(Reuters)
THE FIFTH COLUMN
Shelley Garland was having lunch with … well, no, let’s not mention any names. Let’s not, in fact, have any names — except perhaps those that are obviously pseudonymous. A fake name is still a name, though, and the power of names is that they hang on to little spaces of meaning like islands in the stream, and may even snag some passing debris and thus add decoratively unto themselves.
Back to the narrative. Shelley Garland was having lunch with someone we will call Angie Megalopoepolos, a fervent mouthpiece of radical seizure, radical intervention and radical … everything, really.
“But, Angie,” said Shelley, “what makes the difference between a radical left movement and a fascist bully gang is that the fascists are funded by Finanzkapital in its subtle undercover war on industrial capital, which has bent too far in favour of the workers.”
Angie coughed out a cloud of café latte laced with brandy. “Urggghh,” she said. “The Guptas aren’t Finanzkapital. They make things … er, they put things together … Computers … a TV station and a newspaper … and …” Her words ran out.
Angie was clearly not up to this standard of debate. In fact, she looked a little under the weather, so to speak, though the weather on that particular day in central Johannesburg was in fact particularly fine, about 20°C of mid-afternoon warmth. Yes, it would vanish quickly after 4pm when the sun dipped behind the ashy, carbuncled skyscrapers, but for the moment it held firm.
“Still,” said Shelley, batting her not inconsiderable eyelashes at Angie Megalopoepolos, “you’ve got to see that trying to disrupt a journalists’ presentation and panel discussion about #GuptaLeaks has nothing to do with reclaiming the land, so you’re off-agenda. And, if you are funded by the Guptas, which you are, you’re a tool of Finanzkapital, and that makes you a fascist.”
“Oh,” groaned Angie, “for heaven’s sake, the oppressed can’t be fascist … Anyway, that argument was made to show the Effies were left, not right. It’s so easy to get confused, what with uniforms and things, branding, hats, accessories of different kinds …”
“Yes,” said Shelley dreamily, “I remember that gorgeous Juju Mao painting …”
Angie sat up suddenly. Mention of Juju Mao seemed to send a burst of acid reflux right through her hiatus hernia, up her throat and on to her brightly coloured lips: “Don’t mention that name to me! Do not speak it! Waiter, waiter, bring me a double brandy at once!”
The waitron did not seem to hear the desperate cries of the indeed desperate Angie Megalopoepolos, who staggered to her feet and nearly fell over as one of her high heels snagged the edge of a flagstone — for this fashionable café was a decorated in the nouveau brutalist style.
Shelley reached out to steady Angie, making comforting noises, but Angie … exploded.
Yes, Angie exploded. No other way to put it. Blood and guts everywhere.
Shelley Garland, being fictional, survived.