Wednesday, 4 January 2017

The Prime Minister is electable

"There you are Prime Minister" said the Permanent Secretary, bright and breezy while choking down his horror. The PM was sat alone at a round table in a meeting room. It shifted in its chair to acknowledge the PS, who was standing in the doorway clutching a set of briefs. The Prime Minister smiled. "Is that a new fang?" the Permanent Secretary asked. It was. The Prime Minister extended a limb in a fluid, boneless, indicating where the PS should sit, three seats away it seemed. 

The Prime Minister was a political bioweapon, a politician genetically altered to be permanently electable. No one knew its original name or identity, which was Very Above Top Secret, a category made up for this experiment. The PM's sex had long been indeterminate. These days its shape was pretty malleable too. 

The Permanent Secretary sat carefully. "Why are you here, Prime Minister?" the PS asked in his best concerned voice. "I've been looking all over for you. You've missed two meetings so far this morning."

The Prime Minister shook what was still probably its head. The PS waited. There was a gurgling sound, a voice rose up from within the Prime Minister. "Me... no like... Foreign Secretary... make flavours taste for chicken and Brexit not Brexit anymore" it said and shook it's 'head' once more. It's voice was tinny, echoing and distant.

"Well" said the PS, "you could reshuffle your cabinet, get a new person in at the FCO..."

The Prime Minister made a mournful mooing sound and covered four of its eyes. "Poisoned vector" it said "stand still challenge unable no flavours..." The Prime Minister glowed a little and seemed truly anguished. The Permanent Secretary let it stew in its sadness for a moment, resisting the urge to hug it, before sliding some papers across the table toward the PM.

"I have some news" said the PS, "something you might like to hear..."

"Hamster...?" said the Prime Minister, looking up again, hopeful.

"No, the President hasn't returned your call" said the Permanent Secretary, "but something good has happened. Operation Quantum Orange is underway" he whispered the last part reverently. Tides of muscle shifted up the PM's face:

"Selective violence?"

"Selective violence indeed" said the PS, also smiling. "Our friends in the south have moved into action."

"Query the visage and enumeration of traitors?" asked the Prime Minister as it pawed through the documents.

"Page four" said the Permanent Secretary, "there's a list of them, seven students and one lecturer... from the University of London..." The PM seemed pleased. "I know" said the PS, "it's an interesting place to start. This is all entirely the Friends initiative mind you, though we have agents tracking and gently guiding them if needs be but do not worry Sir... Madam... It, whatever happens your hands are clean." They were. The Prime Minister looked at the Permanent Secretary, beaming with delight. It thrust out its arms, fingers purple and engorged, and grabbed the PS by the shoulders, extended its tongue and licked the PS's face up and down. "Thank you" said the Permanent Secretary, trying not to gag on the slime, "it's much appreciated."

The Prime Minister then let go, sat back in its chair and let off a blubbery howl. "Brexit means Brexit!" It was heard all the way across in Number Eleven where the Chancellor of the Exchequer had hidden himself in the toilet to masturbate over pictures from the BaE Weapons Catalogue. 

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