HELP! GEORGE AND HIS NEOHUNS ARE AFTER ME.

American friends (the both of you), this may well be my last article. I think I’m on your Leader’s hit-list. My crime? Well, whatever it is, I am totally innocent! Where have you heard that before?

How do I know I’m being targeted? Well two strange birds appeared at my kitchen window yesterday and stared at me. Their eyes were yellow, scary looking. Then one started taking notes, I mean making notes, strange musical notes that sounded like code. The birds were blue and red and white, sort of striped but with strange astral markings, and one wore what looked like a Fedora but it might have just been the way the feathers lay about its head. I looked out the front window. I couldn’t see any dark cars but I thought I heard a siren!

I thought quickly. If stout men appear soon and break down the front door I’ll plead the Fifth Amendment and demand my lawyer be summoned. No, I don’t know his name. Do you have a phone book, I’ll ask them? All right, I won’t plead the Fifth. I’m not American. I come from Australia. What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? No, we don’t wear bloody lederhosen!

Well, I suppose I have offered a few words of criticism concerning George and the NeoHuns here and there over the last few years. Well, alright then, have it your way, a lot more than a few words. But I meant no harm. It was all meant to be constructive criticism. At least most of it was. Well, perhaps describing George as the Village Idiot was going a little too far. But sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. No, I didn’t mean to be unkind to Village Idiots! Honest.

Why did I do it? It’s complicated. In a vision, I saw myself as George’s mentor, albeit an unofficial one. Subtlety, I was trying to help George (who, let’s face it, has some serious shortcomings) adjust to the Executive Trinity: the Commander in Chief, the Decider, AND the Messenger of God. And, dare I add Murderer of Logic and the English Language. No, strike that out.

It’s a lot to ask of one man really. He’s only human. Well, all right then, a semi-divine kind of human. Really! Have it your way then...The President of the United States sits by the right hand of God! Are you happy now? And one that comes from Texas probably sits on God! The Devil made me say it, I swear.

The birds went eventually then a helicopter passed overhead. I ran and hid in some blackberry bushes fearing that the Governor of California might suddenly appear with machine gun blazing and a knife between his teeth. “You haf’ giffen mine Leader a hull’ lodda’ trupble’,” he might growl which wouldn’t be easy on account of the knife. He might end up with a forked tongue, a bit like George. I didn’t say that! The keyboard did, I swear it.

While in the bushes, an ant bit me. I wonder if it was a special ant sent by George, one that had a fatal bite. I captured it in a match box. It bit me three more times for my trouble. But when they did the autopsy on me at least they’d have the cause of death. And the culprit! Daniel, I whispered, you're always thinking ahead. I whispered because the bushes might be bugged!

While I was waiting to die, I thought to myself: Daniel, you’re being silly! George wouldn’t send Arnie all the way to Australia from Californy on your account. He’d just arrange the launch of a missile, dramatically change the whole topography of the area I once lived in, much like he’s changed the topography of many places in the world recently. And, as a good capitalist, he’s single-handedly contributed to a dramatic growth in the world’s undertaking industry. And, selflessly, he’s trying to secure the world’s oil industry for American 4WD drivers and keep both Haliburton and Wall Street afloat.

Or, if a missile was too costly to waste on such an insignificant, ankle-biting person like me, perhaps one of the new Big Brother organizations in America would organize to have me snatched as I was pushing a shopping trolley in the Woolworth’s Supermarket. That would give the neighbours something to talk about. Before I know it I’d be on a nice, free midnight flight to some exotic destination where, in a kind of holiday camp, sadism, whatever that is, is practised at the highest level. There are more confessions there than in the Vatican I believe and more screams than at a rock concert. And drugs are rife too: truth serums in particular.

And after I’ve sung and sung until I’m hoarse, admitted to defiling and raping and murdering most of the women in the world, and men, and animals, and even tax evasion, then I’ll be flown to Cuba, that tropical paradise. I’ll stay in luxury hotel called The Bay of Cages (strange name isn’t it?) where I believe the guests wear free orange jumpsuits and anklets and there are lots of uniformed servants who wear special boots and have large dogs to keep intruders out. Room service brings all meals to your apartment and the lights are kept on all the time. And loud music, hopefully Mozart! And there are special showers called Waterboards. Sounds wonderful...

Finally, I realised that I wasn’t going to die. I squashed the pesky ant and returned to my home and applied some ointment to the bites and scratches.

The birds didn’t come back perhaps figuring that I’d got the message. I have. The hundred candles under George’s colour photograph, the one in the silver and gold frame, glow brightly. My American flag, nearly as big as a tennis court, waves majestically.

After checking out the front for dark cars, with humility and reverence, I bow down and intone:

“George and the NeoHuns are my Shepherds,

For them I shall be happy to know want,

They maketh me lie, downright sure they do,

In deep, deep water…”

P.S. This piece has been crossposted at The Peoples Voice.