The Angry Exile: Fourteen thousand dollars?

The Hangman

Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame.
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air,
And built his frame in the courthouse square.
The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.
And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime
That the Hangman judged with the yellow twist
of knotted hemp in his busy fist.
And innocent though we were, with dread,
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead --
Till one cried: "Hangman, who is he
For whom you raised the gallows-tree?"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply:
"He who serves me best," said he,
"Shall earn the rope of the gallows-tree."
And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for another's grief
At the Hangman's hand was our relief
And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn
By tomorrow's sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his Hangman's cloak.
The next day's sun looked mildly down
On roof and street in our quiet town,
And stark and black in the morning air
Was the gallows-tree in the courthouse square.
And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike
And his air so knowing and business-like.
And we cried, "Hangman, have you not done
Yesterday, with the foreign one?"
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed,
"Oh, not for him was the gallows raised."
He laughed a laugh as he looked at us:
"Did you think I'd gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That's a thing I do
To stretch a rope when the rope is new."
Then one cried "Murder!" and one cried "Shame!"
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man's place. "Do you hold," said he,
"with him that was meant for the gallows-tree?"
And he laid his hand on that one's arm.
And we shrank back in quick alarm!
And we gave him way, and no one spoke
Out of fear of his Hangman's cloak.
That night we saw with dread surprise
The Hangman's scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute,
The gallows-tree had taken root;
Now as wide, or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up on the courthouse wall.
The third he took -- we had all heard tell --
Was a usurer, and an infidel.
"What," said the Hangman "have you to do
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?"
And we cried out, "Is this one he
Who has served you well and faithfully?"
The Hangman smiled: "It's a clever scheme
to try the strength of the gallows-beam."
The fourth man's dark, accusing song
Had scratched our comfort hard and long;
"And what concern," he gave us back.
"Have you for the doomed -- the doomed and Black?"
The fifth. The sixth. And we cried again,
"Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?"
"It's a trick," he said. "that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap springs slow."
And so we ceased, and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score.
And sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.
The wings of the scaffold opened wide
Till they covered the square from side to side;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast its shadow across the town.
Then through the town the Hangman came,
Through the empty streets, and called my name --
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall,
And thought, "There is no one left at all
For hanging, and so he calls to me
To help pull down the gallows-tree."
So I went out with right good hope
To the Hangman's tree and the Hangman's rope.
He smiled at me as I came down
To the courthouse square through the silent town.
And supple and stretched in his busy hand
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.
And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap,
And it sprang down with a ready snap --
And then with a smile of awful command
He laid his hand upon my hand.
"You tricked me. Hangman!," I shouted then,
"That your scaffold was built for other men...
And I no henchman of yours," I cried,
"You lied to me, Hangman. Foully lied!"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
"Lied to you? Tricked you?" he said. "Not I.
For I answered straight and I told you true --
The scaffold was raised for none but you.
For who has served me more faithfully
Then you with your coward's hope?" said he,
"And where are the others who might have stood
Side by your side in the common good?"
"Dead," I whispered. And amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me:
"First the foreigner, then the Jew...
I did no more than you let me do."
Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
None had stood so alone as I.
The Hangman noosed me, and no voice there
Cried "Stop!" for me in the empty square.

Maurice Ogden

Sunday 5 December 2010

Fourteen thousand dollars?

For some fucking plywood cutout policemen that are promptly stolen?

We'll call him Constable Cut-Out, a plywood policeman poised on the edge of the Monash Freeway near Doveton to scare the speed off passing motorists.

Cut-Out was one of nine flat-pack flatfoots commissioned by the Transport Accident Commission, at a cost of $13,500, to drive home the message that a police officer would be around every corner at Christmas time.

Not so much flat foots as flat everything.

Because of bad weather, only four were put out on the beat last week. Now, just three remain on active duty.

Less than a day after he was deployed, Cut-Out was, well, nicked - loaded into the back of someone's ute and driven off.

''I think they might have become collectors' items,'' said TAC spokeswoman Amanda Bavin ruefully.

Well, who could possibly have foreseen that happ...

It's not the first time policing has made it into the second dimension - it's been tried in Britain, the US, Ireland and Poland...

Ah, yes. And they had a few nicked as well if I recall.

... but it is a first for Victoria. And thefts were not unexpected.

But they went ahead and blew $13,500 on them anyway?

In fact, the wooden walloper was just the latest TAC asset relieved of duty in the dead of night. People used to steal the trailers that held the billboards, until alarms were installed. Then they'd steal the solar panels that power the lights. The signage operator, Media Banc is in the process of installing video cameras. Perhaps they will film themselves being stolen. ''But we're talking about it,'' says Mr Thompson, ''and for the $1500 the sign cost, a story in The Sunday Age is well worth the theft.''

No it fucking isn't. The Age will run the story every time there's a crash anyway, automatically giving you publicity and a platform in proportion to the need (you'll waste the opportunity by wittering on about speed limits as if that was all that mattered, but that's by the by). So the publicity gain is pretty minimal and may even be outweighed by the fact that everyone in Victoria now knows there are some cutouts out there instead of real cops. And what if it hadn't been half-inched? No story and worse, no extra traffic enforcement ability because, in case I need to remind you, it's just a fucking cutout. The worst and most inattentive driver in the state could go pirouetting right past the bloody thing and it wouldn't take any action because it's as wooden as Keanu Reeves in The Devil's Advocate. Maybe more so.

Still, at least once the bloody things have all been nicked or destroyed the police can get back to work and... oh, wait, no.