My Spyfly, sitting silently on the wall of Prime Minister, Justinda Ardeau’s office, sent a silent alarm to my phone, alerting me to the fact that Hellish Quark, Justinda’s controller, had just entered her office.
I quickly seated myself at my trusty laptop computer to watch the proceedings. Usually, the entrance of Hellish Quark to Justinda’s office provides both entertainment and cause for alarm to the innocent citizens of Nu MotuMahuta, as the country was to be named after the crowning of Queen Matooter the First, the coronation of whom was scheduled for the day after the final result of the 2023 election (no matter what combination of parties governed after that election).
I was just in time to hear Hellish slamming the office door and greeting Justinda with the words, “The geese grow fat this year,” to which Justinda mechanically responded, “The geese must be eaten,” a response which apparently satisfied Hellish.
“Ah, I’m pleased to hear that you are still in the programme,” said Hellish, displaying her fearsome snaggle-toothed snarl – her failed attempt at a smile. “I was afraid that you had left the reservation, as it were, and developed a conscience. That must never happen. You know that Klouse will not permit attacks of conscience. Such attacks are as kryptonite to him.”
“I know,” said Justinda, “but I have never been bothered by them.”
“Excellent! Of course, you remember your training,” said Hellish, “blind obedience at all times. If I tell you to destroy the farmers and starve the people, what do you do?”
“Destroy the farmers and starve the people,” replied Justinda mechanically, sounding very Dalekian.
“Excellent!” responded Hellish. “How was the Antarctic?”
“When I was down there I had time to think, but I didn’t. I didn’t like it very much. Far too white – everywhere white, white, white. So racist. I thought it would be green; they told me all the ice had melted. I was so disappointed, Hellish. And Clarkford was no help, cutting holes in the ice and fishing all day. A sea leopard caught him, but unfortunately, it spat him out. Al Bore was right though, the polar bears have all gone. Not one to be seen. It’s a tragedy.”
“You and I could both be categorised as white,” snapped Hellish. “Thus we are open to accusations of being far-right extremists. Just some advice Justinda; do not braid your or Eve’s hair, do not be seen with knitting needles and yarn, suppress all maternal instincts, and do not display an ‘us-versus-them’ mentality. Difficult in politics, I know, but Christopher Cluxon has mastered the art, so you should emulate him. It’s also a good test for a possible ‘Government of National Unity’ in the near future.”
Hellish glared at Justinda for a moment and then continued. “The real reason for my visit is to warn you that our nemesis, that far-right ultra fascist, racist and misogynist news site, known as The BF… no I can’t say it! This site whose name cannot be spoken has published documents gained by opprobrious means, namely an Official Information Act request, that prove that you have been in contact with Klouse Swab of the WEF. [Ed – Wicked Eugenicist Fascists.] They have evidence that we, ahh you, are on board with the Great Reset – may its name be revered – and that it is obvious that Grunt Robbingson’s wildly over-the-top reaction to being asked about it was from sheer panic. You must be on your guard Justinda, in case you are asked about it.”
Justinda laughed, a creepy witch-like Kamala Heiress cackle. “Who is going to ask me about it?” she chortled. “There is not one MSM journalist who would dare. After all, none of them has ever enquired as to whether the WEF even exists.”
“Just a warning to you,” growled Hellish, “and don’t forget that witches’ cackles are my preserve. I don’t like competition! Now, where is Grunt? I asked him to come here immediately.”
There was a knock on the door, and a Billy Bunteresque figure squeezed through the door, accompanied by a strong odour of sausage rolls. It was none other than Grunt Robbingson in the flesh (and lots of it).
“No lamingtons here?” he quavered looking fearfully around. Upon receiving an assurance of the absence of lamingtons in any shape or form, he approached Justinda’s desk, and sank into a chair.
“The geese grow fat this year,” said Hellish, to which Grunt responded, “I ate all the geese,” which was apparently the correct response. Hellish repeated her news about the OIA documents having been released, and Grunt went pale and looked worried.
“They wouldn’t ask me about the Great Reset again, would they?” he said nervously.
“Well, the opposition parties certainly won’t, nor will the paid-off media,” said Hellish, “but the BF… that organisation has a large readership and you need to know that the truth (may Klouse forgive me for saying the word), is out there now.”
Grunt looked very apprehensive. “Just when I felt brave enough to come out from under my desk and face the lamingtons, this happens,” he moaned. “After my triumph at the conference with my superb speech promoting Christopher Cluxon too. What shall I do?”
“Just do what I do,” snorted Justinda, twitchily wiping her nose with her hand. “Just take a little icing sugar, and you’ll forget about Klouse and the WEF completely. It works very well for me. You may even find that lamingtons hold no fears for you.”
“Not an option!” barked Hellish. “Just don’t call ‘The Great Reset’ a conspiracy theory again. Answer no questions about the released documents. That’s all. Goodbye!”
Hellish departed the room leaving Grunt and Justinda looking at each other vacantly while from the corridor outside came the faint sound of a broomstick being started.