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lordeasriel · 3 years

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Do you have a take on what Phillip and Vera’s daemons would be? Or any of the other guests’ for that matter?

Hehehe yes I do, I've been waiting for this question for so long lmao I'm working on a new fic that is ATTWN written by the Agatha Christie of Lyra's world so I had to come up with daemons for all of them.

I'll start in reverse order, from Vera to Marston, since you asked about her first anon.

For Vera, I was torn between a brownish/greyish owl and a marmoset. I really can't imagine any other Vera than Maeve Dermody, and because appearance is important when thinking about Daemons (because daemons lend something of their animal form to the human, ie 'a serpent daemon usually has a human with a serpentine vibes' this was said by Philman in an interview), I think an owl would have suited her. She has big eyes, that are always darting around; she's often immobile, observing her surroundings. However, I think that a marmoset suits her better because Vera has a Hannah Relf quality to her (another marmoset daemon, in case you haven't read the HDM books). It's that silent attitude, keeping to herself, wary of her surroundings and while she seems weak and fragile, Vera is not afraid to act or reacts extremely if the situation calls for it. She is also very shrewd, and I chose the marmoset for her because there is something so appealing to see Vera, big eyes and shrewd attitude behind a mask of silly girl, with a daemon clinging to her neck, observing the room, tiny and silent, but just as clever as she is.

For Lombard, and this one was a no brainer, he has a panther. Show! Lombard would have a black panther, because it suits Aidan Turner's looks; for the book, it would still be a panther type, but a spotted leopard one. Book! Lombard is more earthy than Show! Lombard, hence his daemon having a lighter, more brown palette. As for the reason, there wasn't a lot of thinking when I chose this; in the book, Lombard is described many times like a panther: dangerous, lithe, moving quietly about the house. Everyone in the house feels this vibe and they know he is dangerous, and he sees them as prey (because one of them is the killer and he is just waiting to catch them). I think for a man like him, having a big, dangerous daemon, is very suitable. There is also something of Asriel in him, both in the show and book, so it's fitting they have the same/similar type of daemon.

For Blore, I knew it had to be a type of dog. Everything about Blore screams "barks more than it bites", and while he can be assertive and take control, he always defers to people if they say the right thing to him. Book! Blore would have a boring, but bigger dog, I imagine; he is described as a big man, and he has a very thuggish attitude. Maybe a German Shepherd. Show! Blore is more sleek and clever, less thuggish more alert and paranoid, but also more in control. He dresses nice, is rather vain specially towards his skills, so I gave him a black poodle, a small one though. Blore, although assertive, always is overwhelmed by Armstrong and Lombard, both men that have a bigger presence and willpower than he does.

For Armstrong, I was torn between weasel and a badger, and I think the badger suits him better. It's tempting to go weasel and say he was oh cunning and sleek, but I don't think that's true. While Show! Armstrong loses his shit fairly quickly, even in distress he maintains some control (like when he insists to take care of Mrs Rogers despite Rogers saying she was alright; or when they are all dancing and he is staring at Vera and Lombard, suspicious, trying to steady himself). The Badger fits him better: grounded, stable creatures but also very vicious if they have to be; if my doctor had a badger daemon I would feel safe, I think. Examples of badger daemons in the books I think it's Malcolm's mom, who is incredibly down-to-earth and assertive, which represents Book! Armstrong better, I'll be honest, but I can see Toby Stephens with a badger daemon as Armstrong as well. His character is a man with a sense of belonging, and he perceives his surroundings very well. In the book, Armstrong is more cool headed (for the show, him and Vera have their attitudes swapped, which I like but it's fair to mention here as well) and more in control of his motions. He moves around everyone and doesn't start dissent like in the show, which I think makes sense for his daemon. He doesn't fight unless he has too.

For Wargrave, and this was fun, but I was torn between a butterfly and a chameleon, and I ultimately decided for the butterfly because I thought the chameleon was too on the nose with his twist. This is for both show and book, and if there are changes it's probably just in colours and patterns. In the book, Wargrave is often described as someone with a reptile smile, hence why I chose the chameleon at first, but I think he is still a fragile man at his core. Butterflies are synonym of beauty and change; they tend to be associated with evolution and growth, and that's Wargrave's story I think. He is a man who spent his life working in law, seeing dozens and dozens of criminals come and go and die: he was known for having a high death rate, so I imagine he dealt with heinous crimes the most (I don't know for sure but I don't think they hanged people for stealing or whatever in the early 20th century, but take this with a pinch of salt lmao). Then one day Wargrave meets this Edward Seton, a total sadist (and a serial killer in the show) and he realised things about himself that he didn't know before. In the show, he has a line about Seton having a legacy of terror to be remembered, while he and everyone else would be forgotten and I think that's very much what the butterfly represents for Wargrave. When he finds out he is sick, he finds growth in pursuing his true passion, which was murder. The butterfly is also a very fragile daemon, and because of that she doesn't reflect his true physique (despite sick he is nowhere near as frail as he appears to be), and her beauty helps lure the trust of people, make him seem trustworthy (Vera on the show, Armstrong in the book). Just to add, he is also separated from her, and this is how he manages to fake his death well. (i was saving this twist for the fic but I might never finish it lmao)

For Miss Brent, this one had me thinking a lot. Like, a lot. I was torn between a toucan and a spider, and I ultimately decided to go for the toucan, mostly because I think it suits her better. Spiders are often associated with storytellers and creative people and Emily Brent is far from creative. She is judgemental, conservative, vain and nasty towards anyone she considers unworthy. In the show, she has an attitude towards the General, she likes him well and they don't quite explain why, but I think it's because he is from her generation - and social status - and she respects him for it. The same goes for Wargrave and Armstrong, but towards Armstrong she just respects his status, not his age. She sort of sees him as "still young but on the right path". She absolutely resents Lombard - as she does in the book, probably for the same reason: he is pretty much a living hands to mouth kind of guy and he is immoral according to her - and she doesn't think highly of Blore either, also because of social status. Anyway, I can do a separate post about this, but I chose the toucan because they are beautiful birds, a little menacing, and they have a bit of a bitchy attitude. No deeper thought to that to be fair lmao. Toucans make me think "vain" and I love this concept because Miss Brent loathes women who wear make up or show off, but I think this Is clearly a façade on her part, because she is also vain, in her own way.

