1. Home
  2. Hound55

Hound55 Member

Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

STATUS: A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing 3 yrs ago
Avatar of Hound55

Status

Recent Statuses

3 yrs ago
Current A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing

Bio

So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.

Most Recent Posts

In ①⑨⑥⑧ — a DC/Marvel Pitch → 5 yrs ago Forum: General Interest Checks
I will say, no one's preventing you from making such an app for one of these Gotham-based characters...

...but yeah, in the past, there have been occasions where EVERYONE flocked to either Gotham or New York, and it does bare mentioning once we start getting a number of people all expressing intent to base out of there. Especially early on, before numbers round the game out.

It's a fine balance.

Just like it's worth mentioning other characters exist when we start these games and we get four apps for Spider-Man, five for Batman and only twelve people total at that point expressing any interest in the game.

There's a difference between raising the point and giving a hard no, though. Feel free to give it a crack.
In ①⑨⑥⑧ — a DC/Marvel Pitch → 5 yrs ago Forum: General Interest Checks
As much as I always advocate for people to not all group in Gotham, if you want a female anti-hero with powers from the city then Poison Ivy would be your gal. And her sort of feminism and almost eco-terrorist outlook would suit the era.


Look at this motherf***er man-splaining feminism...

In ①⑨⑥⑧ — a DC/Marvel Pitch → 5 yrs ago Forum: General Interest Checks
<Snipped quote by Hound55>

I'm a simple man. I see a red cape, I take it.


Whereas @Master Bruce sees a Red Cape and he wants to Paint It Black...
In ①⑨⑥⑧ — a DC/Marvel Pitch → 5 yrs ago Forum: General Interest Checks
Heh. Like clockwork.

Less than a minute apart - Superman/Batman
In Hound's Wacky Shack of Miscellaneous Clap-Trap → 5 yrs ago Forum: Character Sheets

I R O N F I S T
Orson Randall, Older than Dirt (b. 1890 - kept young by the chi of Shou-Lao the Undying)
Protector of K'un L'un
Adventurer, Former WWI soldier



"Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn..."

- From 'For the Fallen', by Laurence Binyon


Character Concept

In the late nineteenth century, revolutionary scientist/mechanical genius Phineas Randall, deemed to circumnavigate the world in his colossal airship. With an incredible stroke of fate, Phineas crashed into the mythical heavenly city of K'un L'un during the brief window where it aligned with our dimension on Earth.

Healers did their best to save the life of Phineas wife, at that time eight months pregnant, but were only able to save the child. Their new son, Orson.

Phineas was brought before the Yu-Ti, the Dragon Kings and the Gods of K'un L'un as they demanded an explanation for his desecration of the Holy City and asked what he could offer in recompense. Presumably unable to pay, Phineas was put to work.

Meanwhile, the son, Orson was left to roam the streets, the outsider often getting picked on by local children. Until Lei Kung the Thunderer saw potential in the young boy. His spirit was strong. He had become hardened to their bullying. The Thunderer took Orson Randall into his tutelege. He began on his path to find The Way.

So much so, that when the Heavenly City next reunited with the Earthly plane he chose to stay in K'un L'un of his own volition. All he knew was there.

Over the next cycle his mastery of the martial arts slowly became more refined. He was a naturally spirited fighter, but was more of a blunt implement than most. As many young students of K'un L'un would learn to counter with flow, Orson would find a way to persevere through spite and grit. He seldom met a challenge he couldn't bear down on and break face first, and in those instances where he did, he was generally resourceful enough to shift marginally and just change the point of attack. For that had always been enough.

So much so, that Orson Randall had been able to sweep through the field in K'un L'un's tournament for the right to face Shou-Lao the Undying. A fight that would bring the young man face to face with a real dragon; a being of fire, fang, myth and magic.

Still the young man was able to best this challenge, and in doing so, would plunge his hands in the dragon's heart and become the next IRON FIST - PROTECTOR OF K'UN L'UN. For whatever that would mean. The city was an oasis hanging between dimensional planes, aside from the occasional attack from H'ylthri, which generally even the farmers could make short work of themselves.

