Fear & Loathing On The (Mayoral) Campaign Trail

Fardon Widget. Fortunately, he's a professional.

The Muesli King is grinning at us from the back of busses in the downtown. A bald pornographer is leering and gibbering on the sidelines. Worst of all, the warped and vengeful Talkback host is making another run for the office that he lost so ignominiously three years ago.

Why oh Lord, why? Are all Aucklanders crazier than a pit-bull full of party pills? Did we learn nothing last time? We KNOW that Banks is a swine, yet he speaks to the darker side of us, to our weirder natures. We will elect him again and cry “He is risen! He walks among us and our hearts burst with joy as he bulldozes our grannies into the landfill!”

And yet……Could there be a real CONTENDER waiting in the wings? A candidate so unspeakable, so vicious and warped and lost to decency that our city will drop Banksie like the lame scumbag he is and rush to embrace him?

It’s possible. Word from Waiheke Island tells of a new breed of local body politician. A go-getter. An immigrant businessman, (Sorry, ‘Business-Being) from where? Skaro? Is that in Africa? Who’s checking visa applications these days?

No matter. Dalek Snowdon has made his mark. The feisty community leader from Auckland’s ‘Dalek Quarter’ has been creeping up the margins and making his presence felt. There was the big protest at the Doctor Who Convention. I’d have covered that particular story had it not been for the Mescaline suppository, the Absinthe and Crystal Meth cocktail, not to mention the Bloodhound in fishnet stockings all before breakfast that day.

And now, here was the mutant himself on the steps of City Hall, squawking about racism as his candidacy was rejected for having a burn hole in the official paperwork. On the mean street of ‘Little Skaro’ things were turning ugly. Snowdon’s supporters were massing on the street corners looking to dole out some serious ‘Ray Gun’ to anyone who even looked at them funny.

I was there, hunkered down in a booth at the back of the ‘Davros Bar & Grill’, feverishly snorting a twisted blend of Hellebore, Henbane and Heroin out of a midget’s navel. A Dalek with a ‘Vote Snowdon’ placard came in. He did not look calm. “The Leader has been left off the ballot!” he shrieked, “To the street and the barricades!”

I grabbed him by the eye stalk and pulled him towards me, blowing smoke from the huge reefer of Coromandel Skunk I was smoking. “Maybe it is time you Pepperpots grew some GONADS!” I grated, “You think this guy will fold just because of a paperwork error? Think again Plunger-Paw. Even now your boy is on his way into the Council offices to sort this one out.”

I gestured towards the greasy TV screen in the corner. Sure enough, Snowdon was just coming back out of City Hall, looking smug, a singed and terrified Council Drone at his side. The sound was down, but you could tell that things were going Snowdon’s way. The Dalek struggled out of my grip and glided back outside to join his cheering comrades on the street.

I stubbed out the remains of my king sized ‘Nandor’ in the ashtray and looked through my notes. Even now, Snowdon would be on his way back to his neighbourhood, his heart, or whatever it is these things have, full of hate, and ready to whip his supporters into a frenzy.

I’d need to be there. Talk to the candidate. Cover the story. I had maybe thirty minutes until he arrived. Just time to catch a buzz. Nothing serious, maybe a line of Columbian Flake, some Chivas, a gallon of Baroona, the last of the Mescaline and maybe a couple of those new ‘Laudanum’ flavoured Party Pills.

Thank God I’m a PROFESSIONAL.

(Fardon Widget is our Gonzo correspondent. He will be keeping us up to date on the Mayoral elections.
Hopefully.)