For Rogers, I was torn between a big, posh dog and a fox. Now, this one is tough because we fall into that "good servants have dog daemons" rule, which I think it's too simplistic to define a person's nature. I'm more inclined towards the posh dog, mostly because I think that helps Rogers fit in with a crowd that isn't his; and sure, he is a cunning man (like a fox daemon would evoke) but I think a dog like a Dobermann suits Rogers best, in the book at least. A fox would suit show! Rogers better, but the dog suits him too physically (tall, slender, mean looking), so I'm sticking with the dog.

For the General, I think a hawk. A bird of prey. He was a soldier and he was fucking shrewd to send a man to die in such an inconspicuous way. Birds of prey Daemons have very passionate humans - Ma Costa, Tony Costa, Anthony Hassall, as well as Bud Schlesinger and Marcel Delamare with their owls - but while owls are tame and introvert, hawks tend to be extreme and out there, lashing out and being menacing with ease. This was a natural choice for me, although I also considered eagles for him later, but changed my mind. (On my notes I wrote "def not an owl" lmao)

For Mrs Rogers, I think a mouse would suit her, and I know this is painfully obvious, but that's the vibe she gives me. A small person, being coerced and oppressed by a petty tyrant, and she just lets things steer her by, absolutely not in control of her life. I also gave her a same sex type of daemon, because she just has that uncanny aura, I don't know how to explain it; I can see that affecting her life since childhood, and steering her towards a man like Rogers, who would take advantage of her loneliness. Same sex daemons are rare and the example we had was in someone extremely sensitive, and I feel that in Mrs Rogers.

And lastly, Tony Marston, and this one I had too many options, but I opted for a Margay, who was suggested to me in fact. It's a feline daemon, very slick and lithe but also very ethereal looking, which I think suits Marston: handsome but lacking substance (not lacking so much substance in the show tho lmao get it? cause he did cocaine? a substance? Haha please don't unfollow me). Frankly, because he dies first I didn't give this too much thought, but I knew it had to be a wild daemon, quick and lithe.

Honorable mention to Fred Narracott and his seagull daemon. Thanks for asking this anon, I had a blast!

#asks #hdm au: attwn #and then there were none #thanks for the ask anon I've been waiting for it for so long lmao #long post

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pleaseconfiscateourkeyboard-blog · 7 years

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The Good, The Bad and The Boats

Tony walked towards the boatshed, skin dripping with sweat. He knew what he must do.

Tony gripped the rusty shovel in his hands as he stood at the door. "I fucking hate boats," he thought to himself as he reached out towards the door handle.

The handle was slick from the early morning sea breeze, and it filled his nostrils with a pungently nostalgic scent of salt and brine. With a firm twist and push, the salt encrusted door swung inwards, the new musky odour from the room slapping him unceremoniously in the face. The faint light of morning silhouetted his back against the dark interior and he held the rusty shovel aloft, before letting it rest upon his shoulder. At his feet, a large, lumpy burlap sack.

He kicked it with gentle force. "Get up," he told the sack. "Get up, you sack pile of shit."

The sack shifted, grunting. "That's no way to wake up a friend, Tone."

"Enough of that, Scott. We've, ah, work to do, on this here boat."

The sack then did what the sack-equivalent might be of standing up straight, which I suppose is sort of like propping it so the tied end faced upward. "So what are we going to do to this waste of wood then?"

"That's, ah, no way to talk to your Prime Minister," Tone reprimanded his sack-bound friend for his lack of manners. "I demand to, ah, be addressed properly, Scott." "Tone, you haven't been prime minister for almost three years." "I'll get that Malcolm. He's ah... a right bloody tosspot, that one," Tone gripped his shovel tightly. He took a moment to compose himself, lowering his shovel and rubbing his hand through his thinning hair. "No matter. We've ah... we've a job to do today, Scott. No doubt you've, ah, heard the news."

Scott the burlap sack scoffed, wiggling the tie at the top of its head in a sardonic fashion, "What? Do you think I live under a bloody rock? Of course I have heard the news!" The sack strutted forward with some charisma, despite the fact it had no legs, just bulbous lumps near the floor. It stretched, wiggling to and fro in an almost too gelatinous fashion, "How about a spot of breakfast first, Tone? You had me hiding out here all night! I mean, I am a sack, you could have left me anywhere and no one would have been suspicious. A fine hotel by the beachside... next to a burlesque, maybe?" Scott wiggled his eyebrows, well, two lumps in the sack that one could assume to be eyebrows, at his salt and sweat soaked companion.

Tone shook his head and let out a light chuckle. "Still, you are nothing but a sack of shit to me." He patted Scott and gently wrapped his right hand around his pony-tail (y'know the top of the sack where it's knitted) as he gripped his shovel with the other, then left the shack, bringing his long-time companion with him.