The time had come, once again, for K'un L'un to realign itself with the Earth. This time Orson would be sent out into the world, to round out his learning. A twenty year old child, left to discover the world beyond the walls.

Orson had an adventurous spirit, and managed to find others of a similar mind. They formed the Confederates of the Curious, and would travel the world in Phineas Randall's airship doing many great things.

But then, one day, the 28th of June, 1914, a bullet stopped the clockwork mechanics of the world.

Gavrilo Princeps shot the Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

In a month to the day Austro-Hungary declares war on Serbia.


In four more days Germany declares war with Russia.


In two more days Germany declares war on France.


Less than forty-eight hours later Britain declares war on Germany.


And a man born off world, for violence, jumps into the fray. His will, as with his fists, like unto a thing of iron!

But iron, whilst strong, can be brittle... and for as strong and imposing a force of will Orson possessed, even those closest to him could see that he'd never mastered the flexibility. The flow. For proper balance.

And so, when the mechanist's son entered the meatgrinder of the trenches in The Great War, he snapped under the sheer weight of death and darkness of man's violence unto man.

This was the man who would return to K'un L'un as the dimensional planes shifted. A man who trudged a different walk and smelled richly of drink and the poppy. Drenched in the desire to forget. A born and trained fighter who had seen too much fighting.

But he must fight. For now has come the Tournament of the Heavenly Cities! The contest which determines the divine mechanics of the Heavenly cities and their intersection with the Mortal plane!

But he has seen too much violence, too much fighting. And so the Iron Fist of K'un L'un refuses.

However, refusal is not an option. The Immortal weapons of the seven cities are sent to bring forth the Iron Fist of K'un L'un and force his participation...

But then tragedy.

Orson Randall, sharpening rapidly out of an opium-induced haze from the surprise attack on his person and the chi of Shou-Lao ever-flowing through his chakras, inadvertantly killed the Immortal Weapon of K'un-Zi!

Such a crime could only have one sentence, but when Lei Kung the Thunderer was sent for the execution he found himself unable to kill the drunk, drug-addled wretch which Orson Randall had become. He went back and told the Yu-Ti and the leadership of the Heavenly cities it was done. That Orson Randall, once the Champion of K'un L'un was gone and would not be back.

With K'un-Zi left without a champion the tournament was delayed until K'un Zi could produce a new one. K'un L'un was left without dimensional cycling back to Earth until such allowances could be made to restore K'un-Zi's honour.

Orson Randall was indeed gone. He had fled with the Book of the Iron Fist. In his drug-addled state he foolishly believed this theft could prevent the cycle of violence that was the legacy of the Iron Fist from coming to pass. Of course it could not, it was just a book. A text made of dragon scale and "Immortal ink". The egg still in the tomb of Shou-Lao the Undying remained and continued to gestate.

Orson looked to keep himself hidden. For whilst K'un L'un would not be in the celestial clockwork, he was hated by ALL of the seven cities. He kept himself sedated and withdrawn in a series of opium dens throughout the Orient, lest any sense the mystical presence of the chi of Shou-Lao the Undying.

He dreamed away the Second World War, a Civil War and afterwards the First Five Year Plan of the Maoists. As China implemented a Great Leap Forward the dragon within stirred in a way it hadn't in years.

Orson Randall awoke to a new nightmare.



The chi of Shao-Lao the Undying broke his slumber, he sensed a new dragon had been born.

But that shouldn't be possible unless...

The Heavenly Cities were once again realigning with the Earth for their Tournament.

But that would be none of Orson's concern, except...

This new Chinese leader, this Chairman Mao. He had been destroying Buddhist temples, and monuments of various faiths all across their lands, which they considered to include from the Pacific, across the Mekong to Tibet. The CCP had heard legend from monks who spoke of an Immortal Heavenly city which would breach this plane of reality periodically.

But he was just one man, and this was an army, and he'd seen such violence already.

But just as always the words and wisdom of Lei Kung the Thunderer and he new he couldn't turn his back on his people, the Heavenly Cities and their ways.

