A voice from the back says, what about an apology? Another long pause. DC says he accepts responsibility. Another voice: But an apology! I tell you what, DC offers, I responsogise. I hereby offer you all a heartfelt responsogy. Silence, apart from the shlink-shlank of the knife sharpener.
Another hour goes by. Caucus agrees to convene an independent inquiry into the election performance. David Shearer sparks up an incense stick and begins strumming on his beloved six-string the chords to Milli Vanilli's emotional 1989 classic Blame it on the Rain. David Parker waxes his skis. Time passes.
DC invites each caucus member in turn to speak frankly and share a favourite holiday memory. Several raise questions about campaign strategy, first principles, core values, perceptions of the leader. I hear you, says DC, nodding like a windsock, before chuckling: I said no leaking, but if anyone needs to go, now's the time. Several MPs, most of them called David, leave to go to the bathroom. Louisa Wall rolls a netball up an access ramp and watches it roll back down, time after time. Hours pass.
DC reads poetry, including the early stuff. Grant Robertson praises Brodie Retallick's work rate. Jacinda Ardern braids Chris Hipkins' hair. From the hallway outside comes a bubbling excitement. It's the press gallery mixing sleeping pills with their energy drinks.
David Shearer returns from the lavatory to announce he must depart for New York to support New Zealand's bid for a back seat on the Security Council. He says the UN is on the brink of crisis, riven with rage and despondency as the United States launches strikes in the Middle East. It sounds like paradise. He goes. David Parker waxes his skis. Annette King curls up in a corner, deleting several hundred emoji-filled text messages from her cousin Chris. Time passes. The lights have gone out. The clock has stopped ticking. No one seems to care. Tributaries of blood flow to the middle of the floor.
Hours pass. Suddenly, a knock on the door. Those not yet dead or asleep sit bolt upright. Shane Jones pushes a trolley loaded with kai moana and cases of champagne. On the labels: "Third Term Grand Cru, 48%" and "Don't get too cocky au vin!" Jones has the wrong caucus room. Oopsy, etcetera, he chortles, exiting at pace.
Hours pass. DC bursts into song, but his voice is gone. Clayton Cosgrove chews hungrily on the calf muscle of a deceased colleague. Savage and Kirk, hanging on the walls, roll their eyes. David Parker waxes his skis. Hours pass, or is it days?
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
Trevor Mallard looks up from feasting on a still-beating heart to make some arcane point about standing orders. Stuart Nash, dressed as a fireman, is lost in a copy of John Key: Portrait of a Prime Minister. David rises to his feet, waving his arms for balance, alive with passion. Or is it David or David or David, or what difference does it make really? The smell is unbearable. Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave. Several weeks go by. Summer, autumn, winter.
The door opens. I wondered when you'd be back, says DC. Let's finish this, he says, letting out a regal purr as David Shearer, returned from the UN, walks towards him, shoes squelching through inch-deep blood. Yes let's, says a voice. It seems to come from within Shearer's guitar case. The hinge creaks opens. Both men recoil. It is Helen. She fixes me with a stare. "You can put down that pen now," she says. "Let's move on."