Tony walked towards the harbour. From afar he could see it: the S.S. Gob-Sandgroe Thé. A shining vessel on the outside, with a fine white hull and proud blue rims. Above, a conspicuous blue flag, fastened tightly to the mast. As Tony finally approached the G.S.T. in all its might, he winced, muttering something incomprehensible, before throwing Scott on-board.

'Oof! I say, what was that for, Tony?!' riled Scott, outraged at the brutality of his comrade. Meanwhile Tony, a skilful but generally underappreciated athlete, clambered aboard with only the faintest of grunts. 'And stop calling me a sack of shit! I have feelings you know!' Scott continued, struggling to right himself from the fall. Tony, smiled as he approached Scott. He crept closer, without as much as a sound. 'Well? Are you going to say anything for yourself' and then, Tony cut the tie on the burlap sack, killing his dear, but ultimately clueless, friend. The sack spread open, and bounty of particularly vile-smelling manure could be seen within. Tony repeated himself. 'Bloody labor.'

Tone looked at the open sack of manure on the deck in front of him. He snickered to himself. "Haha, I guess that's why they, ah, call it a poop deck," Tone chuckled. His chuckling drew to a close before he let out a sigh. "Ah Scott... you would've loved that one. Alright, let's see what we've got here..." Tone muttered, fumbling around in the pocket of his suit pants. He pulled out a crumpled pamphlet. "Ah, here it is," he said, cheerfully. He opened the pamphlet, revealing an instructional guide titled 'What To Do In Case Of Boat People' and carefully perused the pamphlet's contents.

Tony scratched the side of his nose, squinting as he read his pamphlet a second time, just for good measure, before tipping the dead body of his once dear friend to the side. The manure tumbled out, the grotesque inner contents of his friend's corpse fizzling Tony's nose hairs and making his thinning, combed over hair shrivel. He arranged the droppings in an ornate and intricate pentagram, as detailed in his pamphlet, and took five small tea candles from his pocket; the pamphlet called for blood and five slender black candles, but his friend's 'guts" and dollar store tea lights should hopefully work just fine. With his ritual in place, he took out a small, half folded match tab from his pocket and lit each of the candles. All he had to do now was read the rights detailed in the 'What To Do In Case Of Boat People' pamphlet.

Tony Elizaer Hamburgth the Fifth tilted his head back and cackled only a person whose name has been passed five generations down can. He then squinted his eyes and focused on the pamphlet. "Nice," he said under his breath.

It was at that moment that the pentagram lit aflame, and a column of sickly brown and green light arose from the fecal inscription. The boat rocked violently, as a bellowing roar could be heard from the very centre of the ship itself. 'Whom do I serve?' growled the voice.

"You, ah..." Tone stammered, "You serve your Prime Minister! Just like the rest of the, ah, people of this, ah, good nation!" The boat ceased its rocking. A deep hum emanated from the depths of the ship, as if the ship itself was in deep thought. "Tony..." the boat muttered. Its deep, gravelly voice unnerved Tone a bit. "You have not been Prime Minister... for two years."

"I'll always be Prime Minister in my, ah, heart," Tone said, keeping his resolve strong. Tone was always lauded by his peers for his nerves of steel and dedication to his principles. "I'm not here to play games, Tony," the boat growled, "state your business or disembark my vessel."

"I, Colonpholomous, all powerful Lord of Irritable Bowel Movements, require your pathetic request, Tony, so I may return to my important business back at Taco Bell ™ ," the, large, menacing voice grumbled, vibrating the boat's deck under Tony's feet. "Your payment of my blood kin will only suffice you a meagre one wish, mortal, choose wisely." Tony stared indignantly at the rumbling linoleum floor of the boat, now besmirched by foul smelling, brown smears and spilt candle wax from the dollar tea lights. He whipped a bead of sweat from his eyebrow and stared with determined eyes at the waterproof plastic bellow him. He curtly tittered with much determination at the presence, fixing his tie and taking a deep breath. "I, ah, would have you grant me an, ah, army! There is, uhm, important, ah, yes, work to be done!"

"An army! Why, of course. I assume you've also brought the most important tool of all in order to accomplish this?" The boat asked, tilting back and forth.

Tony's face stiffened. He took a sharp breath. '...Y-yes. Of course,' he said, pulling out his wallet. The boat was at once perplexed by Tony's indecisive stutter. 'Surely, you have no issue with payment, now?' it asked. Tony's face contorted, as if in pain. A scowl eventually settled, as Tony pulled out a combination of dollar bills and coins equal to the current-day minimum wage. 'No problem at all.' He then placed the money in the centre of the pentagram, where it too grew a sickly green glow, before fading away into nothing. 'Excellent,' replied the boat, 'let's begin.'

The vessel began to rock violently, and Tone found himself being thrown from bow to bow. "G- Goodness," Tone said, "this, ah, reminds me of that one Hues Corporation song!" Tone had begun to sing the 1974 Hues Corporation hit "Rock the Boat" quietly to himself before he was thrown into the ship's mast, smacking his large, shiny forehead against the mast's metal surface. Slowly, but surely, the boat's rocking came to a halt. Tone stumbled around for a bit before falling face first into the smeared pentagram he hastily scribbled onto the deck moments prior. He noticed a low humming noise emanating from the centre of the pentagram, along with a small green glowing ball suspended in the air, not too far above the deck's surface. The ball grew bigger, and as the ball grew, the humming sound swelled and grew louder. Larger and larger and louder and louder, the ball amassed the diameter of a truck tire, and the humming noise had swelled into an unnerving crescendo. Tone covered his ears, closed his eyes, and turned away as the demonic cacophony echoed throughout the harbour, growing louder and louder, until... Silence. The sound stopped abruptly. The ball almost immediately disappeared, spitting out a final parting gift as it went. It was a three-day-old Quarter Pounder from McDonald's. "Go..." the boat bellowed, "and take this with you. You know what to do."

