Chapter Nine of the Beehive Bit**
CHAPTER NINE
Mrs C--- clears her throat. Is there a gargoyle about to erupt out of there? She pulls a typed piece of paper from her lizard skin handbag. Fucks' sake Minister Knight. This is not a chance encounter in the corridor; this is an ambush.
She clears her throat again. Get it out. The suspense is killing me.
- I've been having very fruitful conversations with Mrs G---
Who?
- The chair of the party's women’s network. Rebecca, you knows Mrs G--- and the extensive work she does in the party very well, says Knight in an embarrassed murmur, trying to cover my lack of awe for any of the party's inner mechanisms. He continues - Mrs G--- and the women in the network are most concerned about the bathroom problem.
The bathroom problem? If their plumbing isn't quite right that's not my problem.
- It's not just the bathrooms. It's all the safe spaces such as changing rooms and the woman’s refuges and the other women only spaces. But the bathrooms are probably the most pressing.
What other women only spaces are there? If you're wanting your own golf club then there's not a lot of prime green going free these days. What exactly is this about? And don't start to cower Knight.
The piece of paper is held up. - Our proposal is that we could have a better identifying system for those who are biological males. Nobody wants to be having to sight each others’ genitals to understand that.
I bloody well hope not.
- So we are investigating the feasibility of a badge or pin. Something that would be discrete but would mean that you would see when you are in a sex specific space with someone who is not of that sex.
Are you Nazi-fucking-serious? You are wanting trans women - because I know you barely understand trans men are a thing - to wear an identifier on their clothing. You better be looking fucking embarrassed about this Minister Knight.
- It would be opt-in to begin with. Have you ever been on the London underground? They have these lovely blue badges that you can get if you have a disability that isn't very obvious or if you're a pregnant woman. It allows people to see that they should give up their seat on the tube for you. The biological men could wear a badge and then they wouldn’t be having to produce medical certificates and the like.
Again, are you Nazi-fucking serious?
- There are a number of transexual women who we are in contact with who have already said they don't want biological women to feel uncomfortable and they are quite open to something like this.
Do you want to take this idea down to the Ivy and see yourself lynched Mrs G---? Why can you not see the absolute disdain for this idea all over my face? No, don’t open your mouth to quote more nonsense from that piece of paper.
Having made the call to pick the wrong side of this standoff, Knight says - I think it’s an idea that the military might be interested in. We could wrap it into Tui?
So the armed forces can shoot the trans women? And don’t fucking mention Tui. That’s under embargo.
- I just meant that better identification could help a lot of different sectors of society.
Let me take that piece of paper and hold it in my hand as if it’s going anywhere but the nearest shredder bin. And now, I am finally getting the fuck out of here. Good day Mrs G---, Minister Knight.
BACK IN the office Alix gives me the you're-late-and-you've-kept-me-waiting-but-I-know-better-than-to-open-my-trap side eye.
Upstairs we go my dear. Bring the print outs.
The calm before the storm; an empty campaign office not yet filled with the stains of sweat, tears and synthetically heightened hormones. Plenty of space to tack the printouts to the wall.
- There's almost a hundred of them.
Not too worry, not everyone is getting through. Some of these will be barely onto the wall and then into the shredder.
- Who are they?
Our future. Oh don't give me the raised eyebrow. They're the applicants wanting to be candidates for the general election.
- Are the MPs in here?
Yes, that's Minister Knight next on the pile. And he is getting very close to shreddable after today's imposition. Hmm, put the current MPs on the far wall. We'll deal with them later.
- And the PM?
God no. That Queen Bee is on the throne like never seen since the heyday of Maggie Thatcher.
Open the blinds so we can see the faces a bit better. Don't worry about the blurbs: narcissistic, solipsistic and/or ingratiatingly modest. You want to be able to see the eyes. Look, those eyes are extremely sneaky. Can't have them poking out of a billboard and terrifying the local community association. Put that one in the shredder pile. Not your year Mr. Jackson. And look at that one. He looks like if the steam doesn't squeeze out from behind the retinas then his whole face will cave in. Shredder pile it is.
