The despair Of The British nation.

Saturday, 16 April 2011

At Last.................

He's Entered!


After the nightmare pretence of a "cheap" package hol, Pseudo returned to a hell he had never imagined. His postured lead on The Mad Colonel had seen him humiliated by the Tent Dweller, big time. He mused that the man's cunning and success might well be nurtured by the that nemesis of all that was good in the World, Phony Tone, billionaire from Hades!
That once no go area, that forbidding, dark and seedy refuge of mad Snotty now beckoned with a cruel darkness he craved, as avidly as his predecessor, to slink into. He hurried, indeed scampered down to the bowels of the building, ignoring the fragrant Sam's "NO, no, no no.....!!!!" He was oblivious to the chill pervading his silk shorts and top, a present from Toppo Phillip. It was the sudden collapse of the dreamed for life's ambition and the stifled scream that drove him into the darkened room. The heavy door groaned as he hurled himself impatiently at the century old metal gas proof door. A structure still stained with the nappy residue from the cuckoo incumbent of that fading edifice that was now Downing Street. A poor substitute for the Nazi statute driven buildings planned for Brussels, in true Hitler style.
As he staggered into the room the chill now overwhelmed him. Not with physical cold but the realisation that after a lifetime of dreaming of becoming a Prime Minister colossus bestriding the Globe he was proving to be as pathetically useless as the cretin before him.
The mild hint of something less than pleasant entered his nostrils. The 24/7 dim, naked bulb shone its ancient glow and the shadows began to emerge as recognisable objects. A tired and worn sofa was discernible against the far wall. As he rushed to throw himself onto this dusty relic, he fell mightily over the unseen Dobbin and crashed sobbing and whimpering to the floor. A dreadful, low, almost menacing voice fell on his ears. "I guessed the time was nigh" it spoke as Pseudo drifted into a concussed unconsciousness from his fall to the ground.
"We'd better leave him for now," hissed the cloaked figure to his Mad Comic companion, whose grin was straight from the sands of his Libyan employer. "Yup", spoke the latter, "Arms to sell, banks to nurture, money to be made". They quietly closed the gas proof door. "We can pop in most weeks from now on", hissed the unpleasant reptile.


3 comments:

Goodnight Vienna said...

I was laughing like mad and then I clicked your link! Many thanks, OR - it's a disgrace that they're trying to resurrect this old Nazi law. It's such an insult to the Dutch people.

Mr. Mcgranor said...

Interesting prose that you have here.

Caratacus said...

"We can pop in most weeks from now on", hissed the unpleasant reptile...

Pausing to wipe the sulphurous saliva from his scaled lips, Lady Mandelbum swept his malodorous cloak of imperfectly cured human skin about his thin, bony shoulders. He paused, laid a veined claw on the arm of his unnatural companion and murmured in passing, “Anthony... I trust we may rely on your future ... co-operation .. in this matter?”
The figure stilled in the dank still air. “Peter? Are you threatening me?”. A silken and mirthless chuckle whispered into the stifling gloom. “My dear fellow, I would never presume to do so. However, in the unlikely ... the extremely unlikely ... event of certain photographs of your good self and the incumbent of Room 3 in MI6’s Scottish place ever reaching the public domain, it is my fervent wish that you would not seek to place the blame upon me – your faithful servant. And lifelong companion.”

Anthony beat absently at the flames which had begun to lick from his underpants – they had been doing this for so long now that he virtually accepted their ongoing presence. Peter was becoming more and more of a threat. A call to that London telephone number may be a trifle overdue. As Peter intercepted this thought, he smiled sadly. It was time, he thought ... time for that tragic plane-crash...