silencers sneeze into the howling wind. It’s half past curfew, the leopards are out and the evidence will soon be eaten.
Inside The Broth Hole: Therese sits, flanked by Bactrian’s bodyguards. The Prime Minister, dead – and from the look on his pale face, loving it – lies slumped over a red and white chequered tablecloth.
The door crashes open and Malmot, gasmasked and wrapped from neck to ankle in a long, grey trench coat, enters followed by yet more sinister entities. Leather gloved fingers grip pistols and semiautomatics. Respirator valves hiss and sigh. Another high, sneezing sound and Therese falls face down.
Operatives surround the Prime Minister's corpse. His pulse is checked but none found. They hood the head and drag his slumped form into an unmarked vehicle. Small packages are placed around the dining area, kerosene lamps unhooked and smashed. Flames lick across the wooden flooring. They make their exit.
A black limousine pulls up. Malmot gets in. The Broth Hole flashes white, its once-verticals bloating outward in an exhalation of shattered glass.
Jump Cut to Ceesal: David Ceesal. Pronounced “See-sawl”, if you're reading this in transcript. His dull eyes flick open into silent blackness. His first ever action was to hoof the midwife in the face. Coordination would never be his strongpoint.
Now in his late thirties, he’s pop-eyed, boss-eyed and thick; the kind of man who sits in darkened rooms, licking his own face. In the queue for human brains, he was conspicuous by his absence, lining up with the apes for prehensile toes instead. Rumour has it those decades of intermarriage left the Ceesals with an incomplete genetic code that could only be plugged with monkey DNA. I don’t claim to know but it seems feasible. That's hearsay, however. I never met the guy personally.
Viewed in profile – one eye at a time and with his tongue sheathed in his skull – he could almost be handsome. He has the sturdy physique of a rugby player; the operations to cure his scoliosis have left him straight-backed with a regal posture and the scar from the removal of his eleventh finger is virtually unnoticeable. He holds some political position but I can’t recall exactly what it is. I do know his deformities extend to his bladder, which is reputed to have a capacity of approximately fifteen litres. I also know he has a habit of waking up in cupboards.
I’m not sure why he sleeps in cupboards. There’ll be a deep-seated psychological reason for it, probably involving wombs, but it's not necessary for me to speculate.
So he’s in a cupboard now. He doesn’t know it, though. It’s too dark to see and he’s too stupid to get out. He thinks it’s a coffin. He’s waiting for an angel, someone to tell him he’s dead and pack him off to the afterlife. The door opens, light streams in and an apparition appears: some hazy, undulating entity too thin to be human. Technically speaking, it isn’t. It’s Malmot.
“Well, well, well,” he goes. “And who’s this then?”
“It’s Ceesal. David Ceesal,” answers our idiot in a sub-bass rumble. He has a nametag to remind him. “I’m not being annoying, am I? Are you an angel? Am I… Am I dead?”
“Well, your body is most definitely alive. Your brain, however… well, let’s just say it’s open to debate.”
“I’m not being annoying, am I?” Ceesal whimpers again. “And what happened last night? What’s wrong with my eyes?”
“Firstly, you are always annoying so don’t bother asking again. Secondly, you’re wearing the shadow Home Secretary’s glasses. You stole them. I believe you said it would be a ‘good laugh’. I don’t claim to understand your concept of enjoyment but many of our more feeble-minded ministers seemed to agree with you.” And he lets off a starched smile and sniffs haughtily. He might even click his heels like a prison camp commandant. Who can be sure? Whatever, there’s something about Ceesal’s posture he finds
Inside The Broth Hole: Therese sits, flanked by Bactrian’s bodyguards. The Prime Minister, dead – and from the look on his pale face, loving it – lies slumped over a red and white chequered tablecloth.
The door crashes open and Malmot, gasmasked and wrapped from neck to ankle in a long, grey trench coat, enters followed by yet more sinister entities. Leather gloved fingers grip pistols and semiautomatics. Respirator valves hiss and sigh. Another high, sneezing sound and Therese falls face down.
Operatives surround the Prime Minister's corpse. His pulse is checked but none found. They hood the head and drag his slumped form into an unmarked vehicle. Small packages are placed around the dining area, kerosene lamps unhooked and smashed. Flames lick across the wooden flooring. They make their exit.
A black limousine pulls up. Malmot gets in. The Broth Hole flashes white, its once-verticals bloating outward in an exhalation of shattered glass.
Jump Cut to Ceesal: David Ceesal. Pronounced “See-sawl”, if you're reading this in transcript. His dull eyes flick open into silent blackness. His first ever action was to hoof the midwife in the face. Coordination would never be his strongpoint.
Now in his late thirties, he’s pop-eyed, boss-eyed and thick; the kind of man who sits in darkened rooms, licking his own face. In the queue for human brains, he was conspicuous by his absence, lining up with the apes for prehensile toes instead. Rumour has it those decades of intermarriage left the Ceesals with an incomplete genetic code that could only be plugged with monkey DNA. I don’t claim to know but it seems feasible. That's hearsay, however. I never met the guy personally.
Viewed in profile – one eye at a time and with his tongue sheathed in his skull – he could almost be handsome. He has the sturdy physique of a rugby player; the operations to cure his scoliosis have left him straight-backed with a regal posture and the scar from the removal of his eleventh finger is virtually unnoticeable. He holds some political position but I can’t recall exactly what it is. I do know his deformities extend to his bladder, which is reputed to have a capacity of approximately fifteen litres. I also know he has a habit of waking up in cupboards.
I’m not sure why he sleeps in cupboards. There’ll be a deep-seated psychological reason for it, probably involving wombs, but it's not necessary for me to speculate.
So he’s in a cupboard now. He doesn’t know it, though. It’s too dark to see and he’s too stupid to get out. He thinks it’s a coffin. He’s waiting for an angel, someone to tell him he’s dead and pack him off to the afterlife. The door opens, light streams in and an apparition appears: some hazy, undulating entity too thin to be human. Technically speaking, it isn’t. It’s Malmot.
“Well, well, well,” he goes. “And who’s this then?”
“It’s Ceesal. David Ceesal,” answers our idiot in a sub-bass rumble. He has a nametag to remind him. “I’m not being annoying, am I? Are you an angel? Am I… Am I dead?”
“Well, your body is most definitely alive. Your brain, however… well, let’s just say it’s open to debate.”
“I’m not being annoying, am I?” Ceesal whimpers again. “And what happened last night? What’s wrong with my eyes?”
“Firstly, you are always annoying so don’t bother asking again. Secondly, you’re wearing the shadow Home Secretary’s glasses. You stole them. I believe you said it would be a ‘good laugh’. I don’t claim to understand your concept of enjoyment but many of our more feeble-minded ministers seemed to agree with you.” And he lets off a starched smile and sniffs haughtily. He might even click his heels like a prison camp commandant. Who can be sure? Whatever, there’s something about Ceesal’s posture he finds
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