We open on Haul standing in front of a scrapyard fence with his fingers laced in the mesh as his eyes peer out from under his hood, surveying the bounty before him.
Haul: Tribalism is a strange thing. You can call it what you want: fandom, religion, patriotism, but it all boils down to tribes. What’s amusing is the lack of self-awareness in different sects of beliefs. For instance, an American looks at the cargo cults of World War II and laughs at the backwards primitives whom worship soldiers and beholden to them as gods. These tribal people don’t understand that the angels who fell from their skies with medicine and rations were mere mortals. They view them as saviors that will return one day and deliver them from poverty and evil spirits when they take them aboard their flying metal birds.
Haul’s fingers tighten around the mesh as he presses his face against it, letting his eyes and mouth fill a square each.
Haul: Civilization mocks them and calls them fools. Meanwhile America holds parades for dead men, spends centuries painting them as paragons of virtue, put their faces on currency, and even engrave some of them into the side of a bleedin’ mountain. They follow their laws and hold them sacred. They go to war and die in their names in hopes of preserving the America they once promised citizens. How are they any better than the people of the bush? How are they wiser or more advanced when they too erect monuments to mortal men?
Haul breathes in deep before pushing off of the fence and turning away from the scrapyard.
Haul: But you are not like America, are you Mr. Crawford? Yes, you dress as their diety Uncle Sam and adorn the fetish idol that is the American Flag, but it’s all in pretence because you’re a heretic aren’t you? A false prophet looking to cash in on sacrelige. You wish to become the god of the cargo cult of America. You want to adorn yourself with the free world’s ideals like a conquering warrior wears the face of their fallen foe into battle. You want to wave the flag the same perverted way a feral child proudly brandishes a tortured animals’ carcass at the end of a stick. Being an Aussie myself with no love for where I came from, nor appreciation for the shores I washed up on, I’m just as glib on the matter as you are. However, I do think you and I share the same vision of the one true god.
Haul looks around for a moment with his lips pursed in thought, before catching sight of an old burned out oil drum. He grabs it and jerks it off of the ground with a solid grunt, turns it to scoop it up in his arms, and then falls backwards with a release “Haul Away” into the fence mesh, causing it to give in under the cast iron drum’s weight. Haul gingerly steps through the downed mesh and makes a beeline for a nearby hubcap. Once reaching it, he picks it up, letting the sun’s reflection gleam into his eyes before he hoists it over his head triumphantly.
Haul: Glorious chrome! The color of deadly mercury and the make of modern coffins. We sweat it, we drive it, and in the end we rot inside it. This is what we worship, and this one metalic hue has done more for us than two primary colors and a baseline tint ever has for the U.S. You know that the American dream is propaganda, and that when you carry it’s banner into battle you’re just one lie waving another.
Haul carefully lowers the hubcap, but still holds it out far in front of him.
Haul: So come and meet me in the ring for our holy war over the one true blue god, Cal. Bring the star spangled corpse that you wish to exploit, and I’ll bury it six feet under with the sacred metal of engineering that two mechanically inclined individuals such as ourselves actually invest faith in. However, I’m not so sure it’ll do your political machine any good when I use it to gum of the works before you can even start your engine. Your campaign on America has ended before it’s even begun. Say g’day to the chrome crusade and bask in it’s glory.
Haul frisbees the hubcap and walks out of shot as the camera fades to black.