Burdened by occasional irregularities in his private life, Brendan Luscombe felt compelled to make a New Year’s resolution (in spite of the fact that it was August; nevertheless, a most apt ascription to the cause) – he would start to tell it like it is, without resorting to or intruding on the obscure in an effort to remain inoffensive.

Or so he hoped.

Fuck that, he thought as he stared back at himself in the bathroom mirror while getting at the blackheads secreted away in the blighted crevices on either side of his notorious nose.

Brendan was determined to make a clean, albeit aborted fresh start. His private life was only half of it, but he had to start where he felt he could take more control. The public and professional side of the equation was one he’d rather distance himself from and remove any further chance of sullying his real self.

Life as political spin doctor, speech writer and media spokesperson for the Aspire Now Party had gradually taken its personal toll – sure, they had narrowly won the last Clayton’s poll by any other name, admittedly by way of a by-election, and he’d gone from strength to strength within the party machine supplying all the right lines at all the crucial times for key portfolio policy; and yet he almost inexcusably felt that being a master of obfuscation was proving detrimental to his cause – to remain at large on the smaller scale stage of his own existence, however much the system had corrupted him.

He had to make a break. So much had been said for little substantial worth that he no longer knew what to believe in, or even if he should. Not the party. He now seemed to realise that much was true, however distasteful. It was now getting personal and he didn’t like who he saw in himself – a liar for hire.

There was also the issue of how he had become increasingly obsessive-compulsive about sound bites, to the extent that he had to wear headphones whilst eating in order to drown out the noise of mastication, his own or anyone else’s, and to avoid listening to the TV or radio news that he’d always had on to monitor the tit-for-tat; which made having a relationship or eating out well-nigh impossible, but at least provided respite from the deafening feeds of the all-consuming 24/7 news channel. How he loved his food...

This wasn’t the only sign of how far things had spiralled out of control.

There was also the matter of personal hygiene to contend with.

OK, so he hadn’t been into his party office for nearly three weeks, since taking a leave of absence on compassionate grounds (he’d told the Premier that his Great Dane Jonas had died after a long battle with Canine Inferiority Complex (CIC) and other complications, on top of thousands of dollars spent on counselling and kennelling with smaller breeds while Parliament was sitting in order to try and put the great blubbering beast at ease with smaller pooches). A lie of creative necessity maybe, but a lie nonetheless.

And why had he lied?

For starters, he had no real official leave up his sleeve - as such, he could pretty much call the shots to suit his lifestyle, and if this meant ‘getting rid’ of Jonas to free up his convoluted conscience, well, so be it. He’d been wanting an excuse to reconnect with the wimp of a dog ever since his former girlfriend had left him holding the leash. Selfish bitch. She was one tough taskmaster. It had reflected badly on him – the break-up, that is – and he’d thought that by taking on the role of dog dad that he could garner more of the sympathy vote from colleagues and potential amorous pursuits.

Yet principles dictated that he muddy the waters and make the whole scenario sound even more tragic than it already was.

He had considered how easy it would be to arrange a dog, even one as big as Jonas, to go missing. If only temporarily. His mate Ed had a big property in Kyneton where he could lope about. Just for appearances sake. Just a thought. Not that he could bare to be apart from the dumb brute.

Jonas had become a kind of alter ego on to which he could project the frustrations of having to conduct himself with poise and panache in public.

He had imagined that he could begin to live with himself again, free of former symbiotic emotional baggage that just called for storage space his one-and-a-half-bedroom apartment did not have - the half a bedroom was the result of a DIY conversion of a rather large walk-in wardrobe that had only gone to waste during his halcyon bachelor days.

To which Brendan was now reverting.

But there was something to the adage of ‘man’s best friend’ affording a unique bond. Jonas was almost like a surrogate carer (not that he was making such a duty a current conscious effort on his part). Almost like a therapy dog. He had toyed with calling him Pavlov.

As to the matter of his own mongrel habits, or personal hygiene: he needed to bathe and urgently. Still, it was early. Plenty of time to attend to the fundamentals.

As much as any OCD would ‘normally’ result in an individual overcompensating for germs by scrubbing himself to the bone, Brendan took the perverse pleasure in wallowing in his own filth as a psychological consequence of one-too-many doorstop press conferences where he was invariably the Premier’s suited shadow, ruddy freshly shaven cheeks all aglow in the chill morning air cut through by the competing cameras’ none-too-flattering lights.

Now he could relax and not care how he looked. Truth be known, he fancied that he now cut an even finer figure, sans suit and tie.

Concessions were made when he went out to collect the papers – old habits barely nudged aside – when he would cover his semi-nakedness with a tracksuit or robe, or venture out to the local supermarket for supplies, in which case he would don a disguise.

As if people recognised him.

