The sky was a severe grey and black, its undersides lit with the red glow from the heaving fiery monstrosity that we had been chasing for hours in our little convoy. Young Dylan was sitting next to me, his bum fluff beard a sad testimony to his child like state. He was on edge, jittering around on his seat like some crazed teenage lunatic at a boy band concert. He was even holding up his mobile phone to record the event as well. It all fit. The entire thing. The play. The scandal. We would have him where we wanted him. Teach that bastard to win an election that was never his to win in the first place.
Scott “Fatty” Morrison. Oh, we’d have the bastard now. Here he was after scurrying home from his ill-fated holiday, prancing around the fire swept country like the demented and hypocritical climate denier that he is. Oh yes, we had him big time.