This is one man's path to inner and outer peace.

The Way of the Iron Fist.



Key Notes






References / Sample Post


In ①⑨⑥⑧ — a DC/Marvel Pitch → 5 yrs ago Forum: General Interest Checks
Very int. In this int check.

Check my high level Int.
In Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions → 6 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay



Some Years Ago...


The house is chaotic. Helen and Brian Connolly had brought their sons Dennis and Sean to her father's for Christmas and for once the big, empty house was abuzz with life.

"Dennis, get off your behind and help out!"

Or the Connolly family's approximation of it.

Dennis was laying back on the lounge listening to MP3s with headphones on. He rocked forward and pulled out his left plug.

"Where's Sean at? Why doesn't he have to help out?"

"I didn't ask Sean, I asked you. Now get up and set the table."

Dennis got to his feet and trudged into the kitchen to get the plates and cutlery, whilst his mother wrestled with the turkey.

Meanwhile, downstairs in the basement a grandfather and his grandson were in the midst of an historic transition. Fitting, with Christmas being a day for tradition in so many households.

Few like this family, though.

Sean stood silently and respectfully in a long, skin-tight blue, yellow and red outfit with a large gold eagle emblem emblazoned upon his chest whilst his grandfather approached holding an oak box, a little over a foot in length, horizontally in front of himself.

This was a day he'd waited quite some time for. He'd put so much work in, proving himself with years of hard work and an exemplary record of long standing good ethics. Today was the payoff. The perfect 40 yard spiral in the Championship game after months of throwing it through tyres. The beachtime bod after the thousands of situps. The graduation with honours after years of cramming and long nights spents putting in the work.

Goal, hard work, payoff.

His grandfather opened up the long box and removed the Golden Rod with the small eagle emblem which he'd long ago metalworked onto the base of the handle as a younger man. Once more feeling the weight of the powerful item in his wrinkled hands. He smiled, both out of memory for what the pair of them had been able to accomplish over the years, but also out of pride for his grandson.

He held the Golden Rod out and Sean took it in his grasp. He held it aloft and a bright golden light glowed from the end, growing brighter and seemingly sending all shadow in the basement scurrying away, helpless from the seemingly omnipresent source of light in their midst.

The pair's smiles grew wider as they watched as Sean gaped in wonder at the amazing light show the grandson was able to put on. Alan began to wonder if this display was even brighter than he was able to get the Rod to shine, even at his greatest peak...
"HA HA HA HA HA HAAA!"


Laughter echoed from the top of the stairs.

"Man, you look like a tapeworm in that getup. Spandex is NOT flattering, and you can see EVERYTHING..."

"Get out of here, Dennis!" Barked Sean.

"It's not Spandex. It's A-Q-Fiber. An engineered aramid fibre type which combines the external heat resistence of Nomex and the ballistic capabilities of kevlar." Alan corrected, scowling at the black sheep.

"...and the spandex properties which allows you to see the full outline of his meat and potatoes. Ha-Ha! You look skinnier than me in that! What was the point of all those pushups and weights in football just to get around looking scrawnier then I do?! HA HA HA!"

"I DO NOT look skinnier than you!" Sean barked back, pointing at Dennis with the Golden Rod in one hand and cupping his genitalia selfconsciously with the other.

"Sorry 'little bro'." Standing up from his hunched over position at the top of the staircase and spinning around showing off his own snow jacket. "It's why I wear this kind of stuff. Can't tell where the coat stops and the me starts. I could be anywhere in this. You'd never catch me wearing anything like that..."

"Well, Dennis... Nobody's asking you to." Alan spat back venomously. The words stopped the older grandson in his tracks and he turned and went back up the stairs and left the pair alone.

Alan adjusted the suit from where it had bunched up around Sean's shoulders.

Sean opened his mouth to say something to his grandfather, only gor the older man to cut him off.

"I know. I know. It's just a big moment for you and I won't have him--." The older man stopped and composed himself. "He'll get over it."



