The secret diary of . . . Kim Dotcom
So there I was, minding my own business, putting together a peace plan for the Middle East, when a fly landed on my desk.
I didn't give it any thought at first. Flies have landed on the desks of great men since time began. And so I returned to the task at hand, which was to develop a cure for cancer.
But just as I was about to invent a robot that could drink water, the fly crawled across the keyboard of my laptop.
I waved a hand at it. It flew off. I congratulated myself on my mastery of the situation, and reached for the phone to call my press agent, when the fly landed on my screen.
I waved a hand at it. It flew off. It landed on my teacup.
I waved a hand at it. It flew off. It landed on my head.
I waved a hand at it. I slapped myself in the face and dropped my phone in the teacup. Enraged, I swung wildly at the fly, but knocked over the cup, and it spilled tea on to the
keyboard. The fly landed on the window. I smashed it with the laptop. The glass broke, and so did the laptop.
The fly landed on the ceiling.
I looked at it.
It looked at me.
I knew in that instant what I was dealing with.
A spy fly.
"OK," I said out loud, "spy on this!"
I took off my clothes, and pointed my bum at the ceiling.
I heard the fly make an alarmed buzzing sound, and it flew out the window at an amazing speed.
Spent all day preparing for tomorrow's appointment at parliament, when I will appear at the intelligence and security committee - chaired by my old friend John Key.
Yes, we go back, Mr Key and I.
Or should I say, Herr Key and I?
Johann. Hans, to his friends.
"Hans," I used to tell him, "we can't go on like this. I have a brilliant mind and you're good with sums, but terrorism won't make us rich."
He'd say, "I'll never leave the Baader Meinhoff Group, although it's true it doesn't pay well."
But we both left, and went our separate ways.
He's done a good job of covering his tracks - apart from the fact he's never really made much of an effort to learn English.
Yesterday's preparation really paid off as I sat down to face the intelligence and security committee.
I'd given a lot of thought about what I should wear. I tried on everything in my wardrobe until I chose black shoes, black pants, a black top and a black scarf.
It was only on the helicopter ride to Wellington that I remembered I also had to give a speech, but I phoned the press agent and he bashed something out.
I looked good on the television news.
I needed a break from intelligence, so I invited a lot of Auckland actors over for afternoon tea. It was all a bit late notice and I was worried there weren't enough photographers to go around.
A text arrived from a private number. It gave directions to a hut concealed on the edge of a nearby swamp, and instructed, "4am. Bring salami and bratwurst."
I found the place. A dim light was showing under the door. I walked in. There was a table and two wooden boxes. Hans passed me a bowl of cabbage soup.
We ate in silence. It felt good to be able to relax in each other's company. We've taken different paths but both of us, in our own way, remain committed to the social revolution.
We lit up a couple of Davidoffs, the Swiss cigarette, and drank plum-flavoured schnapps. He always was a generous host.
I looked at my watch. It was nearly dawn. We packed the things away, and stood at the door. He handed me something in his closed fist. It was a fly.
I went to shake his hand, but he stepped back with a smirk on his face. "Plenty more," he said, "where they came from."
Steve Braunias is a staff writer at Metro magazine
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