The Divine Diviner of Revenue Streams Nicola Willis
Wanders across the fiscal dustbowl of Los Zealandos.
The sun beats down harshly.
A solitary tumbleweed rolls listlessly past in the heat.
“I have a hunch there is potential for a tax reset
In these mean old badlands,” she mutters to herself.
She brings out her dowsing rods
To locate any nearby underground aquifers of liquidity
But they swing wildly in meaningless circles.
“Hmmm,” says Nicola. “It’s a regular drought in these parts.”
She strides into the Lonely Tumbleweed Salon.
“Is there any untaxed black market illegal gambling
being carried out on these premises?” demands Nicola.
“No Ma’am!” assures the shady barkeep,
“All these gennelmen just playing for matches.”
A surly cowhand raises a glass at Nicola with a smirk.
Undeterred, The Divine Diviner glares back then stomps out
And starts digging into the rock for a deep well.
A hundred yards distant lies a giant palmy oasis
Complete with glittering fountains of fresh cool water.
“Why don’t you just try over there at Wealth Tax Springs?,”
Asks a watching buzzard high up in a giant cactus.
“Just a mirage, there is nothing there,” trills Nicola with a fixed smile,
As her shovel gets further bent out of shape by the unforgiving rocks.
“This is hopeless,” she says to the patient buzzard.
“I can’t fix the budget with a few dry old tumbleweeds!”
Just then, over the dunes, staggers a weary old timer
With a thousand yard stare, bent over in the gritty wind.
He looks familiar but his threadbare suit is covered in dust.
“Turn out your pockets, pardner!” demands Nicola.
“You look like you might fill the fiscal gap.”
The old timer silently turns out his pockets
Which are completely empty apart from a creased business card.
Nicola leans down and picks it up off the desert sand.
Grant Robertson, Minister of Tumbleweeds.