Later on the assembled family were all gathered around by the Christmas tree. Sean back in his LHU letterman jacket and Brian Connolly dressed in red, with a hat and fake beard years beyond the time everybody in attendance had ceased believing in Santa Claus, periodically firing off "Ho Ho Ho"s (perhaps more similar in delivery to Long John Silver than any traditional portrayal of Father Christmas, as Dennis had noted, to considerably more good humour and mirth than his appraisal of his brother's outfit) and distributing the presents from under the tree.

"Aaaaaand here's one for yooooou, Dennis! HO! HO! HOOOOOO!" His father said.

"Thanks, but now you're sounding more ghost than pirate or Santa... Ahhh you'll hit the right note eventually, Pops." He said, taking the large rectangular box covered in green and red Christmas wrapping.

He tore the paper clear and removed the lid, revealing an old surplus, fleece-lined aviator's flight jacket. It had a set of wings on the pocket, was two sizes two big, just like most of the clothes Dennis chose to wear.

"Awww thanks Ma, this is perfect!" He got up and gave his mother a hug.

"How'd you--? Alright... AND your father. It's a gift from the both of us."

"Sure, Ma." He said, in acquiescence.

The gift giving continued, Alan getting some jazz records from Dennis and some kind of modern newfangled coffee machine which wouldn't see out the year. Sean received a football jersey that had been taken around the lockerroom and signed by 50-odd players of some pro team or another, and socks from his grampa (because his 'real' present came before). Cufflinks which he'd seldom use for Brian, along with a flask which would see only a little more use. And Helen received a vast number of smaller gifts, which somewhat showed who tended to be responsible for collaborating and finding the 'big' gifts.

Christmas would go on a little longer before most of the family would pile into the Range Rover, and head on home. Leaving Alan Coghlan's home as painfully quiet as it had been since Margie's passing some years ago.

Alan made a token effort to tidy up, and then truly feeling the emptiness of the house, decided to go to bed and clean the house proper in the morning, when the absence of family would be less felt.



This Year...


Dennis pulled his fleece-lined aviator flight jacket tightly around him as he looked over Lost Haven from his chilly perch atop the Chambers Building. He'd spent much of the night ensuring that many of the city's homeless safely found their ways to the shelters which were more heavily funded and resourced this time of year. It was plenty cold and nobody should go without a good meal in them at this time of year.

Violent crime seemed to dry up somewhat immediately around Christmas, but that didn't leave him without people to help. Along with the homeless, self harm situations and suicides were generally high around this time of year. A time for family is often a bitter reminder for those who have lost theirs, or feel they have. As he pulled his jacket tight around himself, Dennis felt his own losses again. He sighed and saw his own breath in the cold air.

So much of this, being the Aquilifer, extends beyond just punching villains and stopping muggers. Grampa started this believing he could be an inspirational figure. A beacon of hope for people, to strive for more. To believe in betterness, both in themselves and the world around them. A sense of renewed hope. And sometimes it was difficult to figure out just how to be that. It took a sort of lateral thinking beyond the normal, the sense to find new ways to use almost inconceivable power and project it with that sense of purpose.

It seldom came naturally.

He looked out over the city. He'd filled the shelters and soup kitchens. No muggers out and about. No world destroying villains. No bankrobbers. Maybe he could call it an early night... or maybe even go down and give some local tourists a thrill. He looked straight down the building at the people directly below and saw the lights.

The Chambers Building had a series of green and red lights all up the side of it, on all four sides. Shaped in the form of great big Christmas trees on every point of the compass, overlooking all the burroughs of Lost Haven. It was another nice little thing the city would do this time of year. He looked up at the telecommunications antenna and smiled.



On the city's streets below, Maria Rodriguez tried to assemble her three kids for a photo in front of the Christmas tree in Sherman Square with the iconic Chambers building in the background. She'd repeatedly try setting her phone's camera down on a solid surface and scurry over to try and wrangle the children with varying degrees of futility.

"You kids! We're never going to get this shot for your Abuela! Now this time, come in and behave!"