- There's a lot of...
We're both thinking it. A lot of testosterone and ball sacks.
- And they're all very...
White. Surely there's got to be some ethnic diversity in there? Turn the overhead lights on. Check the skin tones. Have a closer look at the names. Pale stale male is NOT the brand for the campaign. Even if we know the eventuating cabinet is going to colour that way.
- We've got a Samantha Ryad over here.
Keep her on the wall. We'll look more closely later.
- I've seen this one around. She grew up in the Cook Islands. There's pictures of her with 'ei katu on her head but I thought her parents were European?
Look into that carefully. Don't want candidates cosplaying Pasifika. Are there really no Māori applicants?
- This one's middle name is Tui. Let me google it, hold on.
I run my hands through the sheaves of paper, trying to see if my fingers can draw out a single worthy successor for the bowels of the Beehive.
- No, her dad was an ornithologist not Māori.
Into the shredder then. Can't have the voters confused.
- Rebecca. Why are you on this floor?
Jesus Christ. Did the President's just slip through the door like a ghoul? More to the point, what are you doing up here Mr President?
- I expressly said this floor was reserved for the election campaign staff.
We were just enjoying the harbour view.
- Which is for the exclusive enjoyment of the campaign director.
Not my fault you can't find a new campaign director. Would you like Alix? Don't worry, that's a joke. She has way surpassed my expectations and there is no way I'm putting her anywhere near your wandering hands.
Soon you’re going to have to beg me to do the hire for you. I have at least three Australians, one from the UK, and I might even put a Scaramucci recommendation from the US on the shortlist. But I am NOT putting that list together until Tui is embedded in and I'm satisfied that it's time to move into the next stage of the general election campaign. Have fun extending the deadline on Seek and moaning about it at the golf club.
- You still haven't answered what you are doing up here. What are these on the wall? Are these the candidate profiles? They are highly confidential. How did you get a hold of them?
He's starting to overheat with the hard computation on whether his telling off will be founded on the heinous crime of defying one of his direct orders or putting the party at risk through lack of compliance with confidentiality protocols. And with Alix in the mix as a witness, that's two women to his one desperate attempt at masculinity. Doesn't matter dipshit. The PM put me in charge of vetting at her special request and I have it in a message somewhere 'use all the resources you deem necessary' so check mate on all accounts.
- The vetting has always been the responsibility of the Party President.
Don’t make me remind you, in front of Alix, about the candidate last term who was seeking refugee status for his white south African uncle. That carried the headlines for at least four days. Or the one who had three drink driving penalties even though he was still on his restricted licence. Absolute miracle that one didn’t make it into the press.
- Well then, when you are finished, I would like a full report with the criteria you have used on each candidate as well as a statement on how you have securely disposed of any data that is no longer required.
Yes sir.
- Is that Jeremy Baxendale on that pile? We were in the rowing club at Canterbury. I assume he’s getting through.
The guy with the snakeskin tie? Absolutely not. That’s the shredder pile. But no need for you to know that right now.
I will have a fulsome report to you by the beginning of next week with colour diagrams and fancy headings to assure you we run a SERIOUS ship.
- I look forward to receiving it. In the meantime, stay out of the campaign director’s office.
That last edict would have had a little more emphasis if you didn’t have to now stand in front of the elevator waiting for it to come and get you. Don’t smirk Alix. He is a very serious man.
Anyway, onwards Alix. Keep looking for a sniff of diversity in the long list and get that pile of rejects down to the shredder.
- The MPs?
They’re on the long list for now. Leave them on the wall. I’ll message you with the set up for Friday and we’ll meet back here then.
