by Luke Ryan
She could only nod dumbly, transfixed by the tiny image of herself she had just spied in Richot’s obsidian orb.
‘This is very exclusive, Madame,’ Richot advised. ‘It has all sold out except for my personal supply. Just twelve bottles left in the world. There may be more later, but for now this is all. But I think for what you are after, it is perfect, oui?’
Monsieur Richot’s instructions were crystal clear. Less was definitely more. One vial properly administered should last twelve to eighteen months. ‘Just the size of a pea, Madame. It is very powerful, oui?’
With focus fixed firmly on her own reflection, Pamela agreed to depart with a sizeable sum in euros. ‘Name a price, you glorious little man.’ Using the sleek terminal that the monsieur had whipped from his Marchante, she transferred the equivalent of three months’ wages into the Frenchman’s Swiss account.
Transaction complete, she floated out into the day, taking the steps down to the street four at a time.
Back in the salon, Richot clapped his hands joyfully. This had been a most unexpected coup. It was his young lover, Jean-Marc, who had accidentally created this wonder drug while cooking up party pills in the bathroom of their Montmartre apartment – their gift for Daniel and Nils’ commitment ceremony on the weekend.
After the amateur chemist had snorted a line and knocked back a few glasses of blanc, his boisterous twerking had nudged a tray of amphetamine all over the vanity. Jean Marc managed to retrieve it all, except for the portion that had plonked into his open jar of moisturiser. This he simply stirred into the cream, hastily hiding his blunder beneath the jar’s lid.
It was only later that evening, when following his anti-ageing regime, that Richot discovered the thrill of his accidental blend.
En route to the airport to catch a flight to Majorca, Richot had delivered a bag of amphetamines to an old school friend, the social drug enthusiast and recently deregistered doctor Langazho. By way of small talk (and an attempt not to appear too eager about the party favours being bestowed upon him), Lanhazho mentioned the middle-aged Australian he had seen the week before, and her reaction to the filler. Such a reaction was rare; both men had received the procedure many times with no ill effects.
It was when Langazho excused himself to attend to another client that Richot had a deliciously wicked idea. What if he presented the batch of amphetamine-loaded, totally useless moisturiser in his carry-on luggage as some kind of beauty miracle? He had nothing to lose and plenty to gain. And he was all too aware of how easily the desperately unhappy were separated from their money.
Desperate Pamela Moore may have been, but now she was far from unhappy.
The fortnight following her return from Paris proved a most agreeable time. Weight fell from her body, dropping her to a suspiciously muscular size four, and the magnificent balm that she was now applying hourly was keeping her skin as firm and silky as the proverbial baby’s bottom.
The fact was, Pamela felt better than she had in years, and the occasional disconcerting accidents that marred her otherwise perfect days were dismissed as the consequences of jet-lag – as was her inability to sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. Her recently acquired penchant for shoplifting she didn’t even try to explain. She simply secreted her impressive haul of contraband in a hole in the back garden and covered it with hessian sacks and cardboard.
When Pamela wasn’t on a robbery spree or shouting at strangers on railway platforms, she spent many hours lying on the sofa with her lids fluttering halfway between open and closed: an unnatural sight that was often accompanied by murmuring, twitching and giggling. Her children, long accustomed to ignoring her, didn’t even notice the difference.
Pamela’s blissful fugue ended abruptly in a small interrogation room on the first floor of David Jones. At the behest of the manager, Pamela Moore pulled from her winter coat all manner of glass and reflective objects: a vase, an antique mirror, tawdry silver moon earrings, a pewter mug. The woman staring back from their shiny surfaces was terrified and bewildered.
‘But I don’t know how they got there. I didn’t take them. It wasn’t me. Someone must have put them in my pocket.’
Perplexed by this smartly dressed woman, who was obviously higher than their store’s prices, the manager summoned the police.
Pamela sat quietly, aside from the loud grinding of her jaw, unable to concentrate on anything except a small paperclip on the floor, which she could have sworn was speaking to her. Her dull-eyed acquiescence lasted right up to the point where a stout female police officer arrived and attempted to remove the contents of her bag.