Tony straightened his tie and refastened his once well ironed suit pants, brushed his thinning, sad mop hair to the side where it belonged and bent down to pick up his newfound power. The three-day-old Quarter Pounder buzzed with fervour in his hand, shaking with absolute, unfathomable dark energies, bequeathed unto him by a greater god of true destruction and evil. Placing it in the safety of his pocket, he awkwardly thanked the boat possessed, gave it a good whack with his shovel for good measure, and dismounted down the side of the ship, legs wiggling, grunting profusely.

Tony, with his hands both gripping the shovel tightly, twirled around and did a victory dance. Hurray for tone!

Tony trudged back to his house, draped in various pictures of the queen across all surfaces. He emptied his pocket into a large glass bowl, then quickly showered to remove the various forms of filth that caked his face, before flopping face-first onto his... queen-sized bed. As he drifted out of consciousness, he thought he detected the faint aroma of... thousands of defrosted burgers...

"Tony." "Ay, Tony! Wake up!" Tone was jolted awake by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. "Goodness!" Tone shouted, "Who, ah... who dares wake their prime minister!?" Tone glared at the hand on his shoulder and led his gaze along the arm attached to the disruptor of his royal slumber. A rotund man was attached to that arm. He looked to be in his 50s, and had the face of an Italian gangster. His suit was well-kempt, his grey hair short and combed, and his complexion quite tanned.

"It's real bad, boss!" The man said, still shaking his shoulder.

"Oh goodness, Joe," Tone said, irritated. "What is it this time? How bad can it be?" Joe tugged at his collar, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. "It's uh... you better come see for yourself, boss."

Tony rolled out of bed like a lazy, blob of molasses on a cold winter day, though since this is set in Australia, I suppose the molasses would still be running rather fast. He hobbled, blanket wrapped about his shoulders like a makeshift, My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic patterned cape, gracefully plodding after his heavy footsteps. He followed Joe who scampered like a frightened rabbit towards the window, still covered in the Walmart Great Value brand drapes he bought to replace his original ones that were destroyed when Joe became frightened by fireworks one summer evening. Joe's hand trembled as he pointed dramatically out the window, and Tony let loose a belligerent sigh and rolled his eyes as he pulled back the curtains. Bellow in the yard, strewn about his well-groomed hedges, lay a vast, squirming battalion of one-eyed, two-tentacled, three-day-old Quarter Pounders, no larger than the usual sort, but would probably give a consumer at least 140% the amount of heartburn and 160% the diabetes.

"By the great Lord Howard" exclaimed Tony. "What am I looking at Joe?"

"I'm not entirely sure Tony" the former treasurer whimpered, "They just showed up"

“Do you think The Boats sent them?"

"Boats aren’t sentient beings"

"Get my budgie smugglers we got some boats to shirt front!" Before Joe could interject further Tony was off like a bucket of raw prawns in the sun quickly trying to assemble his ikea cabinet but was missing an important screw that was, unbeknownst to him, lost in Joe's cereal

Joe continued to sweat like a bucket of hay. Should he tell Tony, the scrambling former prime minister, his superior, his boss, that one of his screws are in his cereal? Or should he not tell him in order to save himself from any backlashes? He bat his eyelashes to flick off the dripping sweat.

'Tony, I-' a clean right hook to the ribs came before he even finished the sentence. Joe doubled over in pain.

'Joe.'

'WHAT, Tony?'

'Ya screwed up.' Joe groaned. The pain from Tony's sheltered sense of humour toppled him, and he lay defeated on the floor. At this, Tony pivoted on his heel and strode out the front door. A makeshift staircase of burger rose to meet his foot. Tony walked onto his carpet of burger, and was carried into the morning sunrise.

The meaty door closed behind Tony as he walked further into the giant floating burger palace. As he made his way through this colossal castle of processed meat, Tony took a moment to think to himself about what a modern marvel this was. About how privileged he was to be allowed into what is truly one of the greatest feats of mankind, and how extraordinary a person it must take to bring such a project to fruition. Tony did not let this moment linger though, as he had business. Business with the particularly extraordinary person behind the airship upon which he travelled. A man who could make things happen, and Tony needed him to make things happen for him. Tony made his way to a pair of giant, golden doors, surrounded by a large Victorian-styled arch. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a packet of Tim Tams - he knew he'd need them. A small sign was bolted to the door at Tony's eye-level. 'Knock once to enter,' the sign read. Tony made sure his suit looked as presentable as it could after having slept in it, and did as the sign instructed. A series of loud clunks followed, and the doors slowly, but steadily, opened before him. Apprehensively, Tony entered the spacious white room on the other side of the doors. There, in the middle of the room, was a throne. Atop that throne, was perched a large, but rather graceful man who Tony knew well. "Good morning, Tony." "Ah, g- good morning," Tony stuttered, "Clive."

The undulating mass of burgers swarmed at Tony's feet as he stood before a great whale of a man, sitting in a relaxed pose upon a large throne of iron and metals. The man's portly face was half hidden by his protuberant second chin that glistened with an otherworldly aura of power. Clive licked his lips in a sinister fashion, the scent of tim-tams heady in the air, his natural prey, a proper offering brought before the great beasts hunger. His jowls rustled into a grin, his face churning expression like a vat of butter. "You must be rather desperate to have come to me, Tony," Clive chuckled, wiggling in a gelatinous way as he waved the stuttering Tony into his throne room.

