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. 

The Parliament of House is in session.

Given I'm now properly trying to turn this into a novel this might be the last I post of this (like you're bothered). With "Now..." or whatever it becomes, I'm going to try to make it a series of short episodes written in a pseudo-dramatic style, i.e. with no internal monologue and the minimum direct author intervention. Anyhoo, let's see how this turns out... Also, yes, it's meant to be silly.

"We have to face facts, the Spirit of Fascism has moved..."

"We don't know that" said a Dissenting Voice, "we don't know anything at this at this moment in time and what we do know doesn't make much sense. 

The Original Speaker tried to respond. "It doesn't..." But:

"I mean, why a physics lecture...?"

"It's doesn't have to..."

"Just kids that..." the Dissenting Voice was exasperated. The Chair held up a hand to say enough. The Original Speaker resumed:

"It's doesn't have to make sense, Dave..." He realised his mistake instant. "Sorry..."

The Dissenting Voice sighed. "It's too late now I suppose" he said and shrugged, irritation. His name was Dave, everyone present knew but but his codename was Wrecked Train. 

"We're all friends here..." said another delegate, AKA The One Man Crowd, "comrades..."

"We don't know that" said the Chair, the Disco Bison, stern as a mid-week comedown. He was the oldest and most experienced of the group. He spoke slowly and surely. "There are many, we can be sure, who would like to infiltrate our organisation, and not just the Fuzz." Silence reigned across the table for a moment. The Disco Bison nodded to the Original Speaker, known to the group as The Sheriff, to continue.

"We have to up our game" said The Sheriff.

"Really?" said a woman known as Many Tentacles. She was the long-standing Promotions and Intelligence delegate, practically the Disco Bison's second in command.

"Enough!" barked the Disco Bison. It was quite a harsh comedown. The office-warehouse reverberated. "Go through the chair" he said to everyone. "We're not here to barney."

"Sometimes" said the Sheriff, resuming, a little bashful, "you have to state the obvious to start with." The One Man Crowd nodded ostentatiously to this. He was seconding the Sheriff's motion. "The Spirit is on the move" said the Sheriff. "Look at the reaction to this attack in the press or on the streets. We've been expecting something like this for months" he said, looking directly at the Wrecked Train, then around the room. "Now it has finally come... what...? Nine people are dead, like you say 'kids.' What's been the reaction? Shrug the shoulders, it's so sad but can't be helped. That's the public response anyway" he shrugged. "Behind closed doors" the Sheriff glanced around meaningfully, "you can bet someone authorised this, someone in power had to" he could sense he was losing the room at this. "I can't prove it, no one can but we must assume it, even if we're wrong. This is big!"

"Are the police involved or have the DoM been brought in?" the Disco Bison asked.

"Sources suggest" said the Many Tentacles, "though I've yet to speak directly to my chief contact I'm pretty sure DCI Lightfoot is on the case." There were sighs and frowns across the table.

"Well" the Sheriff shrugged, "maybe the state has been caught on the hop but that's all the more reason for us to take the fight. If we don't move now we could find the ground disappearing beneath our feet."

"You have a plan I take it?" said the Wrecked Train.

"Of course" said the Sheriff, seemingly no longer embarrassed. He handed out sheets of A4 holdings lists, maps and schematics.

"These are not the full details I take it?" said the Disco Bison.

"Of course not" said the Sheriff. "With your permission though I will take this forward to Ops and Acquisitions to take forward." He ploughed on before any of the delegate could object. "The Parliament of House has been underground for too long. We need to take a space, publicly, a high-profile space that cannot be ignored, there's a non-definitive list of potential targets included but, uh... the point is we need to take a space and hold it for as long as we can. If the Spirit of Fascism wants to take this city we have to take it first. Sure it's going to take a lot, we're going to be calling in all sorts of favours but... if not now... when?"

Now... continued

"How do we know time exists?" asked Professor Kimber. No response. "What is time?" He'd have to explain. "Time is the progress of entropy." He looked away. Wasn't the Alt-Right supposed to be cleverer than this? Professor Kimber paced a little. "You can know time is passing without a clock, without any visual reference at all." He stopped, turned and looked at his subject. "We exist..." he corrected himself, "we have been forced to exist in an impure universe, a motive universe..." His pedagogical instinct kicked in. Professor Kimber dragged a flip-chart across the room and took up a pen. "We are moving from a point of pure, concentrated energy..." He illustrated this with a pristine asterisk. He drew an arrow left to right, "to a point of absolute, undifferentiated, dispersed matter." He showed this using a scatter of infidel dots.

"But" said the Young Man tied to the chair in Kimber's padded laboratory, "if the original state was pure how could it degenerate?"

This was something. "A good question" said Kimber. He put the pen away and started pacing again. "This is why..."

"I mean" the Young Man continued, smiling "don't pictures of the young universe show fluctuations in in background radiation?"

He was smart, this boy, bright, if a little placid. It was almost a shame, Kimber thought, that they sent him along. Still, you needed an Avatar to contact the Spirit. "This is why" said Kimber, "we are at war with the Quantum Marxists and other celebrants of the mongrel reality. This universe is ruled by probability, change and motion. There is no frame of reference. This underpins the dialectic, the source of their heinous theories of tolerance and progress..." the words seeped out of his mouth like acid. Kimber fetched a device, a silver helmet decorated with symbols and with cables and lights protruding. "Our movement will prevail" he said. "We will halt the march of time and entropy, that is why we do what we do" he said, putting the helmet on the Young man's head. "Quantity shall no longer become quality and we shall be titans..." he adjusted a set of dials on a console, halfway across the room. He looked back at the Young Man who seemed suddenly afraid. "Our powers will be unlimited." Kimber smiled a saggy old leer.

The Young Man asked plaintively, "will it hurt?" There was a short pause.

"Your sacrifice will be noted" said Kimber. He flipped the master-switch before the Young Man could say anything else. The Spirit was invoked.