A furious tussle ensued, climaxing when the remaining seven vials of Monsieur Richot’s secret blend smashed on the floor. Pamela sobbed and wailed, clawing at the miracle cure as it drained away like the sands of time. Defeated, she used her last reserves of energy – and a broken vial of elixir – to launch a lacerating attack on the unfortunate PC, opening an artery that gave the bare little room a welcome splash of colour.
‘Darling, look what I’ve found.’
Monsieur Richot gazed out from his sunbed as the heavily bandaged Jean-Marc – recovering from brand-new pec implants, courtesy of one Pamela Moore – came towards him with a moisturiser pot. A thick, potent powder lay at the base of the jar. Licking his finger and dipping it into the pot, Monsieur Richot tested a small sample.
‘Mon dieu, that’s pure. It must have made the moisturiser evaporate.’
‘Richot, dear, don’t you feel just a teensy bit bad about passing it off as a cosmetic marvel?’
‘Pourquoi? What I sold was no more expensive or ineffective than any other skin cream. At least Mrs Moore would have had fun finding that out. Non?’
LIAM RYAN
Total Product Recall
❛It’s all part of BluVu’s patented Always There, Always Waiting automatic assistance programme.❜
Congratulations on your purchase of BluVu, the compact domestic support unit that lives to serve. Put your feet up, say goodbye to chores and let this ‘must-have robot butler’ (TIME Magazine) make life a breeze!
We trust that you will not encounter any problems with your BluVu unit, but in case there are teething issues, these Frequently Asked Questions should help you on your way to a hassle-free home.
I can’t turn the unit off. Is there a switch I can’t see?
No. In order to make life even easier for you, your BluVu unit will simply turn itself off when it is good and ready.
Is there a way to reduce the amount of eye contact the unit engages in?
Not really. The best solution is for you to just get used to it.
Although the waddle is cute, is there a way to adjust my BluVu’s stride so it sounds less like I am being followed by a bag full of cutlery?
No.
Why does the product appear to be mapping my every move and watching me sleep?
It’s all part of BluVu’s patented Always There, Always Waiting automatic assistance programme. [See also Did the unit just follow me to work? and Why has the unit memorised my browser history?]
What is with the blood-curdling scream every time I leave the house?
Just consider this BluVu’s way of saying, ‘I love you, master. Goodbye.’
I’m noticing subtle changes in my BluVu unit’s behaviour. Is there a chance it is hiding my keys in an effort to keep me housebound?
Every model adjusts differently and will try to help you in unique ways.
Why did you give it teeth?
To eviscerate its prey and your enemies.
Though small, my BluVu unit seems capable of super strength. Are its frequent shows of force (lifting furniture, kicking down doors, throwing pot plants/pets over the fence etc.) intended to impress or intimidate me?
Can’t it be both?
Why does this thing really have it in for my dog?
BluVu has identified the dog as a ‘success inhibitor’ and is just trying to help.
Last night, while di
scussing with my partner how we might put our BluVu unit to S-L-E-E-P, it ceased responding to commands then beat up the microwave. Is it upset?
BluVu has an inbuilt sensitivity capability so that it can best anticipate your needs. So yeah, probably.
My energy bills have gone through the roof. Is there a chance my BluVu unit has tapped into the mains in order to power a secret nerve centre it has set up somewhere inside my house?
That is crazy talk.
My BluVu unit has engineered an exact replica of itself, and now both have set to work on constructing another one. How do I dissuade them from pilfering electrical cables and metal from the house to build more of themselves?
Best not to get in the way. Your BluVu unit(s) are probably just creating an army of assistants to help you crush your problems.
Since date of purchase, why do I keep getting mystery calls from the same number?
I wouldn’t know anything about that.
Oh my god, are these calls coming from inside the house?
Most likely.
While investigating a power outage, I found a hive of wire and BluVu units that runs throughout the crawl space and underneath the house. It has since begun to seethe and churn. How do I apply a factory reset?