She went back to the phone and was disappointed with the results again. A fair-faced young woman was walking past and saw the woman struggling. She reached out for the phone and offered to help.

"Salud! Gracias, oh thank you, Senorita! Thank you so much. Can you get the tree and the Chay-mbers in the background too, please, Miss?"

Maria got back in line with her kids. The young lady had a look at the phone in her hands. It was a good modern smartphone. Unlocked. Possibly even had internet banking attached... Almost certainly had personal details that would have been valuable for--

"Thank you again, Senorita! Now, you kids, don't you waste too much of this nice young lady's time!"

The young woman stopped and smiled, she framed the family up in the photo with the building and tree in the background just as she'd asked, watching the family closely to make sure none of the kids squirmed or pulled untimely faces. She took three shots, just to be safe so that the hurried mother could pick her favourite to send, and then held the phone out for Maria to come and take it.

Maria rushed over and took her phone back to look at the photos and thanked her again, checking the kids were all behaving. The younger woman said "That's more than fine." and turned to leave, before she heard Mrs Rodriguez' exclaimation.

"¡Mis cielos! ¡Un ángel!"

She turned curiously, to see what the older woman was talking about. Then realized it wasn't just in the photo.

There was murmuring all around, and she turned to see what was receiving all of this talk of the divine and saw it almost instantly.

There was a star atop the Chambers Building Christmas tree.

She squinted to penetrate the bright light and recognized it immediately. The same angel who saved her life the day the Hounds came for her. They had killed one sister and the other had selfishly fled without any regard.

He'd saved her and set her down safely without a scratch, whilst he soared over the city luring the killers away.

The whole city was seeing the same angel she'd seen on that day. A tear fell on her cheek.

Far atop the city, Dennis balanced atop the telecommunications antenna, setting the Golden Rod to shine just as bright as he could get it to go and laughing joyfully, his flight jacket flapping wildly in the winter night.

But Dennis didn't feel cold at all. Not this night.
In Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions → 6 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay



'Twas the night before Christmas, when through yon meth-house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
Apparatus were strewn around, shattered without care,
And the chefs and muscle-for-hire were equally impaired;
Bones fractured, men broken, all unconscious as if snug in their beds;
And doubtless concussions from the bell-ringing delivered to heads;

Whilst up on the roof, wrestling with his grappling gun and poor aim,
Stood a familiar Vigilante, more satisfaction than shame,
The grapple hook missed its target, he curses, as the hook gives its clatter,
With nary a thought for the preceding violent splatter.
The hook breaks through a window with an audible SMASH!
And sighing, he takes it, swinging on the line in a flash,

The moon catches his teeth as he flashes a grin,
Another night's toil; he laid waste to sin,
The scar tissue on his knuckles throbs without feeling,
A meagre comparison to the drug den of felons left reeling,
He swings down to a car; awaiting without plates,
Looks like any other, further attention; it seldom rates,

More rapid than an eagle his car swoops round a corner,
Frustrated and with lane changes, he lays off the horn, a
"Now, You bucket of bolts! You clunker! You lemon!
Let's hightail it out of here! The gas has been stepped-on!"
Came out of his voice with a mechanical twang,
Designed to mask any and all familiar pangs,

He downshifts, now comfortable that he'd put in enough space,
And that 'Cooktown's Finest' had not given chase,
He would park once again and seek the high ground,
Patroling his city for any crime to be found.
Later, another twinkling, can be heard on a roof
The grapple hook followed, by thick-booted hoof.

Once more he aims grapple-gun high, it strikes a skyscraper's gilding,
With a smirk, he hits auto-recoil, and flies up the tall building,
He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all matted with blood, dirt and soot;
A bundle of 'toys' he had flung on his back,
But t'were tools of violence, resting within his pack.

His flashbangs would twinkle! Nightsticks, how merry!
When brought down with a CRUNCH, they'd leave quite a cherry!
His droll little mouth was light up with a leer,
Catching the moonlight when his violence brought cheer;
It would contrast so richly with his balaklava's dark pitch,
He'd attack from the shadows, knock em flat out, but for a twitch.