"Ahh well- y'see- I'm more confused meself Clive." Tony mumbled as he gazed upon the swollen figure before him "I've not encountered such ah sentient food products before."

Clive winked at Tony as if he were a sex line operator "You've come to marvel at my Burgerbois have you? No. Infact it was them who brought you here... Can you keep a secret Abbot?"

"Ah… Well... I think perhaps..." "The mines are empty Tony. The workers are growing restless. They're growing..." Clive reaches down and swallows a burger whole "Hungry..."

"Well I don’t..."

"Tony do you know who'd behind this? The reason the reserves disappeared overnight?" "I can’t say I ah do Clive" Clive leaned forward with a stern expression "The Boats, Tony. The Boats have returned"

Tony's undergarments moistened. "But Joe said..."

"HOCKEY IS A FOOL WHO BELIEVES TAMATO SAUCE COMES FROM FRESHLY SQUEEZED LASAGNA" Palmer thundered belly bouncing off the walls as it moved. "He's not to be trusted with anything of importance, Tony. Best put him back onto the budget. Believe me. The Boats are coming and my Burgerbois are unprepared. They need a general Tony. One who knows our enemy."

"But... ah... Clive..." "Tony. Only you can stop The Boats."

Tony's threat suddenly felt dry. Too dry. So dry, he gasped for the air, his hand clutching the chest of his shirt tightly. The caterpillar brows on Clive's furrowed. "Tony! I will not pass for this again. You cannot keep doing this." Tony stopped his "I'm so scared" act and cleared his throat. He smoothed back his hair. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

Clive beckoned a burger guardsman, who approached Tony. 'What's all this about then, ah, Clive?' Tony began, and the armoured burgerman stood over the liberal backbencher. The burgerman extended a hand, and placed a ring of keys in Tony's palm. Tony inspected the keys, which had the engraving 'T H I C' on one side. 'And what am I driving, exactly?' He continued. 'Not driving, Tone,' replied the burgerman, 'but piloting.'

Tony continued to sweat. Clive's ire had already struck fear into him, but the vague directives he received only served to uproot his presence of mind even further. "Why, ah, C- Clive..." Tony stammered, forcing a nervous chuckle in a thinly-veiled bid to hide his nerves, "I c- can't say for sure that I know what you mean when you... ah... w- when you say... 'Piloting...'"

"You will," Clive said abruptly, bringing Tony's nervous rambling to a halt. Clive carefully tore open the packet of tim tams on his lap, lifted the first chocolatey treat from the packaging and took a bite into it, savouring its delicious malt flavour. Tony could only fidget with his tie as the Lord of the Lard enjoyed his offerings in front of him. The silence left him completely unsure if he should maintain eye contact or avert his gaze, resulting in an awkward routine in which he ultimately ended up doing both.

"Tony." The silence shattered. Startled, Tony stood to attention, his ears opened, all three of them. "I am placing my faith in you one final time, Tony," Clive boomed. "My assistance comes with expectations and conditions, Tony, and those conditions do not involve failure."

"A- ah, yes..."

"Our meeting has drawn to a close, but before I send you on your way, I have one last demand of you. You will listen, and listen well," Clive said, sternly. He pulled himself forward on his throne, and leaned as far down as his round biological prison allowed him to. Tony edged backwards ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the distance created between himself and Clive, or rather, the lack thereof. "You are to tell no one of our meeting. Not Hockey, not Bishop, not even Howard. Nobody. Goodbye, Tony."

"B- But wait a minute! How will I know-" Before Tony could finish his question, a panel in the floor opened underneath his feet, and he began his plummet back down to Earth.

Tony hit the floor in a jiggling fashion, his knee caps taking a vacation up into his throat for a moment. As he resettled into his skin, he looked on over the horizon, standing uncomfortably at the precipice of battle. He stood on the shoreline, his best work shoes sinking into the warm morning sand, overlooking a beautiful soft pink and blue sky, lemon yellow sun rising over the washing and waning currents, but all of this lovely scene besmirched by the dotted, intimidating silhouettes on the horizon. The Boats were coming, and faster than Tony had expected! Curse him taking Scott's advice, he felt like he had been used by the sack of shit, uh, literally. He scanned the beach side for the machine for which he would lead the Burgerbois to battle with the boats, it had to be somewhere around here right? In the glare of the rising sunlight, he barely stopped himself before he walked straight into the object of his search. Standing before him, in all of its Parliamentary Glory, was the M18S-C, the Prime Ministerator, a grand, enormous bipedal mecha, gleaning with the Australian Flag emblazoned upon it's chest piece, standing tall and proud in the soft, creamy light. He looked on it in awe, he had only heard tales of its use in the great wars before, and never had he dreamed that he would pilot it. What a blessing he was given by Clive, he would have to send him more tim-tams later.

Tony prepped himself to climb inside when he heard a voice from behind him

"Excuse me dear Tony but my lustrous eyes can’t help but notice you're clambering into my car? What's the meaning of this oh honourable minister?"

Tony recognised that pompous voice anywhere. A voice that could only belong to the most 18th century of aristocrats. "G'day ah... Malcolm didn’t know this was yours..."

Malcom breathed in as only an owner of such an 18th century aristocratic nose can breathe. "Of all days, Tony. Of allll days." His heels clacked loudly against the floor towards Tony. "What are you doing, fool?" He demanded.

Tony's eyes widened - partially in rage at the sight of his usurper, but also partially in awe of such a faithful preservation of conservative values. 'Malcolm, ah, what a surprise,' Tony began. Malcolm snatched the keys right from Tony's hand and strode towards the mech.