He almost didn’t recognise himself anymore – but he thought he was on the verge of leaving behind any charlatan come chameleon (or was it the inverse?) characteristics which had in time been overlaid on the fabric of his persona.

Brendan winced and squinted back into the mirror as tears began to cloud his vision. He scrunched up the blackhead clotted tissues and dabbed at the corners of his eyes, then executed a dab over the shoulder backhanded toss to land the fibrous ball of filth directly on top of the overflowing waste paper basket.

Looks like a snow drift, he fancied to himself.
This association merely conjured up a flurry of others from the exponential array of current social issues filling the airwaves and feeds.

Adoption had crossed his mind. Not a child. Himself.
Even though he was a child in many ways, this had presented as a rather tenuous lifeline.

Euthanasia? Well, he wasn’t ready to die. The whole quality versus quantity divide made him nervous. What if you wanted both?

Gay marriage? He was straight for starters. Could he ever likely turn?

Sylvie had been the kinky one in the relationship.

She called herself ‘bi-curious’, but Brendan only entertained the thought so far as he enjoyed the prospect of two women being in the sack together.
Sylvie had refused to entertain the idea of a threesome as she wanted to maintain total control of the moment without sharing and splitting hairs. 
Her predilections ranged far and wide, where there was a genuine receptiveness to ‘iffing and butting’ for the cause of apparent sexual liberation. 
The inference being she got off on having but-plugs incorporated in their sexual routine.

Or ordeal.

Sylvie might have enjoyed it, but Brendan most certainly did not.She willingly received a plug, but rejected his manhood from any anal infiltration.
He could not abide double standards. He was more preoccupied with what emerged from his anus than what penetrated it.
One reason he was relieved by the notion that a prostate check could now be done as part of a blood test.

Gay? No.

Marriage? You must be kidding…

Could he replace Jonas with a cat? There were the allergies to contend with.

Religion? Could he conceivably convert?
Brought up as a nominal Catholic who only went to church under duress and who had been tilting at Agnosticism as a replacement source of consolation, he felt dissociated.
Even so, a church was always an ideal place to seek sanctuary on a scorching hot day.

Buddhism? He enjoyed the temples he had seen in Asia, but the crowds put him off. The thought of begging reduced him to an ashen smudge on his own saffron  robe fringed feet as he mindlessly obliterated the insects beneath them, walking trancelike between temple and tourist district…

He snapped out of it.

As much as he liked the idea of robing up like a monk, Brendan decided a sarong would do the trick when next resorting to his garmented self’s appraisal. Batik would always win out over paisley on certain junkets.
And you could forget tartan.

How could he get his own back at the powers that be?

What could he do to assert his commando identity?

The emphasis was on the ‘do’.

The phone rang on the kitchen benchtop, to which he had effortlessly drifted from the bathroom as if on an internal zephyr of his own aspiration.
Thinking twice before answering, he closed his eyes and pictured a clenched fist demanding respect.

Hello, Brendan Luscombe speaking.

It was the parliamentary number.

Luscombe, Chief Whip here. When can we expect you back at work.

It’s a shit storm in the making, in case you’ve been in some altered parallel dimension.

Brian Reynolds. Why doesn’t it surprise me to hear your flagellating tones so early in the day?

Never too early to circle the wagons in this climate.

What a quaint turn of phrase. Wish I’d thought of that one…

Brendan admonished himself for having forgotten climate change as a prevailing irritant.

You are such a coruscating cunt.

Alliteration, even…

Not in the mood Luscombe. When are you going to drag your arse back in here? Isn’t that boofhead of a dog dead yet?

I think you mean Jonas.

At the mention of his name, two enormous ears were raised from beneath a haphazardly thrown blanket atop the lazy boy recliner in the corner of the open plan kitchen-living room. These were slowly followed by the entire head of the dog who stared expectantly at Brendan.

Brendan raised a finger to his pursed lips in a well-rehearsed imitation of a librarian. Maybe that was his kink. The coy bookish type. The action reminded him that he had some overdue items from the parliamentary library. Hansard, Hansard, have fun with Hansard…

This silent command had been frequently practiced when a certain bi-curious man-eater had dropped by unannounced.  Or anyone for that matter who Brendan had not personally invited for a pre-arranged visitation.

Jonas dropped his head back down in to the warmth of his own funk.
Like master like dog, really.

Whatever the hell you call that infernal hound of yours. Parliamentary picnics have been the safer for his banning. You should’ve taken him to obedience school when you had the chance.

Thank you for asking. Jonas is gone, I’m afraid. It is amazing what veterinary medicine can do to prolong an animal’s life. In the end it was a question of quality of life and I couldn’t give that to him however much I tried to play god.

There was a gruff clearing of the throat from the other end of the line.

Well, we all have to go soon enough; all creatures great and small…

Thanks for your consolation, Brian.

Well, all I can say is there’s no second prize for losing this vote.

