The Premier of my beloved home state of Queensland just killed the Literary Awards named after him. Murdered them. In cold blood. No motive. With extreme prejudice. And he didn’t even try to deny it. Didn’t ask for clemency. Didn’t plead insanity. I think most people would contend he probably enjoyed it.
So, what is the appropriate sentence? What does a man so lacking in remorse deserve for the untimely and unnecessary demise of an important institution?
Well, nothing short of the death penalty in my opinion. The sort of death penalty that can only be enforced by the state’s writing fraternity. Death by a thousand paper cuts.
Yes, Campbell Newman must be knocked off in as many future novels as possible.
And, for the good of our authorly sensibilities, in as many ways as possible. Stabbed on a poorly lit street corner. Drowned in a freak speedboat capsize. Attacked by a local legion of the ravenous undead. Just as long as he ends up as lifeless as the Awards he consigned to the grave.
And what will be the good of it? When the QPLA returns – rest assured, they will at some future date – those Can-Do RIP tomes will lift a few of the major gongs. The joyous writers will owe a debt of gratitude to the Premier who selflessly gave his life so that they could achieve their well-deserved recognition.
I’d die to see that.