So... parliamentary, Tony thought to himself.

As Malcolm struggled to lift his atrophied body into the mech, Tony piped up with an uncharacteristic display of forethought: 'it might be best for you to wait until we've finished cleaning the wares for your use, Malcolm.' Malcolm froze mid-climb. 'If a member of parliament were to be seen in something not... presentable...' he continued. Malcolm gasped, and momentarily lost balance, nearly falling. '...Well, ah, imagine labor's response.' Malcolm's skin somehow managed to turn a shade lighter. He clamoured down immediately, and thrust the keys to Tony's chest. 'Have it cleaned at once, then, you unscrupulous vagrant!' he squeaked.

'At once, Mal-'

'And another thing, Tony,' Malcolm continued, as he strode away with that slight hip wiggle he was known for, 'call me Prime Minster.'

'Ah, r-righto.' Tony grimaced.

Tony waited until Malcolm was out of sight. "Call me prime minister," Tony mumbled under his breath. "Why that... that man..." He fumed as he climbed into the Prime Ministerator. He had half a mind to crash it, just to spite Malcolm. After all, Malcolm had already forcibly removed a throne from Tony himself, it would only be an eye for an eye, right? No, Tony thought, I have a job to do. Petty squabbles come later. That he would be stealing the Prime Ministerator and using it for his own, non-Malcolm-approved agenda was enough of a consolation prize anyway. Tony strapped himself into the cockpit and fumbled with the keys. "Ah, cock it," Tony said to himself, realising he didn't actually know where the ignition was. Tony fumbled around the dashboard in front of him and searched the console next to him thoroughly. After a few minutes of man-looking, he found a cluster of five holes under the steering unit, each of which looked roughly the same size as the key he was given. He had no idea which hole was the ignition. Hell, he didn't even know if any of these holes were the ignition. Maybe two or three of them were the ignition and he needed two or three keys. Maybe he needed to put the key in one hole and then put it in another hole really quickly? Tony was driving himself mental trying to unravel the mystery in front of him. Come on Tony, he thought, get it together! Clive's not giving you anymore chances after this! The real prime minister wouldn't struggle nearly as much! Hold on. Tony's train of thought came to a complete halt. Yes... that's it. "I'm the prime minister..." Tony said, sinisterly.

Tony was never a man to assess his risks, risk assessment is for the cowardly! Act first, think later, that's how we do things in God's Australia, he thought. He felt his passion grow stronger with every musing. This is just another obstacle to overcome! I'm ashamed of myself that I nearly allowed it to work! Australia didn't get to where it is now by sitting around and assessing risks! It got here through good old-fashioned gumption! Courage! Moxie! Heteronormativity! Tony lifted his arm high, key in hand, and locked on to a hole in the cluster.

"They didn't call me Mad Cunt Abbott for nothing!" Tony screamed at the top of his lungs. Something awakened inside Tony. No longer was he just the former prime minister, he was the Minister for Fearless Warriors, and he was going to prove himself. To Clive. To Malcolm. To Australia. Without a moment's hesitation, he brought his arm crashing down, and slammed the key into a random slot.

There was a loud thunk, ka-chunk, a small, subtle humming noise of lights coming on inside of the cockpit, a loud whir and a sudden, authoritative roar as the engines galloped, screamed and settled into a ferocious growl. The entire machine grumbled and trembled with robust vigour, bumbling Tony around in the seat, vibrating his butt-cheeks and chattering he teeth. Two long armed iron snakelike seat-belts coiled around his torso snugly, and four brightly coloured monitor displays flickered into view around Tony's face and peripheral vision. Three small, simple tones played near his ear, and a gurgling, sputtering noise started and stopped, like a sink drain sucking up the remaining water. A small, iron plate extended near Tony's right hand, carrying upon it a small, delicate tea-cup, covered in ornate wee paintings of roses, a gentle curved handle and a matching plate. Steam rose from the top in a wistful fashion, and as Tony peered inside, there was a detailed rendition of Malcolm's face, skilfully created in the foam of the cappuccino that sat before him. Wrong key slot. Tasted fine though.

Tony cursed as he looked around for something that resembled an ignition, furious that the blasted contraption had ruined his momentum. "now where is this thing god damn bloody- ah here it is" The mecha roared to life "MINI—STATO-O-OOOR PRIME A-IVE PLEASE INPUT DIREC-EC-EC-EC-TI-TIVE" it stuttered at its pilot like a Tasmanian on skype.

"Well that’s more like it" Tony mumbled to himself. "Now ah I suppose the best place to start looking is at the scene of the crime... Ah Mr robot please make your way to Kalgoorlie... wait no that’s been empty for years, best go to Karratha." "DIR-R-R-R-RECTIVE UNDERSTOO-O--O-OOO-O-O-OD LAUNCHCHCING NOW" Tony barely had time to adjust his seatbelt as the machine took off blasting high into orbit before plummeting towards the desert shithole its occupant had requested to visit. Meanwhile inside the nearby building a shockwave knocked a certain powdered wig into some awaiting scones. "By Jove, I appear to have been had"

After Malcolm finished stamping his foot on the ground in protest of his ruined afternoon tea, he shamefully eyed the wig that had fled from his perfectly reflective noggin. (Dentists often talked about employing the science of such a head to replace the metallic mirrors they used during dental practices.) Malcolm was well aware of the 10 second rule, an absolute truth that had swept nationwide and settled in the hearts of the Australian youth. Malcolm always found himself seeking the company of toddlers in the day-care directly across the street from Parliament after a long, hard day of ministering, so he found himself placing utmost faith in these rituals. Malcolm glanced around his room composed of entirely stale fairy bread to make sure the coast was clear before lifting the soiled wig off the scones and back atop his magnificent head. "Mama always said not to waste my food..." Malcolm muttered into a scone he had tucked into. After scoffing down the remaining scones in a manner far removed from his lower-class ancestors, Malcolm decided he, the Prime Minister of Australia, deserved a little joy ride in his M18S-C Prime Ministerator, or as he likes to call it, Shirley. Malcolm made his way to the nearest dial phone to contact one of his loyal followers to pick him up in his private TigerAir jet back to ACT where his mech was waiting for him, untouched and entirely his. Upon his arrival.