We’re gonna need your spin on this if it goes pear shaped. Even if it doesn’t.

Glad to know I’m indispensable. And what vote would that be, Brian?

Careful. You’re on thin ice within the cabinet over your disappearing act.

It’s all above board. Cleared it with the boss, myself. He’s a dog lover you know.

Well, woof-bloody-woof for him. I wish someone would keep me in the loop.

Loop-the-bloody-loop, thought Brendan. Just like in my dreams.

Careful what you wish for, Brian. Those Jihadists might just string you up.

Keep up with it will you, Brendan. It’s got a new name now.

What, ring a ring o’ roses?

Thorny turd.

I could keep this up all morning.

Dull grief does not suit you Brendan.

You could almost do my job at this rate.

I might just bloody well have to.

I am sorry, Brian.

Bet you are.

Who will you get at short notice?

You got the number for that ex-union jack monkey turned tourism dynamo who’s been schmoozing the media lately from the Gold Coast in advance of the games? He’s Lebanese, isn’t he?

Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it. I’ll text it through to you ASAP. Good luck with that.

Screw you too!

The line went dead and Brendan hung up.

Where’s DEVO when you need ‘em, eh Jonas?

Brendan walked over to the chair where the dog lay sprawled under his blanket. He opened one large eye of rebuke as his master approached and farted as if on cue.

How in Christ’s name do I put up with you, moaned Brendan in revulsion. Remind me to change your ratio of dog food and leftovers.

Brendan had not thought of Sylvie as the jealous type, especially where pets were concerned.

I could say you did me a service.

Jonas yawned and returned to his slumber.

If you’re lucky we may get a walk in later. I have to check in on a few things first.

Brendan returned to the kitchen where he brewed a strong coffee and reheated a muffin.

He’d been watching an old series on ABCTV the previous night called the Chaser’s War on Everything, which had tickled his funny bone.

And got him thinking.

So if this is a holy war and we’re the infidels, the spoils-of-war must be way past the use by date, he soberly reflected, as if making sense.

Giving up the booze for dry July had been a wise move.

With coffee and muffin ready, Brendan assumed his position at the kitchen table where he had remote control over both TV and radio.

Not worth disturbing Jonas for the prized possie.

With the TV news feed on mute, he tuned in to Radio National to catch up on the night’s developments.

This would be an interesting day.

Isis and the threat of terrorism. Syria in turmoil. Trump in his ivory tower. North Korea playing with rockets. Asylum seekers in limbo.

Turnbull a rich excuse for a mainstream, moderate mistake in leadership choices…

Innovation and agility had never looked so worn out.

Brendan wondered if he was overthinking things again.

And then it hit him

Right between the eyes.

What the world needed now was a super hero.

Someone to believe in.

He’d recently seen the new incarnation of Wonder Woman and fell right in line behind those well-defined Amazonian calves.

Why should a woman do it on our behalf? he reflected.

Oh mighty Isis. Now that was a blast from the past. He hadn’t seen that show since he was a kid.

What was the ring-in or tie-in he was after?

That was it. The very thing we’re supposed to be afraid of.

A call sign. A calling card. A symbol?

Daesh it all. Screw the caliphate.

A conviction was a conviction after all.

Always room for ambiguity in the face of his own complicity.

A doco he’d watched the other night also flashed before his eyes.

Military policemen training their guard dogs.

Something about the way they were kitted out.

Try to muzzle this lone voice, he said aloud to a hint of recognition from Jonas, who stirred momentarily, sniffed the air and resumed his snooze.

A semblance of associations flickered in the scattered shadows of the early morning sun flecked potted palms that lined the walls to each side of the sliding glass doors of the east facing living room.

The day the earth stood still, maybe?

All wrapped up and a definite place to go…

A fabric shop on Sydney Road would do the trick.Brendan contemplated the logistics of the escapade.

He was literally just down the road in North Fitzroy and could kill two birds with one stone by buying the material and taking Jonas for a walk.

But how to get the stuff home?

Bugger it.

He’d take the car and stop off on the way home at the Edinburgh Gardens where Jonas could be let off the leash to run off some nervous energy.

Not that he currently exhibited any signs.

Dressed in a vintage track suit, circa 1970s, a la Six Million Dollar Man, Hard Yakka cap, aviator glasses, crocs, and armed with his android, wallet and list of fabric lengths and colour combos he’d roughed out at the table, Brendan grabbed his car keys, dog leash and manoeuvred Jonas out of the apartment and down to his Subaru Outlander for the jaunt into the heart of multicultural Melbourne.

After picking up the material, a detour via an army disposals store, hazchem workwear warehouse, Chemist Warehouse, Spotlight, the park, cafe and Piedimonte’s for groceries and a macchiato, Brendan returned to his digs in time for a late afternoon re-run of Batman and Robin.

