For Wes Anderson, if he's interested. Part 1.

Opening shot: we follow the top of a large, cream coloured akubra hat as it slowly and deliberately makes its way towards a set of ornate double doors. Upon reaching the doors the hat pauses. It's¹ slow, rocking movement seems strangely evocative of its encasing a head chewing tobacco. Or hay.... or, I don't know, whatever country folks like to chew on these days.... possibly their own tongues or something.

Without warning a pair of grizzled, wiry old arms fly into the doors like two North Queensland crocodiles taking prey and, with a deft synchronous flick of each wrist impel the doors to fly open.

While we can almost feel the oppressively humid North Queensland heat now pouring in from outside, more oppressive still is the ominous ranks of reporters, cameras and microphones that greet our hat on the now-exposed² doorstep. There is a brief moments pause as though, caught in their own private conversations, these ranks of slick, southern filth have been caught by surprise at the unexpected emergence of their prey. It doesn't last.

A veritable chattering cacophony, (surely enough to kill a lesser hat) now assaults our senses as surely as it assaults the hat. "Mr Katter, blah, blah, blah Latte-sipping-elitist loaded question!?"

As the camera swivels around and pans out we make out first the purposeful, grizzled face beneath the hat, which begins nodding up and down, laughing. Our figure's right arm is motioning the crowd be quiet, which obeys as surely as has many a wayward steer before it.

Katter: One at a toime.... please!

Faceless reporter: Mr Katter, why did you not meet with Garnaut and Stern today?

Katter's face³ stares impassively back but his chewing slows, offering us the only clue that this question may have caught him off-guard. His eyes dart briefly towards his watch, then back at the offending reporter. His face contorts first into a wince, then a scowl as his arm makes to swat the question away as surely as it has swatted many a North Queensland fly before it.

Katter: Ah, they're lightweights. Stupid. Wrong. I mean, you know, they don't even seem to realise the unassailable scientific fact about a major problem coming out of our oceans.

Reporter: ........ acidity?

Katter: Fruit-bat-ZILLA! I mean, you all come here from down South.... You people have been slitting our throats for years, when all the time we've been living under the shadow of that monster. And he'll come for you, too, after he's done with us, but none of you even listen or care! And then you go and rape and kill our livestock, destroy all our industry and force homosexuality on us.

Reporters: .................?

Katter: Look, I've answered your questions, I'm gonna go have a beer now.

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SCENE 2.

Bob is reclining at his desk drinking a beer, his muddy, booted feet sharing his desk-top with a WWII vintage Enfield rifle. He reaches slowly down to his desk draw and opens it to reveal a single object. It is a banana with a note tied to it with thick, coarse string and the unmistakable stamp of the Phillipines on it.  Zoom in on the note, which says:

How you lik them banans? Ha Ha Ha Gayfaglol!

Focus now on Katter's face, whose eyes cagily dart around the room then lock upon the ashtray at on a far-off bench. The cigar in it is still fresh.

He snatches up his rifle and darts around the room opening cupboards and upturning objects, face contorted with rage and pointing the rifle accusingly into each empty space he finds. His eyes now dart towards the bathroom door. Forcing his way in, we now see two tell-tale signs: the toilet seat is down, and the window is open. Outside we see a diminutive figure in a grey pyjama suit just disappearing into the distant banana trees as Katter takes more pot shots at it than we would have thought the rifle capable of without reloading.

Gayfaglol!!!!! we hear it cry defiantly in the distance.

Focus on Katter's enraged face, end scene.

¹Apostrophe crime!

²Do you like that hyphen, Dave.... do you like it, buddy?

³ A heavily made-up Bill Murray? Jacko? Owen Wilson, even (Royal-Tenenbaums type role, sort of)?