Bad smells seemingly never go away, and thus Kev ‘The Rat’ Rudd and his ever-loving spouse – who wouldn’t love a bloke who gave you the inside run on a business that would make you a $100 million? –  and his thwarted ambition and lightly dented ego deign to return to the mud-stained river city’s fair shores, no doubt with the intent to condemn us all to eternal suffering as The Rat strides up on the next step of the ladder two rungs from where he stood, in his own mind at least, just a few weeks ago.

His dream of world domination detonated, and his delusive desires doused – until dinner time anyway – the Rasputin-like retard and T-Rein are back and living high above the waterway once coursed by Oxley, Petrie and a couple of hundred thousand indigenous paddle-wielders who don’t have prisons, police barracks, bights or poor as buggery far-flung housing commission suburbs bearing their name. And it’s Vegasoids who all of a sudden have probable cause to fear the bigger than a Biggera Waters bride’s bouffant-sized unquenchable ambition of the idiot, and wonder where it all will lead.

There are only 2 possibilities really. The first is a leather chair in the House of Broken Dreams alongside such interconnected luminaries as Del, the Beefcake, an ambulance driver and a childcare boss or two, Trad the Terrible, the Swinging Dick, Daft, Peanuts – the man who loves Logan but refuses to live in the slum, and how’s your missing in action ministerial ambitions going son – and of course the accidental and totally incidental Premier and silverware seller Assetstacia Pannacotta herself.

No doubt the sycophantic Chris-Mitchell kiss-the-big-banana’s-ass-and-then-lick-it-dry lickspittle literary descendants of the mainstream media will at some stage salivate on the front page about the prospect of The Rat mounting the State stage, but take the tip from old Archie here and now, it ain’t gunna happen, cos Kev would have to kiss up to more than a few folk he’s pissed on in the past to get a pre-selection, jump over all the above-mentioned ambitious Peter Beattie acolytes, and after that that actually work in a team, which is a step totally too far for the noxious weed of a narcissist from whichever angle you choose to look at it.

Which leaves just one option open, Plan B as in Brisbane. The prime seat in the principality, perched upon the highest mountain in the cane-cutter’s capital, with a view all the way from Cootha to the coast.

The mayoralty.

The venal Rat wants to rule Vegas.

And with a hundred million bucks in the bank and a whole lotta hubris in his hand-basket, who’s gunna stop him?

God save us bloody all.