His head on a swivel, from his perch he surveyed the dark night,
For the other types of malevolence that would feed upon fright,
A mugger, a rapist, or signs of drive-by;
What other's would seek to avoid, he instead hoped to spy.
A flash of his grin and a twist of his head
Gave proof to the fact he saw something we'd dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And checked his pack's presence; then turned with a jerk,
And grasping his line he descended to a more suitable perch,
His eyes flashed to once again find the target of his previous search;
A well practised descent, he dropped; soft, silent as a cloud,
Darkness fell upon muggers like a pitch black shroud.

A mechanical growl, and before they could flee--
“Ho Ho Ho! Forget 'All'. Merry Christmas to Me!”
In Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions → 6 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
SO I'm working on porting The Ambassador over here, @nitemare shape @Hound55 @Dedonus just a smol suggestion for maybe adding a section to the character sheets. A bullet point form for RP hooks - where the player can write in bullet form ideas/instances/scenarios where other characters will have an easier time connecting or interacting with the character for good ooc info. Like a quick access info area. It's not heavy on details, and if someone wants to get more details they can, of course, read the rest of the sheet. But ye! Just a suggestion.


I was actually going to do something similar to this and was then struck by a mix of laziness, forgetfulness and distraction...
In Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot → 6 yrs ago Forum: Nation Roleplay

T H E C O N S T R U C T I O N O F T H E
C O M M O N W E A L T H O F A U S T R A L A S I A


Princes Park, Victoria - 1955


Bob Menzies listened on as George Harris and Howard Houston prattled on about this and that. Usually he’d be well entwined with their conversation, however on this occasion his thoughts were otherwise occupied, rendering him as little more than a mere token presence – as undoubtedly his good man Harold would be losing his positive temperament being left to the harsh elements on such a day, abandoned at a losing football match he’d been dragged out to. Menzies swirled his Southerly Buster in his left hand and tried to pick up the conversation once more, dropping ash off his cigar with a quick tap of his right hand’s ring finger. It would do him no good being ostracized by these men. George Harris was a driven, willful man, it saw him out of Changi during the war, and Bob had little doubt he’d one day be the Club President of this fine football club.



“So did you hear about Ongarello, Bob?” Harris asked, forcing the Prime Minister to break his current silence.

“Fitzroy’s wog full forward fellow? More shanks than Australian Lamb. Sure, we saw them off just the other week, a fortnight ago, right?” Referring to their last home victory, and their player's general reputation for inaccuracy.

Howard had a knowing chuckle seeing where this conversation was going. “Yes, I heard about a few of his goals from last week.”

Harris continued, “Yes. Scored two goals off of placekicks against Geelong down at Brunswick last week.”

“Placekicks?” Menzies queried.

The other pair nodded and chuckled knowingly, waiting to see the response of the elder statesman’s bluster. “Placekicks. Imagine expecting the whole world to wait on you.”

The other pair laughed, as Bob raised his bushy eyebrows, and lowered his glass after draining its contents. He was about to leave when Harris hooked his elbow and asked him with a hushed whisper. “And as for the other thing..?”

Bob drew back and straightened his suit, a smile broadly crossing his face. “Suffice to say, I believe we shall have some ‘Gold’ standard views coming up in our near future.”

This pleased the other men greatly, who shared a knowing nod. "Splendid!"

“In fact if we play our cards right I wouldn't be surprised if we may even be sitting in our own named sections on the outer in a few years. But what could a humble Prime Minister say, to a future President..?”

The men laughed and finished their drinks, watching the politician leave to return to his seat for the second half.

Howard turned to George and got straight to the point, now that Menzies was out of earshot.

“Do you think he’ll do it? Really? Bring the Olympic Games here to Princes Park?”

“I know there’s few things, if any, that man cares more about than our Carlton Football club. As for whether he could actually do it? Who knows? But he’s put his name to it. Carlton will have his guts for garters if he doesn’t pull through. Sounds pretty good though, doesn’t it? 'The George Harris Stand'...”

