THE SHIRTFRONT G20. Day one. Brisbane is in lockdown with the twenty most powerful leaders in the world descending on the sleepy city for a week of high level talks. Police presence is unprecedented. Barriers surround the city and South Bank precincts. Personal security details are swarming. Armoured convoys have been zipping out from the airport all morning. Talks will begin soon. Tony Abbotts convoy is approaching the Convention Centre, where he is penciled in for a one-on-one dialogue with the president of the Russian Federation, Vladimir Putin. Tony is in the zone. He is staring at the back of the passenger seat headrest in front of him. You ready, T? his parliamentary secretary asks him with a gentle slap to the shoulder. You know how its done. Tony turns his head. His eyes narrow and his lips purse together. He gives the slightest of nods. He keeps nodding, the bobbles barely perceptible. He continues to nod. He nods some more. He is still nodding. Ill give him the response he deserves. Tony knows hes got it if he can hold his mettle. The Holden Statesman wheels into the disabled park at the front and Tony is out before it has come to a complete stop. Nothing can slow him when hes in this mindset. He knows Vlad - and he knows he needs complete focus to get one over him. He enters the building and immediately spots his rival. Hes impeccably dressed as usual, subtle platform shoes lifting his height from 55 to 57. Hes seated at the far end of the hall, behind the official table covered in documents, planned discussion points and a stylish pair of drinking glasses and water jug set. Vlad sees Tony enter from the other end and stands, walking confidently to the front of the table to meet his adversary firmly. Tony can feel his heart picking up pace. He mutters a quick Hail Mary. Two words are flashing through his skull like neon signs. SHIRT. FRONT. He can feel the adrenaline surge. The flashbacks begin. Hes at the University of Sydney, punching the wall next to his rivals head during student elections. SHIRT. FRONT. Hes at Oxford, belting his Cambridge opponent to a fine paste like a Nutri-Bullet, the crowd crying out for him to show mercy. SHIRT. FRONT. Hes trucking the ball up and taking a hard hit for USyd Rugby, the ruck swarming around him as he desperately thrusts the ball to his halfback. SHIRT. FRONT. He breaks from a brisk walk into a jog. Vlads expression changes. Hes not sure what the Australian Prime Minister is doing. SHIRT. FRONT. Tony has broken into a full sprint. Hes just fifty feet away. SHIRT. FRONT. His suit has been torn at every seam, trailing in tatters behind him. He is now donning just a pair of red Speedos. SHIRT. FRONT. His face is contorted into impossible rage, the rage of 298 innocent lives lost aboard Flight MH17 which was personally shot down by the man who now stood before before him. SHIRT. FRONT. Youve made a promise to the Australian people, Tony. Its time to DELIVEEERRRRR... RUN THIS ONE THROUGH YOUR PROMISE TRACKER, ABC!! CONTACT IS MADE. Like Coughlan on Brown in 2006, Abbott hits Putin with the force of a small rhinoceros. The Russian leader is launched backwards off his feet in a spectacular arc toward the mahogany table, his shoulder blades the first point of contact as his flailing arms send the expensive jug and glasses crashing to the ground, the glass fragmenting like the Soviet Union in 1991. He continues his trajectory on the highly polished surface and is delivered heavily to the floor behind the desk with a crunch. Documents flutter to the ground like leaves on a calm Autumn day. Tony is panting but prepared, standing in his trademark deep boxing stance, gloves on, ready to defend himself against any counter-attack. It doesnt come. Vlad is out for the count. Tony relaxes, his hands fall to his sides. Its over before it started. He degloves and produces a pad and pen from the front of his Speedo. SHIRTFRONT LIST, it reads. He crosses off Big Bad Vlad from the top. His eyes slide down to the next name on his list of one-on-one discussions for the day. Its Barraco Barner - the American leader. I, ah... I know Kenyans are good at marathons. I know that Kenyans are good at marathons, but lets, ah... lets see him run his way out of THIS one. You bet you I are I am. You ah... you bet I... chortles Tony to Vlads stunned security detail. The climate is about to CHANGE. He steps away from the table, eyeing the devastation with sadness, but also with grim relief. He knows that his actions - while severe - were unavoidable. For the Russian President, the age of entitlement was truly over.
Posted on: Tue, 14 Oct 2014 09:21:57 +0000