Prime Minister Chopkins sat in his office at his Prime Ministerial desk. On this desk sat a high tower of dictionaries which he had been working his way through for the last half hour. On the wall, unnoticed by the PM, sat a medium sized blowfly.
Readers familiar with your intrepid eyewitness’s Spyfly device will understand that this was no ordinary fly, but one that was capable of transmitting what it saw and heard to my home computer, some distance away. I had sent the fly to the PM’s office as I was curious as to his demeanour immediately after his ill-fated and now globally famous failed definition of a woman when asked to provide one by a bothersome journalist.
He muttered a naughty word as he slammed shut Chambers English Dictionary, the last to be consulted.
“Another one that defines a woman as ‘an adult female human’, he said despairingly. “That’s… let me see…”, he counted on his fingers and pulled faces as he made his calculation, “one hundred and ten… no, one hundred per cent that give the same definition.”
As he was about to consult Dictionary.com on his laptop in a last despairing effort to disprove biology, his desk phone buzzed and, on answering it, he was informed by his secretary that a video call was about to come through, and he must answer it at all costs.
Muttering under his breath and wondering who it was, he waited a few moments until the call came through, and he beheld a face materialising on his screen. The face bore a striking resemblance to a llama which has eaten several enchiladas too many, and to his dismay, Chopkins recognised none other than Klouse (the K is silent) Swab himself, the leader of the WEF (Wicked Eugenicist Fascists), and therefore his immediate boss.
“Heil Kl-louse,” stuttered Chopkins apprehensively, giving the approved salute, “What can I do for you, this afternoon?”
“It is of the night the middle here,” snapped Klouse, “for the pleasure of seeing you I am not calling. Why have you a Lahingstock [laughingstock] made of us all? That lächerlich [ridiculous, absurd] video of you like a stuffed fowl standing, when asked a question simple, upon us all reflects. That video has had millions of views. How can we be seen as the rightful rulers of die Welt when our representatives give die Aufführungike [a performance] like that when asked a simple question?”
“With all d-d-due respect,” Chopkins continued to stutter, “the question is not as simple as it seems at first hearing. Whatever my answer was, it would have offended somebody, which I can’t afford to do at present. But I admit, that journalist is troublesome. I will answer no further questions from him which have not been provided six weeks in advance.”
Klouse clapped his hands to his head and uttered a sound like a deflating Chinese spy balloon.
“Du trottel [idiot] useless,” he groaned. “You are afraid to offend punkt tzero, tzero, tzero ein [0.0001] per cent of the population…the mentally afflicted hilfreich idioten [useful idiots] by making yourself like a complete dummkopf look to a huge percentage of the voters? Yes, ve will use these foolish people to our own ends with the cash that we provide to them, but winning the election is at present the only goal. Perhaps I should have kept the Ardeau woman on as the Minister Prime.”
Chopkins gulped. This interview seemed not to be going how he would have liked.
“I don’t believe that Justinda would have handled this any differently, apart from head nodding, tooth-flashing and hand waving,” he said, trying not to sound resentful.
He apparently failed, as Klouse swelled like a bullfrog, preparatory to unleashing a further tirade upon him.
“You schwachsinnige [imbecile],” he shouted, turning a rich purple colour. “Why do you think I of that boneheaded woman got rid? I was told that you were a suitable substitute having been behind all of her policies and Calls of the Captain. I actually wanted that McAnutty fellow to be the leader as he has a temperament that makes a rattlesnake cute and cuddly look. I was informed that you would for the job be better. I think maybe I was wrongly advised by the Frau Hellish Quark.”
Being only half deflated at this point, he continued, becoming Shakespearean in his rage. “Thou mewling fly-bitten giglet, thou son of a mammering boil-brained slobblebelly… ah yes Herr Chopkins, I my Shakespeare know.”
Chopkins quailed under this onslaught and his bottom lip quivered and protruded slightly, while his hair turned a paler shade of ginger.
“I apologise mein Führer, I confess that I have failed the noble WEF cause, and I will do better in the future.”
“You had in the future better do,” growled Klouse. “I was told that you have inside you the same raging, boiling, filthy river of evil that possessed Justinda Ardeau. I want to see more evidence of it. Your government may not in the three strikes rule believe, but I can tell you that I, Herr Klouse Swab, the soon-to-be Führer of ze vorld, believe fervently in it. On your first strike consider yourself. And that airline fellow tell that I on him a close eye have also. He must even more woke become to ensure that he is a fit deputy in the uniparty of which I wish to be the ultimate ruler: die herrliche Volksrepublik der Neuen Tyrannei [the Glorious People’s Republic of New Tirani/Tyranny]. That is all, be warned…”
Still a dark purple colour, Klouse’s image slowly faded from the screen.
Chopkins mopped his brow with a trembling hand, still somewhat pale after this difficult conversation.
“But he didn’t tell me the correct answer to the question,” he said plaintively, wiping a tear from his eye.