He tripped over a frog. Malcom landed smack on his face. "OW!" the onomatopoeia rang in his head, but he could not yell it, let alone say it due to his mouth stuck in an awkward position. He tried to get up, but he needed a minute.

'Mmmnn! Hrmmffffffmmmmtmmmmfffffrrrt!' Malcolm exclaimed, which probably translated to 'Slaves! Assist me at once!' Malcolm liked to think that his security personnel were in servitude to his Ministership. The rest of his party had opted not to explain the nature of minimum wage to Malcolm, and instead decided to secretly pay the staff extra to not pay too much heed to it. Malcolm again tried to lift himself off the floor, but due to the extreme fatigue induced by his action-packed day of trying to climb into a mech, and then later falling over, he resigned himself to laying there until help arrived. After all, who wouldn't want to help the famous and unanimously likable Prince Malcolm? He thought. Malcolm wasn't a prince, but his mother once called him one in his youth, and he never really decided to question it.

Meanwhile, in the Kimberley, the Prime Ministerator touched down in Karratha, WA. The doors opened, and Tony awkwardly fumbled his way out and scrambled to the ground. "Goodness," Tony said, surveying the dirt-ridden landscape, "where are we?" "KARRA-RA-RA-RA-RA-RATHA, WESTERN AUSTRALIA" "Western what now? I, ah, didn't know the country even had a western side!"

Tony squinted over that mellow yellow horizon once more, peering through his tangled eyelashes those menacing forms that haunted his footsteps to this very day. The boats, like black, wretched nightmares slinking over the azure waves, crawling with undulating and singularly disgusting purpose. They lurked, smattered against where sky met sea, and Tony could feel that Malcom cappuccino churning in his belly like a roiling child on a roller coaster. He cleared his throat, swallowing down his nerves and also a good bit of coffee bile, and readjusted his clothing, now soaked with sweat from the hot fly over Australia's girdle. From behind him he heard a noise, the rumbling of thousands of crinkling McDonald's wrappers, rolling judiciously over the beach line.

"Right. Where to start?" Tony started to wander his way around the city looking for anything loosely resembling a porthole when his phone started to ring. "Ah... Hello you've reached Tony. Who's this?" "Ay Tony it’s me." Tony recognised that thick Brooklyn accent immediately "Oh Joe. How are ya? What's the issue?" "Where'd ya go? You said you were goin out and all of a sudden you aint come back. You get whacked or something?" "No... Ah I'm still here." "Anyway not important. What is important is the member for Hughes got stuck in the dryer and I can’t get him out!" "Oh bloody... ok look... I can’t. Just call Julia and she can sort it.”

Over the dirt road horizon (they couldn’t afford 21st century remodelling), Tony could hear a faint "bzzzzzzt RRRRRRRRR" speeding towards him. Tony opened his big ugly mug and screamed when the source of the noise came into view. "RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrzzzzzzZZZZZZZZ! SALAAM ALAIKUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMRRR" screamed a hoard of motor boats at the now flabbergasted Tony. "Crickey! The Boats, they've, ah, evolved!"

The Boats have two cats now instead of one. And they are coming at the speed of sound. What will our dear Tony do?!

Tony took a poorly placed step in retreat to his mech and staggered. The townscape seemed to spin in front of him, twirling into something not of this world. He glanced back to the cat-headed aboatminations and noted they had spawned a third cat head while he wasn't looking. He blinked. The Boats grew another head. As handling perception-dependent mutation had been sorely glossed over in his brief Prime Minister training experience, Tony decided that the only honourable action would be to run piss-scared back to his metallic powersuit. As he neared the titanium goliath, the screams of The Boats became impossibly loud, and seemingly from all directions. Tony gulped, and tasted blood.

Tony clambered into the Prime Ministerator. He fumbled with the keys in his desperate bid to power it on. Eventually, the Prime Ministerator whirred into life, and with it so did Tony's resolve. He knew what he had to do.

"This is it, ah, my boys," Tony stuttered, wiping the spit from his lips that had accumulated there from his intense screaming. He looked out over towards those horrifying, boat behemoths, cat heads bubbling and rumbling on the bow like beating, gurgling exposed organs. The Burgerbois were around the mech's feet, in all shapes and sizes, various toppings, but all with that similar, old McyD's smell; you know the one, as if you had brought it home in the car and the scent lingered. Tony choked back a gag as he caught a whiff, but now was not the time to have a delicate stomach. The boats were closing in on him with a gallop; some literally as they took to the shore down the way and sprouted large, feline, double jointed legs. The early day seagulls cawed and nattered, eyeing his burger army with hunger, but they dare not descend close enough to the ungodly hamburger beasts. The 'vultures' were already prepared to feast upon the coming dead. Tony's heart trembled. He popped an antacid into his mouth from his suit shirt pocket and cleared his throat. A large mechanical arm swung forward, glistening in the hot dessert sun, accompanied with a twinkle from Tony's brow as his sweat caught the glare from that all too unforgiving summer heat. Tony puffed up his chest like a bird impressing a mate and hollered with all of his might:

"I know we have only known-uh, ah, each other for a short time, but blimey, you good tinfoil wrapped, lettuce faced, ground cow sandwiches are my countrymen! My, ahhhh, Brothers! Yes! Together, we will fight, uhmm, yes, good, right, YES, FIGHT BACK THE BOAT HOARD! They shall rrrrrue the day they stepped foot on good Australian soil! We will triumph in this battle, and cr----crush!!! Uhm! OUR ENEMIES BENEATH OUR BOOTS! ON-- ah..... ONWARD, GOOD BURGERBOIS! TO VICTORY OR DEATH!!!" The Prime Ministrator lurched forward with gusto, Tony jamming his hands on buttons and squishing throttled between his soaking palms, stepping on paddles and swinging his fingers wildly through tough screens. The mech extended its palm and from it a huge metal object shimmered into being. The Prime Ministrator and Tony had become of one mind, and it summoned a weapon in dramatic anime fashion for its new rider to strike fear into the hearts of his foes.

The armies clashed together as a bunch of people looked on very confused as to what was happening, but they were of no concern to the Boats. They had been compromised, their enemy was before them and outnumbered them 10 to 1. Thankfully 10 of the burgers didn’t really make up the size of one boat. However, their leader was a gigantic robot who very conveniently for the boats was the same size as 5 very carefully stacked boats. Tony lurched his mecha around slaying boat after boat "You'd ah best remember that you dastardly dinghy " he cried out in his best war voice. Burgers and Boats fell in the dozens before Tony spotted them. The most intimidating boats he'd ever seen. Large enough to fit hundreds of refugees and stable enough to probably only lose 2% of them on the journey. Tony locked eyes with the Red Boat, the clear leader of the 5 generals, and rushed forward. "BOATRON ASSEMBLE" Tony only made it half way before the boats started transforming. They appeared to turn into various appendages and then joined together with the aid of some duct tape

Tony muttered under his breath. "Holy, ah, shit..." as the final piece of the boatron, the taint, assimilated to the rest of its parts. The Prime Ministerator could be seen wiping its mechanic brow in tandem with its little heroic pilot. "Ah... I-I think this calls for the a-ah, secret menu..." Tony uttered as he began fingering the build-in dial phone located in the mech's cockpit. After a few muffled whispers into the phone, not even a moment later could rumbling be heard from the ground behind the Burger Bois...

Out came three beans, the size of two tea bags. "There they are," muttered Tony under his breath. He could feel another round of adrenaline pumping in his body. The three beans hopped on one another and formed...

...a ball. And a large one at that, comparable in size to, well, a Boat. The mech-suited Tony fought his way back towards the bean ball, and clasped it in his metallic hands. He gave it a heave, and, with some effort, managed to lift it from the ground. The ball began to tick.

Tony froze. The hands of the Prime Ministerator remained clasped onto the ticking ball. He couldn't move. His fear left him paralysed. All he could do was watch this ticking ball, envisioning all the different ways it could lead to his untimely demise.

Tony's mind fumbled, his brain stumbling over his own fear, he could barely force himself to move, he was too close, the explosion would get him, or the boats would. Neither option was particularly pleasant. Both meant he met a grizzly fate, either blown to Tony chunks or devoured by the three cat headed boat mecha monstrosity. Wait... That was it! He shouted to rally the Burgerbois, as they clambered over the mechanical legs of the boat-beast, and with his last ounce of courage, he shoved the mech's hand into the maw of the great, salivating creature, ticking bean bomb and all. He quickly unstrapped his seat-belt, the computer complaining that he no longer had his seat belt on, making annoying beeping noises and speaking in an annoyingly condescending toned robotic female voice, and he thrust himself out the emergency butt hatch like an overly excited turd leaving the rear of a horse. He flopped like a beached whale as he hit the sad, and scampered like a cockroach as far as he could away from the Prime Ministrator and the main boat menace, keeping his face away from the all too quickly coming explosion of boat bits & Malcolm's ego, burnt burger pellets, and singed cat faces.

Tony found himself flying forward into the sand at high velocity as the shockwave from the explosion tore through the area. Screams from innocent bystanders, as they were caught in the blast because they had come to film the shenanigans for later upload onto YouTube, were drowned out by the clanks and cries of Boats and Burgerbois alike as the flames swallowed them.

"Crikey... that’s ah quite the effect" said the former Prime Minister turned ostrich impersonator as he picked himself up and surveyed the carnage.

"GOOD WORK TONY MY LAD" The voice rang out from seemingly nowhere. Tony looked around wildly who was talking to him? Then the answer was clear as Clive himself descended on his burger throne. "You've done it you've saved conservatism!"

"Ah thanks... Clive... I ah-"

"Please Tony, no thanks are needed I did nothing. You are the true hero. The land is saved for now. We owe you a great debt, but of course nobody can know."

"Oh well..."

"So instead," Clive reached into his pocket, "Have these. As a gift"

Tony was presented with the most magnificent gift he'd ever seen. A golden pair of budgie smugglers with the words "TRU" and "BLU" on each cheek. "Clive... I don’t know what to say-"

Clive put up his hand in protest "Tony, nothing needs to be said. Farewell, until the next catastrophe. Give Joe my regards." With that Clive ascended and Tony went to the beach in his new swim gear knowing that The Boats were stopped and the job was done.

#auspol #tonezone #somebody stop us

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