead silence, closed eyes and an expression of extreme concentration.
After ten minutes exactly, she opened her eyes, thanked us both very much and summoned Oliver to see us out.
Katie and I had a light lunch and were in good spirits, surprised and pleased that it had been so much less harrowing than expected.
That afternoon we travelled again by Uber cab to the office of Mr Turnbull, for our second odd job of the day.
It began pleasantly enough. Malcolm greeted us, laughed, brought us into his private office, the envelope was exchanged. It was almost exactly as we had imagined.
But then Malcolm summoned two of his staffers, burly red-headed men, twins I think, into his office.
Their names were Johnson and Jeff, and Malcolm explained that were to watch the proceedings. Katie and I weren’t entirely comfortable with this development, but the money was the money.
I was to go first, and gingerly took to my knees and Malcolm dropped his trousers. As we had imagined, Malcolm held a small starter pistol in his hands.
I closed my eyes and pressed my open lips to his ring, which was as clean and smooth as you’d expect. Almost in completely synchronicity, I felt his hole expand as the sound of the pistol filled the room.
The gas was flavourless and I was able to swallow it easily, but I was very startled by the gunshot. It was much louder than I’d expected, and opening my eyes I was met with a horrifying sight.
It was no starter pistol. Malcolm and his twin staffers were doubled over with laughter, pointed and jeering at me, as my darling Katie’s lifeless corpse lay dead on the ground next to me, blood gushing from the tangled mess of bone and hair where the bullet had exited her head.
“Get rid of this stupid cunt, and make sure he knows his fucking place, alright? No, leave his bluddy missus there, I’m going to have some fun,” Malcolm said, now for some reason speaking in a thick Cockney accent.
Johnson and Jeff dragged me out, weeping and covered in my beloved’s blood, through the office and past the grim, silent stares of Malcolm’s team, and into the outside world, where it was now evening and pouring with rain.
They beat me and beat me and beat me, but I barely felt the punches to the face and the kicks to the ribs and the elbows and the knees and so on, so stricken with grief was I that I would have happily died rather than be left to live in this wretched world that no longer had my Katie in it.
After they were done, I stumbled, nearly blind and desperate, for what seemed like a great distance, until I collapsed in a broken heap in a doorway.
Looking up, I realised dimly that I recognised my surroundings, and I felt strong hands pulling me up.
It was Oliver, Bronwyn Bishop’s head servant, carrying me through the doors of her estate, by some providence I had found my way there.
After I was cleaned and my wounds seen to, I was brought before the shocked Ms Bishop, and I told her of everything that had happened since we last saw each other earlier in the day.
“Yes, that does sound like Malcolm. He is a wicked boy, and cruel, but he will one day be our leader, as Tony’s power wanes, and there’s little we can do to stop it,” Bronwyn said to me, after a time, “but I can do my best to make things right, although such a wrong has been done to you that I fear it will never be right again, but I can do my best, I can.”
“You will live with me here, you will tend to my gardens and you will be clothed and fed and I will pay you a reasonable wage, and you will be safe from further horrors.”
And so let my tale serve as a warning to all, never to trust Malcolm Turnbull, because although he has a nice smile and a certain quality of leadership and an air of sensibility and logic to him and a seemingly sound understanding of economics, he is, underneath it all, a hateful, rotten cunt who murdered my wife in cold blood and fucked her corpse while I was beaten by his thugs in an alley.
And also, he completely fucked our NBN, and I really wanted that.
DISCLAIMER: This article is clearly a work of fiction. Don’t sue us.
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