HAVING a dirty Martini in the ---'s bar is not rinsing off the ambush by Knight or the ghoulish appearance from the Party President. This is not a good sign. Concentration is key. Need to find some candidates. But the mental rolodex is not coming forth. It's not the Martini; I could sink five more and still do fivefold the work of any other political consultant. Is there a gap in the grey matter somewhere in here in the cranium? Is it just a focus slip or a new type of fatigue? I should be googling the gangrene out of potential candidates but I'm staring at the olive and it's slippery casing pierced so precisely through its apex. What do the grey-haired feel like when the first stages of dementia eat away at their mental capacities? Is it physical like the grinding on the knees when you go down the stairs? Is it just everyone else who notices while you remain blissfully unaware that you are no longer THE person to go to but the person that everyone sets up meetings around so they have to bring you in as little as possible? If I imbibed some of Alix's narcotics would that cauterize the corroding synapses or would I lose neurons that in their diminished quantity are more important than ever? The grey hairs are appearing more rapidly. What if each one plucked out is extracting a crucial memory that binds the matrix together until too many are plucked and the delicate spiderweb of consciousness unravels. I should google whether there is a correlation between grooming grey hairs and early onset Alzheimers but I am just gazing into the glossy skin of the olive. I should google some candidates but I am just gazing into the glossy skin of the olive. Fuck it. Time to go home.
BY THE TIME I get to the fourth floor office on Friday, Alix has done an excellent job of scavenging desks and laptops to set up a digital hub. The Coffee Underling is under the desks threading together multiplugs. Good thinking girl, always get someone else on their knees.
- How many are coming in? he asks likes he's been invited to be part of the team.
Not for you to worry about darling. Once the volunteers arrive we are hermetically sealing the floor until the job is done.
- It sounds very top secret.
It is so fuckitybye. And if you see the Party President tell him there's someone over at the golf course looking for him.
As he departs, the youth wing volunteers come in from the elevator. Wearing their stylistic choice somewhere between Mormon and incel they are to the minute on time. Can't find other young ones like this, can you? Their noses sniff towards Alix but she is quite sensibly head to toe in woollens without a smidgeon of skin on show. Plus, I'm going to stand on a box of unpacked paper realms to bring me to the grand height of give me all your attention and don't fuck with me.
So, young men of the right vanguard, I have instructions for you.
There are EIGHTY SEVEN prospective candidates for the upcoming general election. The lists are on the desks. EXTREMELY confidential. The lists, or any partial copies of the lists, do not leave the room. If they do you will be personally liable for a breach of the 2020 Privacy Act which could lead to a criminal conviction.
Last bit is not exactly true but sounds sufficient to terrify them. I can see Alix nodding in grave agreement.
Of these EIGHTY SEVEN prospective candidates we need to screen each and every one of them for media risk. That includes the current MPs. You will be finding and going through every Tiktok account, every Facebook page, every Insta reel, every Reddit post and every personal blog since the internet began. You will be checking media stories for them, their companies, their family members, their pets.
Does this seem overkill? NO. Nobody wants a cat lady MP with seventeen feline friends under scrutiny from the SPCA.
I trust that some of you will have the skills to go into the darkest corners of the internet to dig deeper than any political vetting process has ever gone before.
Some of them begin salivating at the prospect of entering the dark web with a vigilante reason for doing so.
Take your pick of the laptops and sit where you like.
A hand goes up. - I've got a question.
It better be a good one and not where the toilets are.
- Can I use my own laptop? It's got 128GB of RAM and an RTX 490 graphics card. It will be much faster going into the, em, dark web.
I don't know what any of that means. Sure, as long as it doesn't have a flashing keyboard or any of the boy racer lights.
- I'll turn them off.
- Can I bring in my gaming chair?
Absolutely not. Now you're taking the piss. Questions over, we need to get on with this. You have until 5pm Sunday. Take your pick from the selection of V, Monster and Prime from the fridge in the corner. Pizza will be provided at 7 pm today and tomorrow, and there will be Subway at lunchtime on Saturday. When Alix comes in tomorrow afternoon she'll get you to give her what you've got then and we'll check again on Sunday. Whoever finds the most dirt will get a special prize.