* * * * *


Bob ambled back to his seat. Carlton down two goals at the half to the auld enemy Collingwood Magpies, courtesy of some free kicks the Princes Park faithful had deemed to be highly dubious. The weather still wet and blustery, the middle of the park churned into it’s trademark gluestick from the state of the first half’s play.

He saw his compatriot Harold Holt still sitting next to his empty seat up in the grandstand, looking about as miserable as the weather. Menzies was in no rush to meet him, he carefully carried back a drink for the other man. He’d abandoned him in this monsoon, to go and check in on his own quagmire with the ‘Members’. Still, the look on his chosen number two’s face wouldn’t do at all. Might give others the wrong idea.

“Scrub the dour look, Harold. You’re amongst your constituents here.” Bob announced, sliding between legs to return to his seat whilst carefully holding out the drink as if it contained the elixir of life.

Harold Holt looked up with a start, at the return of the Prime Minister before looking around himself at his immediate surroundings. He’d recently transferred to the safe new Liberal seat of Higgins from Fawkner, which put him a few suburbs over from Princes Park. This put a furrow across the younger man’s brow.

“My constituents, Bob? A little off there with your geography, aren’t you?” He reached out, taking the drink.

“Higgins, my lad. Henry Bourne Higgins himself, that your seat was named after, was this club’s very President back in nineteen-oh-four.”

"Well, given the circumstances I hope I can count on his vote. Since I'm more likely to get sick sitting around in this bloody torrential downpour, than if I went 'round the traps kissing every baby with cholera."

Menzies laughed and let the younger man have his gripe. Harold looked at the elder statesman and tried to discern if his warmth of his laugh was genuine, or if it were at his expense for having the sway to drag him out here in the first place. Harold decided it wasn't worth the time or effort to think about, and diverted the conversation to what was really bothering him.

"So are we going to get down to brass tacks as to why you brought me out to this deluge, or do I have to be completely saturated to the bone first?"

"Why Harold, I thought you loved a good swim." Menzies replied with a wry grin. "But if you're that bothered by it, I brought you down here to discuss your taking point on a major upcoming development project." He stuffed a fresh cigar in his mouth.

Harold now had an idea where this was going, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Robert Menzies had this habit of revealing just enough to his ministers that they could figure out where he was going before he actually said it. He found it empowered them and made them feel steps ahead, and up on things. A position Menzies liked, particularly with this young up-and-comer Holt.

Menzies pulled his cigar out between fingers. "The Snowy River Hydroelectric Scheme." He clipped his cigar and lit it, watching the game whilst waiting for the younger man's response.

"The Snowy? But I thought you railed against that when Chifley was pushing for it?"

Menzies rolled his eyes at the the younger minister being so slow on the uptake. "If the Labor Party only ever had stupid ideas it wouldn't be an achievement to get elected, now would it Harold?"

Holt's response had been a sullen jab brought on more from the discomfort than any real news, though, and both men knew it. In reality much of the work had been taking place for some years now, it was a popular policy point electing many and bringing a boosted sense of public confidence for the major engineering feat, even beyond the improvements to electricity and irrigation infrastructure and the widescale employment boons. A poke in the eye before the thankful acceptance and consideration.

"Well of course I'll take it on, although I am curious why this would fall to me. It wouldn't have anything to do with my family's South Australian ties to smooth over their concerns for how it'll affect their water flow downstream, now, would it?"

Menzies and the crowd jumped to their feet with a chorus of "BALL!" as one of the Collingwood Magpies players was tackled from behind and dragged into the growing mudpatch out in the middle.

Harold wondered if the Prime Minister had heard him, but soon found his answer as the older man replied. "Please Harold, these shots really are tiresome. I thought I was speaking to my Minister, not the media. Are you, or are you not, presently the Minister for Labour and National Service and the Minister for Immigration?"

"Well, yes."

