disturbing.
“And...” starts Ceesal.
“And what?” Malmot answers.
“Well,” says Ceesal, “well, I’m sure it’s nothing serious, it’s just that... I think I have my backside wedged in a mop bucket.”
Malmot thinks for a second, with those great, grey wheel arch eyebrows knotting.
“Again,” he says, “I don’t understand your concept of enjoyment, but one might assume, from the positioning of your trousers around your ankles, that you fell asleep whilst trying to relieve yourself. You became, for want of a better expression, wedged .”
“Can’t think why I’d want to do that,” mumbles Ceesal. “Bit of a silly ass thing to do, eh?”
“The question,” answers Malmot, “is not why you would want to do it, but why you would want to do it in a broom cupboard?” Ceesal releases his buttocks from the bucket with a rubberised purr.
“I don’t know. I have a problem with thinking.”
“I can imagine,” says Malmot. “Fortunately, you’re going somewhere you won’t need to think.”
“Now, I know this one,” says Ceesal. “It’s either California or middle management.”
“No,” says Malmot, “and it’s not university either. Tell me, Ceesal, have you ever thought of becoming Prime Minister?”
And so we confine Bactrian to history. When Ceesal asks, “Why me? I mean, I’m hardly The Brain of Britain”, Malmot replies, “My dear chap, you’re not even The Brain of your own skull. For that, we must look to the parasites in you hair. You are, however, a man of noble lineage and proud carriage, big enough to protect your party from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” By which he means, fat enough to keep him (Malmot) shielded from snipers.
“Well, that’s just marvellous!” Ceesal chuffs.
“Yes,” says Malmot, “marvellous like a hideous wasting disease.”
And so another idiot ascends to Prime Minister. Simple as that. He’s eminently qualified. ‘Supple Ceesal’, they call him, ‘pliable as play dough’. His lack of opinions mean he can be pushed any which way – so long as there’s the promise of beer and rugby at the end of it. A perfect puppet. A perfect Prime Minister for a scheming, backseat Machiavelli.
Now, Malmot’s position may be unassailable but the illusion of democracy is vital to the smooth running of his dictatorship. Our drunken nation doesn’t notice Bactrian’s absence yet, but they will. Eventually. And there’s enough newspapers outside of State control to pose some tricky questions. So best to pre-empt them with a press release explaining Bactrian’s sudden contraction of a debilitating respiratory illness and his retirement from politics. Ceesal will be sworn in before a select audience of loyal and extremely inebriated party members and his picture – taken in profile, with his tongue put away – circulated amongst the press. The former Prime Minister’s disappearance may provoke some international discussion. Who cares? A few carefully circulated lies – kidnapping by aliens, eaten by his own leopards etc – will keep the conspiracy theorists busy.
So it’s back to governing now for Malmot and preparations for the next fake general election. And if Bactrian’s body needs to turn up sometime, well, it’s safe in refrigerated storage.
The Stemset building sits squat on the cliffside. The Devil’s own breezeblock; it sucks the life and colour out of its surroundings; a karmic black hole, leaching in the positive and spitting out the negative in fantastic new forms of mangled depravity. There are trees, bushes and general vegetation, but like nothing you’ve seen this side of a nightmare. What should be green is grey, stunted, twisted. And dripping with fat: human tallow renders on the electric fence. We still have science, you see, and its bloody by-products spill from skips, as blackened chimneys flare off the souls of incinerated test specimens.
It wasn’t always so. The Stemset building – or
“And...” starts Ceesal.
“And what?” Malmot answers.
“Well,” says Ceesal, “well, I’m sure it’s nothing serious, it’s just that... I think I have my backside wedged in a mop bucket.”
Malmot thinks for a second, with those great, grey wheel arch eyebrows knotting.
“Again,” he says, “I don’t understand your concept of enjoyment, but one might assume, from the positioning of your trousers around your ankles, that you fell asleep whilst trying to relieve yourself. You became, for want of a better expression, wedged .”
“Can’t think why I’d want to do that,” mumbles Ceesal. “Bit of a silly ass thing to do, eh?”
“The question,” answers Malmot, “is not why you would want to do it, but why you would want to do it in a broom cupboard?” Ceesal releases his buttocks from the bucket with a rubberised purr.
“I don’t know. I have a problem with thinking.”
“I can imagine,” says Malmot. “Fortunately, you’re going somewhere you won’t need to think.”
“Now, I know this one,” says Ceesal. “It’s either California or middle management.”
“No,” says Malmot, “and it’s not university either. Tell me, Ceesal, have you ever thought of becoming Prime Minister?”
And so we confine Bactrian to history. When Ceesal asks, “Why me? I mean, I’m hardly The Brain of Britain”, Malmot replies, “My dear chap, you’re not even The Brain of your own skull. For that, we must look to the parasites in you hair. You are, however, a man of noble lineage and proud carriage, big enough to protect your party from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” By which he means, fat enough to keep him (Malmot) shielded from snipers.
“Well, that’s just marvellous!” Ceesal chuffs.
“Yes,” says Malmot, “marvellous like a hideous wasting disease.”
And so another idiot ascends to Prime Minister. Simple as that. He’s eminently qualified. ‘Supple Ceesal’, they call him, ‘pliable as play dough’. His lack of opinions mean he can be pushed any which way – so long as there’s the promise of beer and rugby at the end of it. A perfect puppet. A perfect Prime Minister for a scheming, backseat Machiavelli.
Now, Malmot’s position may be unassailable but the illusion of democracy is vital to the smooth running of his dictatorship. Our drunken nation doesn’t notice Bactrian’s absence yet, but they will. Eventually. And there’s enough newspapers outside of State control to pose some tricky questions. So best to pre-empt them with a press release explaining Bactrian’s sudden contraction of a debilitating respiratory illness and his retirement from politics. Ceesal will be sworn in before a select audience of loyal and extremely inebriated party members and his picture – taken in profile, with his tongue put away – circulated amongst the press. The former Prime Minister’s disappearance may provoke some international discussion. Who cares? A few carefully circulated lies – kidnapping by aliens, eaten by his own leopards etc – will keep the conspiracy theorists busy.
So it’s back to governing now for Malmot and preparations for the next fake general election. And if Bactrian’s body needs to turn up sometime, well, it’s safe in refrigerated storage.
The Stemset building sits squat on the cliffside. The Devil’s own breezeblock; it sucks the life and colour out of its surroundings; a karmic black hole, leaching in the positive and spitting out the negative in fantastic new forms of mangled depravity. There are trees, bushes and general vegetation, but like nothing you’ve seen this side of a nightmare. What should be green is grey, stunted, twisted. And dripping with fat: human tallow renders on the electric fence. We still have science, you see, and its bloody by-products spill from skips, as blackened chimneys flare off the souls of incinerated test specimens.
It wasn’t always so. The Stemset building – or
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