The secret diary of . . . Kim Dotcom

Someone is stealing my diary! It was leaked to the Sunday StarTimes yesterday. ‘‘It won’t happen again, boss,’’ said my head of security, Wayne Tempero.

The diary contained all my deepest thoughts. Both of them were laid out in public – in a clear infringement of my copyright.

I can easily guess who’s behind it. Key. Key, with his fishy little face. Key, with his hairy little paws. Key, half-fish, half-dog.

There is growing evidence that he is, in fact, a shapeshifting reptilian alien ushering humanity towards enslavement.

I phoned Green Party co-leader Russel Norman and asked if he could look into it. He said, ‘‘This raises very serious issues. I’ll be right over.’’

There was a knock on the door before I put the phone down. It was Norman. Norman left after breakfast. I was painting the upstairs panic room in the afternoon when I heard a knock on the door.

I called out, ‘‘Wayne, can you get that?’’

He called back, ‘‘I’m on my break.’’

You just can’t get good heads of security these days!

I went down the stairs and opened the door. It was New Zealand First leader Winston Peters. He said, ‘‘My car broke down, and I was wondering if I could use your phone.’’ Peters left after lunch. Almost as soon as he’d gone, there was a knock

They want to destroy me. They are doing it through Obama, and his demented glove-puppet, Key.

on the door. It’s never boring at Dotcom Mansion!

But it was United First leader Peter Dunne.

I said I was busy. He said he just wanted some company. I called out, ‘‘Wayne, can you come here, please?’’

But there was no reply.

There was a knock on the door late tonight.

I opened it, and said, ‘‘Well, well.’’

‘‘It’s good to see you again, Kim,’’ he said. ‘‘You’d better come in,’’ I said. We sat down in front of the fire with brandy and cigars. We stared into the flames. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s OK,’’ I said. We were like two old warriors who had fought epic battles long, long ago, on a foreign field littered with the bones of those who had died glorious deaths.

He said, ‘‘That’d make a wonderful film.’’

I said, ‘‘Hollywood would never make it. They want to destroy me. They are doing it through Obama, and his demented glove-puppet, Key. Key, with his green little blood. Key, with his red little hat. Key, half shapeshifting reptilian alien, half garden gnome. Do you know him?’’

‘‘No,’’ he said. Dunne is still here, and so is Banks.

Norman came by in the morning, and Peters visited in the afternoon. Mana Party leader Hone Harawira knocked on the door and asked for directions – he said he was trying to find Parliament. ACT Party leader Jamie Whyte knocked on the door and said he was looking for any kind of political direction. Maori Party coleader Pita Sharples knocked on the door and said he was lost but didn’t want to be found.

Just when things couldn’t get any crazier, the toilets overflowed, and we traced the problem to a sewer pipe which had burst because Cameron Slater of Whaleoil had got stuck in it.

We tried hosing him down but the filth just stuck to him. In the end he had to phone a friend to come and get him, and take him away. A car pulled up in the driveway. I thought I recognised the driver. He had piggy little eyes, and sharp little horns growing out of the top of his head. He was halfMuldoon, half-Obama. I looked at his license plate. It read 333 – half the number of half the beast.

The odd couple finally left. ‘‘Well,’’ I said to the guests, ‘‘things can’t get any crazier than that!’’

Just then there was a knock on the door.

It was Conservative Party leader Colin Craig.