Midnight Blue

I see what clearly used to be a racecourse, lots of cottages, sports fields, playgrounds, even two whole golf courses! This must be the ruins of the town where the workers who built the lake lived before it got filled in! All of it shrouded in the remnants of the life that continues in Canberra: Zambrero wrappers, another cloud of what looks like jellyfish that I realise upon closer inspection are discarded togas, MORE FUCKING SCOOTERS, and a 2018 Dodge Challenger Demon with such a shithouse personalised number plate that I immediately ascertain it’s Kyrgios’s. Obviously Nick had a particularly big Thursday last night. There are discarded AFL jerseys stuck in broken cottage windows, vestiges of the fateful decision made by every rural or southern emigre who realised moving to Canberra meant swallowing their pride and converting to the NRL’s mighty Milk. There are also, weirdly, hundreds of gavels. I guess the High Court has a one time use policy. I observe a tractor draped in saints and sinners type costumes. As a crucifix floats past I ponder whether the water has put more holes in the outfit I see waving in the water, or if it just belonged to a particularly slutty nun.

This bizarre intrusive thought makes me realise my oxygen is running low. I take one last dive down deep to see if I’ve missed anything, and boy have I! Rising up at me from the depths is something that looks like a large, grey, wooden, sort of upright canoe, with a head on top. As I get closer, I realise it’s an owl head.

At its base I see the outline of a plaque, and rubbing away the algae that’s accumulated I make out the wording:

I was once the Belco Pussy Owl, the equal and opposite to the dastardly penis owl of notoriety. In ages past we kept order in this

Capital realm, a yoni and a phallus, each balancing the other to ensure harmony and prosperity for all who inhabited our domain. But one day, penis owl, conspiring with the dark forces of misogyny, had me removed from my place of pride, my plinth at the intersection where Belconnen Way and Benjamin Way meet, and hidden here.

He has restyled himself the Big Powerful Owl. Pfft. We all know he’s a dick.

But despair not at this turn in my fortunes. For although dick owl thinks he has relegated me to watery history, my time in these liquid depths doesn’t diminish my majesty, only enhances it. For I am in the process of becoming that which no mere dick can defeat; not just a pussy, but an extremely wet pussy. Go from this place mortal, and prepare for my coming.

WAP OWL xoxo

I am dizzy and overwhelmed. Excited and disturbed. I turn to swim up and the next thing I know a kindly hobby fisherman is asking if I’m okay. Apparently I was knocked out by yet another thrown scooter. Luckily he happened to hook my cheek and reel me safely in, although he was disappointed I wasn’t the huge Murray Cod he’d been expecting. I feel a strange sense of kinship with this man who has also failed to find the beast he was looking for. Unfortunately, what comes out of my mouth upon regaining consciousness is, “Have you ever heard of the WAP Owl?”, so they have decided to keep me in for concussion observation overnight.

Although I haven’t found the LBGM, I am pretty stoked with what I’ve found looking for it. Anyway, they do say never meet your heroes.