Fuck knows what that prize will be. I don't imagine they'll want one of the pyramid scheme pins although an opportunity to come into the Beehive and lick the PM's boots would probably fix the kink of at least half a dozen of them.
Righty ho, to your laptops you go. Alix and I are off to the pub.
- Will Alix be here in the morning to let us in? Says one with the voice of a person who might be wearing a t-shirt with Alix's face under his plaid shirt.
God no, you're not getting to see Alix's bed head hair. You, the one with the satchel, take a swipe card and be here at 8 to open up.
Sitting at the bar, Alix looks unusually preoccupied. What's pickling in your ovaries girl?
- If you average the polls across the last two months then we're ten points down compared to the last time a government was in a second term. That's way below what's needed to achieve a third term.
Ooooh girl, I've sucked you in deep. When the numbers matrix is infiltrating your dreams there's no getting out until we soar or crash and burn on election day.
- The new candidates are shit.
The MPs too. They always are. Nothing like working in the Beehive to make authoritarian regimes look like the sensible choice. But look what you've achieved with Nobby in a short space of time. We'll shape them, mould them, squeeze them and squash them into an electable list of superior citizens.
She looks pensive.
Go get on your app and find someone to fuck before you go too far down the rabbit hole.
The next night, after some drinksies with Sally, I find myself walking past the office at 1am. Shining out of place, the campaign floor lights are on. There better not be an unauthorised youth wing party up there. I'm sorely tempted to pull Alix out of whatever dive bar she is drinking in to deal with it. But this is an opportunity to remind the youth wing that MOTHER runs this show. And will be running the show through to election day.
The floor is eerily quiet when I stride out of the elevator. Did the fucktits just leave the lights on?
No, ears prick, there is a staccato drilling on some keyboards in the corner. Three of them, eyes scanning so fast so they don't see me looking extremely overbearing with just the hint of a swagger, marching towards them.
One finally does. Nervous, nervous, - ah, Mrs Director.
The fuck is that combination of titles.
They pull their earbuds out. Their eyes are bloodshot. But they're panting with a jumped up eagerness that is more than just the energy drinks. Fingers twitching, desperate to get back to the keyboards.
Have you been home since yesterday evening?
- Nah, we got a few hours sleep on the sofas in the foyer.
There are three of you and only two sofas. And in his foresight, the Party President used a complex tax write-off to dump two mid-century bone numbing settees on the office that nobody in their right mind wants to sit on let alone sleep on.
You know I'm paying you a flat rate for the weekend? There's no overtime.
- Yes, yes of course.
- We want to demonstrate our commitment.
- And there's the leaderboard we put together. It's a matter of pride who's going to win. Geordie can barely keep his eyes open but he's 40 fathoms ahead and we're waiting for him to drop so we can catch up and pass him.
The most bloodshot of them, seemingly Geordie, does not seem at all perturbed that they are talking about him in the third person, or their expectation that he is going to be the next to drop.
What the hell are fathoms?
- It's a points system based on an interlocking algorithm of candidate profile and total posts with merit given for posts checked positive and credit given for risk factors attributed, with easter eggs added when external sources have validated but not captured all the data points available. We had to add in a bonus point overlay when Alix came in this afternoon and we realised she was going to put favourable emphasis on race, gender and antivax but we recalibrated the source script so that there was fair distribution of the fathoms achieved versus remaining opportunity.
He says all this without taking a breath.
- Do you want to see it?
Absolutely fucking not. I just want to know anything you have found on the candidates that I need to be immediately concerned about. Alix will pick up the small shit tomorrow.
- In that case, can I get you to have a look at what I’ve found, says Geordie who does look like he might be on the brink of going down.
You better clear those pizza crusts out of the way if you want me to go anywhere near that desk.
God almighty, there is more flashing and movement on his screen than a pinball arcade. What am I looking at?
- Have a look at this reddit thread.