Jonas preferred The Littlest Hobo.

Once Jonas had been fed leftover rabbit cassoulet, the Joker had been sent back up the river, and the Xanax had taken effect, Brendan set to work on his scheme and set up the new Husqvarna.

He had fond memories of the ancient Singer treadle sewing machine that had been in the back room at his grandmother’s. He’d sat at it as a child and pretended to be a bus driver or just for the fun of seeing how fast he could get the wheel to go, without going anywhere or fabricating anything except the stories in his mind.

A felicitous start for a future spin doctor.

Now, with all the determination of a haughty, rogue designer bucking the system, Brendan set about turning his idea into reality. Realising his sketches proved a challenge to his novice digits as the pattern took shape before him on the kitchen table.

Brendan spent all night at the sewing machine piecing together the component parts of the outfit, breaking only to berate Jonas for his flatulence, brew another cup and reconfigure parts of the ensemble that didn’t quite hold together.

He crashed at sunrise, just as Kochie and his cronies were about to unleash themselves on the infotainment airwaves. The thought of it made him queasy, so the only thing for it was a Xanax and a lie down.

He slept for the better part of the day, oblivious to whatever was unfolding on the socio-political stage, inhabiting his fitful dreams of taking part in a gay pride march for downtrodden African-American policemen, the ones in which he flies, swooping low over the streetscapes and ascending on high to soar on the thermal currents, toilet dreams about inadequate sewerage capacity, kitchen dreams in which he does battle with a sink load of porridge encrusted saucepans, and the ones about teenage infatuation that revel in themselves and mean absolutely nothing.

Upon waking, he resumed work at the kitchen table, aided by a pot of coffee and the banana cake he bought at the café, pausing only to bring the treadmill out of the spare half a bedroom into the living area and to which he managed to secure Jonas so he could get some exercise – the incentive being the aroma of the chuck steak he’d removed from the freezer and was thawing in the microwave.

Alternating between the focus on his self-appointment as seamster, bathroom breaks, coffee and Xanax, untethering, feeding and toileting Jonas (on the patio balcony sandbox he’d rigged up for when going further afield was not an option), and refusing to check his phone or even turn on the radio for some incidental music, Brendan continued to work through the next night until his fingers grew numb and his vision blurred.

Finally succumbing to fatigue and the fact that inspiration was failing him in the finishing touches department, Brendan put aside this newfound compulsion and gave in to sleep.

Brendan roused himself on the third day of his quest to turn the tables (spin doctor didn’t always equate with earlier ambitions as a DJ – Albanese could have that one) and decided that a shower was in order.

He refused to sully this leap of faith and talcum powder only went so far to conceal the truth.

After dealing with Jonas’ Joy Division turn (canine epilepsy was a real thing and which he had used to his advantage when trying on his ruse with a dog in distress), Brendan partook of a latte and baguette to settle his nerves and line his stomach before he had to pop another little pill.

Take that, he thought as he stood transfixed by his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Before him was an apparition of true vigilance.

In part, all concealing shin length tanned burqa taken in at the waist and replete with purple serenity symbol on the chest, blacksmith apron, chemical and fire resistant treated high-visibility industrial off-cuts for added relief, Michelin Man dog handler bulk (complete with multi-purpose muff to rebuff in defence and biff in attack), utility belt, green forearm length vintage open cockpit pilot gloves, red wrestling boots, and complete with Cold Chisel inspired Kamikaze style headband, it was truly something to behold.

Brendan felt the invisible tears of release roll down his whiskered cheeks (he would put off shaving for now) simultaneously as he felt the grin take over his face.

Vigilante crime fighter at your service.

Righter of wrongs

Doer of good.

Pooper scooper zealot.

At this thought his vision was distracted by a movement at the door behind him, in the bottom right of the mirror.

Jonas sat upright in the doorway, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he panted, a small pool of drool forming on the bathroom tiles.

What do you think boy?

Jonas barked his apparent loyal approval.

You’re not afraid are you, mate?

Woof, woof…

Just as I thought. You’re made of sterner stuff.

I was worried you might think I was a burglar or something and attack me.

As if.

Looks like we’ve both come through with flying colours.

Then it struck him.

He would need a common man’s heroic sidekick.

He needn’t look any further.

There he was right behind him.

Brendan turned and stood arms akimbo as he addressed Jonas.

You my friend will also benefit from a suit of sorts. Nothing too elaborate.

Notice how I have dispensed with the traditional cape arrangement. I thought it a little too camp and predictable.

Brendan looked at his slobbering ally and ruminated upon the options.

Maybe you could have saddle bags.

What do you think of that?

Wood, woof, woof…

Now, let’s go and get you kitted out.

Then maybe we can go in search of that Labradoodle we saw last time.

A pep talk wouldn’t go astray either, unlike your bloody balls…

By Michael Haward.