"That's why you got the tap, old son. That coathanger they built up in Sydney Harbour has nothing on this in terms of feats of engineering prowess. You're perfectly placed for it. Whoever I put on it from cabinet would have had to work with you both because of your Labour and Immigration portfolios, we're going to have to bring in some top flight engineers. We've already worked with the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation to organize training, tech assistance and, in all honesty, we'll probably get the odd engineer from there over here on it. We've pulled this guy William Hudson over from across the Tasman to head the scheme. A lot of the real groundwork has already been done, and frankly, it's solid. I'm handballing you a sweetheart assignment that's primed to make you look good whilst you're still holding those portfolios. The correct response is 'Thank you, Bob. I won't let you down, mate.'"

Menzies took a deep draw on his cigar and went back to his intense focus on the game taking place before them. The margin rapidly expanding against Carlton's favour as poor goalkicking kept costing the Blues, whilst the Magpies remained accurate with their opportunities. Harold thought about what the older man was saying, Menzies had, after all, been a leading figure since both men's days in the Young Nationalists.

"Fair enough. You're right. Thank you, Bob. I won't let you down, mate." Holt breached the gap.

"You're welcome." Menzies didn't take his eyes off the game.

"Bob, what did you mean when you said 'whilst you've still got those portfolios'?"

Menzies sighed deeply, as if every distraction from the game to explain the seemingly obvious caused him great pain. "I thought that much was already clear."

"No. It isn't." Holt pushed for further elucidation.

Another sigh grumbled from well within Menzies' core. "Very well. You're getting given a sweetheart deal, a big public positive assignment because you're, in all likelihood, getting tapped to the Treasurer's seat. And I want you to have a major success under your belt before I send you there."

"The Treasurer's seat? What do I know about economics?"

Menzies screwed up his face as if he was offended with the stupidity he was having to deal with. "The Treasurer's seat is not about economics!"

"Isn't it?"

"No. No, it's not. Bruce, Lyons, Chifley, Fadden, myself... It's a stepping stone that says one is ready for the responsibility of the big chair."

"But what about the portfolio itself?"

"You've got bloody civil servants for that. A staff. Did you think everything I was coming up with from the Treasurer's seat was bestowed upon me from the Lord Almighty on gold tablets or something?"

"I suppose not." Harold said to himself. Thinking things through. Could this really be true? Could he really be that close to 'The big chair'? "Thanks for that as well, I suppose."

"Oh, there is one other thing though." Menzies said, not taking his eyes off of the game. Seemingly throwing it away as an afterthought. "There's this thing I'm going to need help with. The work's already done, though. Just need separation. I'm going to need you to pick up this '56 Olympic Games temporary ministerial assignment as well. Another sweetheart deal. Can hardly screw up something as popular as selling sport to Australians either, eh? We attach your name to a big part of the Snowy and to the Olympics, that'd go a long way on the resume. Should lead to a relatively seamless transition once I'm ready to take the big step down."

"Wow, the Olympics?" That caught Holt's attention instantly.

"Thanks, Bob--" Menzies led Holt along.

"Thanks, Bob. I won't let you down, mate."

Blues full forward Noel 'Nobby' O'Brien got out to a great lead and took a rock solid chest mark forty five metres from goal. He walked back to line up for goal and pulled his socks up and plucked some grass to test the wind.

Harold rocked forward. "You know what, you've certainly given me plenty to think about, Bob." He got to his feet. "I might get on my way and tell Zara the big news. Looks like I'll be pulling some extra hours and long nights for a while."

Menzies wasn't paying any attention anymore though, everything of importance had been addressed. There was only the Carlton Blues, the Princes Park buzz and Robert Menzies. "Hmm? Yeah sure. You go. Go." He absently waved the younger man away.

O'Brien began his run up and pumped a drop punt from fifty metres out over the man standing the mark. The Carlton crowd rose from a buzz to raucous cheering as the ball sailed true for a goal.

Menzies clapped from his so-far unnamed seat in the grandstand, and spoke to nobody remembirng the conversation he'd had with Harris and Houston earlier.

"Placekicks. Huh... Imagine expecting the whole world to stop and wait on you."
© 2007-2026
BBCode Cheatsheet