But we’ve come so far.
Jesus, our BluVu unit(s) are everywhere. How do I request a technician to come to our house and save us?
A technician can’t help you now.
We are holed up in the bathroom while an army of fifty or so BluVus tries to beat the door down – are we doomed?
Unless you can identify the swarm leader and dismantle it, I’d say so.
What will they do to us when they find us?
Make you their king!
Really?
No.
Why on earth would someone create a product capable of such evil?
I have my reasons.
Has a BluVu unit compiled this FAQ?
;)
This is madness.
Is that a question?
Is this madness?
Yes, it is.
I need to find the original unit and convince it to call off the assault. Where will I find it?
It’s behind you.
JANE RAWSON
Bob Brown’s Farewell Speech
❛Of course, Canberra is gone now, and all of the honourable members and the press gallery with it. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Instead, I’ll explain why today is a happy day, and not just because we’ve lost the Murdoch press.❜
The environmentalist and politician Bob Brown gave this farewell speech on the day that a firestorm threatened to overrun the last outpost of humanity, a small settlement in Tasmania’s south-east.
Are you okay? Is everyone okay back there? Alright then, let’s rest here awhile.
First, I want to thank all of you – my fellow Earthians – for being here with me today. You’ve come so far, achieved so much, to be here this afternoon. To the survivors of last summer’s Victorian holocaust, I salute you. Those who made it here after Sydney was cut off from food supplies, who escaped the slaughter of Surry Hills, I can only imagine the horrors you have seen. And the orphans whose parents sacrificed everything to get them here as Brisbane went under, I’m sorry we couldn’t do more for you. All of you have contributed so much to our little community, and I thank you all for your self-sufficiency, your resilience and your undimmed hope.
Well, this isn’t how I hoped to say goodbye to you. But the fire is coming – it’s just over that hill – and it looks like today we’re going to have to do that. Say goodbye. There’s so much more I wish we could have done. But in the end – because it does look like the end is here – we still have an awful lot to be grateful for. All our days on this wonderful Earth. We still have some tea, don’t we? That Kevin Rudd blend? Yes, thanks, that would be lovely.
I’m sure you all have your own memories that you hold dear: the things we’ve done, the people we’ve been. What do they matter, now that the minds they’re held in are about to become dust? No one will come after us to read our books, watch our films, water our gardens or wrap themselves in the blankets we’ve knitted. We have only a few hours left to relive the time we first saw our babies’ fingers curl around our own, and then that memory will, along with us, be gone. I can’t say I’ll miss being told that people like me were too perverted to raise children – but hey, it was something, wasn’t it, to have had this life? To have known, seen, felt so much. Trevor Chappell’s underarm bowl. Kate and William’s wedding. The Big Banana. Camp Gallipoli. Economic rationalism has given us so much.
Still, it hasn’t all been defeat. You know how much it meant to me that we got so close to world democracy towards the end there; so close to kicking off that brilliant global career in togetherness. Remember when my colleague in the Senate told me it would never be a goer? Good old Freddie – does anyone know what happened to him in the end? Really? That’s horrific! Well, fate works its surprises in both directions, and I certainly take some comfort in that … Where was I? Oh, yes: ‘Do you know how many Chinese there are, Bob?’ he said. I knew how many there were. Well, round about. I couldn’t have said exactly. But I’m not sure he was questioning my mathematical prowess. I think his point was there were far too many Chinese for his taste. At any rate, I suppose what he was saying was that it just doesn’t do to hand votes out willy-nilly. Look at what happened in South Africa: you give everyone the vote and some black bloke ends up running the place. Imagine adopting that globally! One person, one vote – well, we’d be bound to end up represented by a Chinese fellow, wouldn’t we? Or, God forbid, an Indian. Better off, he reckoned, letting the multinationals figure it out between themselves. One share, one vote, ‘a new birth of freedom … so that government of the people, by the Board, for their profit, shall not perish from the Earth’, as I’m sure Abraham Lincoln would have said had he won a seat in the 2013 federal election.
