We came, we saw, we ate our democracy sausages and the results of last Saturday’s federal election are mostly in – it looks like it’s business as usual. My social media feeds are full of angst and ennui, fear and frustration. All I can offer in response is a little furious fiction…
- The story had to include the words MAYBE, MAYHEM, DISMAY, MAYOR and MAYONNAISE.
- The story’s first word had to be an 11-letter word.
- The story, at some point, had to include someone or something RUNNING.
As usual, you can check out the winning entry etc on the AWC website and read on for my <500 words worth.
Democracy Sausage
“Sausonomics? Sausnography? Come on Tash, help me out here. Sausocracy?”
Jason turned the bread-wrapped, charred meat product over and held it aloft.
“The democracy sausage! Something we all believe in.”
I groaned. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Something we all agree on.” He grinned. “That’s important.”
“Rare as hen’s teeth,” Reg said.
“But it’s not even true.”
‘It’s an alternative fact.” Jason shrugged.
“What about vegetarians? Vegans?”
“There’s always outliers…”
“Foodies? People with taste-buds?”
“It’s what the sausage represents that’s important, Tash. It’s a unifying political symbol for the disillusioned masses.”
“You can’t have a sausage run for parliament.”
“Agreed,” Reg said.
“Right. That would be madness. Mayhem…” Jason’s grin widened and a diabolical gleam lit his eyes. “Someone else does the running with the democracy sausage as our mascot.” He drew in an exultant breath. “We start a new political party!”
“You are not calling it the Sausage Party.”
Reg choked on his beer.
Jason started pacing.
“S.A.U.S. – serious, superior, special Aus – nah, an acronym won’t work.” He stared at the offending object in his hand. “The Banger Party!”
“Just, no.”
“Wurst Party?” Reg said. “Wiener Party?”
I face-palmed.
“The Savoury Party.” Jason swept the sausage in a wide, banner-like arc and across again for the by-line. “Sweeet!”
“Mixed messages.” Reg shook his head.
“All things to all people,” Jason shot back.
“Lot of policy decisions to make. Onions or not?”
“Onions.”
“Above or below the sausage?”
“Can’t ignore OH&S, mate.”
“Fair enough. Sauce?”
I stared from one to the other in dismay. It was like watching a ping-pong match between two juiced-up meerkats.
“Definitely sauce.”
“What kind?”
Jason frowned. “Serious issue. Potentially divisive.” His eyes flicked, as if he was weighing up arguments. “Tomato sauce,” he declared.
Reg rumbled dissatisfaction. “Barbeque’s a serious contender, mate.”
“What about mustard?” I suggested, fed up with their nonsense. “Maybe a bit of sauerkraut?”
“Have to be locally produced,” Reg cautioned. “Section 44.”
“Sure,” I said. “Better embrace diversity and chuck on some marmalade and mayonnaise.”
“Come on, Tash,” Jason said, “get real. It’s gotta be tomato. Other condiments just can’t ketchup.”
He held it together for a beat, then they both started cackling like maniac chooks.
“Politics is serious,” I protested.
“Not really.” He eyed the sausage. “We’ve got an Elvis impersonator as our mayor, they’ve elected a comedian to be president of the Ukraine, and the Cheeto P.O.T.U.S. is a bad punchline to a terrible joke.”
“Okay,” I said. “But how many people do you seriously think would vote for a sausage?”
Reg sucked air through his teeth, like he was doing the numbers.
Jason took a big bite of his democracy sausage, chewed thoughtfully, and grinned.
“All we’d need is nineteen votes and a preference deal for the Senate,” he said.