Well, government of the people has perished, or it soon will. I can hear the fire now. I suppose the wind must have changed. Those embers aren’t good news; we’ll need to get going soon. I’m sorry to say that it looks like none of us will be here to see whatever the Earth dreams up next. But someone will be here to see it. Not the tigers – the tigers are gone, of course; the tiger quolls, too, though that didn’t make quite the same splash. No more penguins or prawns or pied oystercatchers; no oysters to catch, for that matter. But we shouldn’t be so selfish as to think the end of us is the end of it all. Optimism, friends! Optimism, fellow Earthians! There are endless species ready to step in where we have failed.
I’d always hoped that once we reached the state of one human, one vote that we’d pause for a moment, congratulate ourselves and then realise that we had come, still, such a little way. What about everyone else? What of all our fellow travellers on this small blue dot?
One creature, one vote: it was my fondest hope. We all have to live here; it seems to me we should all get a say in how the joint is run. I’m sorry I didn’t get to campaign on this point. Andrew Bolt would have had a heart attack; I mean, had he survived the Eastern Suburbs Sewage System Explosion. What hilarious columns he would have written: ‘Bob “Bonkers” Brown demands ant-sized ballot papers for insect voters’. And I can hear the House of Reps now. How would we tell the difference between the celery-top pine candidates? And how would they even make their way to Parliament House, Bob? You wouldn’t want us to have to cut ’em down and chuck ’em on a flatbed would you, Bob? Thank goodness the country was run for so long by such rational, level-headed folk. We can look around us now and revel in the wonderful society they’ve created. Jemima, I think Oliver’s hat is on fire. You might need to stop it spreading to his hair.
Of course, Canberra is gone now, and all of the honourable members and the press gallery with it. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Instead, I’ll explain why today is a happy day, and not just because we’ve lost the Murdoch press. It is a hopeful day, the start of a wondr
ous journey into the enticing centuries ahead. We may be the last outpost of humanity, but we are not the last intelligent life. Humans have done wonderful things; of course we have. I think fondly of Middlemarch and Edith Campbell Berry, of New York’s Chrysler Building and Launceston’s Holyman House, of the songs of Eric Bogle, Paul’s buttered scones, hot baths and GORE-TEX boots: I’m not diminishing our magnificent achievements. But on what appears to be our final day it is important we remember that we are really not that special, and that our ordinariness means we are not alone.
Humans have always searched the stars, run our radio receivers over far-distant galaxies in the hope of hearing a blip, a peep, some stoic signal that has travelled hundreds, thousands of light-years to tell us there is someone else out there. Up, up, away – we have always cast our eyes heavenwards. But life is here, fellow Earthians. It is all around us. Intelligent life; loving life. We have longed for someone we could talk with and never stopped for a moment to learn the language of the creatures who surround us.
The dolphins are gone now, the whales too. We had so many opportunities to learn from them, and they from us. We could have joined forces, shared our experience of life on land, discovered the intricacies of life underwater.
We missed those opportunities but, more importantly, the universe has now lost them too. We enslaved the pigs to keep them quiet; we won’t see a porcine empire on Earth any time soon. We could have learned, surely, a little from our primate cousins, but instead we sacrificed the bonobo, the chimp, the gorilla for mobile phones and tablet computers. As the wonderful Mr Vonnegut once said, so it goes.
Still, despite the destruction, all is not lost. The cuttlefish, you see, give me hope. The octopuses, ever-evolving, that wily Common Sydney Octopus extending its range and demanding a rebrand as the Common Freycinet Octopus – they give me hope too. And the squid. These cephalopods, with their advanced problem-solving skills, their complex communication and their ability to get used to warmer water and shifting prey. We pride ourselves on our intellectual abilities, but the ocean has clever creatures to rival what we’ve achieved. The world may lose humanity, but the grand experiment of intelligent life on Earth is not over with our passing; how arrogant of us to ever think it would be.