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Satire
Your intrepid eyewitness, having being locked up unnecessarily for far too long, was delighted to hear that her Imperial Comradeship, Justinda Ardeau, had, in her beneficence, allowed her subjects to emerge from their warrens and breathe a limited amount of fresh air. His first thought was that a chicken should be sacrificed to her Divinity in gratitude for this enormous act of kindness, but none being to hand, your eyewitness decided that a chicken pre-sacrificed by the good Colonel would do nicely instead.
Your intrepid eyewitness was also able to place his ear to the ground again, and having heard from a reliable source that the formidable Auntie Hellish Quark was about to pay one of her regular visits to Justinda Ardeau, made sure that the Spyfly device, serviced and ready to go, was waiting on Justinda’s wall in a vantage spot, ready to satisfy the world’s curiosity as to what happens when a megalomaniac meets a pandemiciac.
The door burst open, and through it erupted the human Krakatoa, also known as Auntie Hellish.
“Sit down, sit down,” bellowed Hellish in her best imitation of the mating call of the Deep-Throated Bison. The still seated Justinda, had been practicing her serious face in preparation for this very meeting.
“Don’t look so glum Justinda,” said Hellish, firmly planting herself in an adjacent chair. “Everything is going splendidly. Even though the Not-Made-in-China virus has been a disappointing fizzer, the economic damage is done now. I don’t know why it didn’t deliver the number of cases and deaths we’d hoped for, but it’s probably due to our benign strategic environment.”
“It’s made me look a bit silly,” said Justinda in her little girl about to cry voice. “I did promise 80,000 deaths to Uncle George, and Bill Yates. Has Uncle Xi got another virus in the pipeline? That would be so much fun. I could continue my daily reports. I just love those cameras, and the easy questions the journalists ask, and maybe we’ll get to 80,000 deaths.”
“There’s probably another one preparing to escape as we talk,” said Hellish, “but we don’t really need it. You can make an announcement straight after the election about the virus having mutated to a long-tailed variant which will require another five years at Level Five.”
“I’m a bit worried that if we keep at Level Two much longer, some voters will start to get a bit restless,” said Justinda. “Some of them seem to be ignoring my rules, and some are saying mean things about me, like I went soft and late. Like my Sparky Boy,” she added in her disappointed voice. “I was a bit annoyed too, about the demonstration on Monday. They should have kept in groups of a hundred, and socially distanced to two metres apart. I thought they would do that, just for me. How dare they? How can I justify staying at Level Two after that?”
“What is the first word a good Marxist baby speaks, Justinda?” demanded Hellish.
“Revolution? Proletariat? Bourgeoisie? Comrade? That’s it, Comrade,” shouted Justinda excitedly. “It was Eve’s first word.”
Hellish sighed heavily, like a Marxist who’s just discovered a close family member reading the Bible.
“No, Justinda, wrong again,” she growled, like a Growling Highland New Guinean Killer Bandicoot. “Listen carefully. The word is hypocrisy. It’s our watchword. And I might add, I’m very disappointed that it wasn’t Eve’s first word. Comrade’s okay, but hypocrisy is better. That’s why it doesn’t matter about the demonstration. Just ignore it, no need to defend. We need the election before the economic damage becomes more apparent to the beneficiaries.”
“Do we really need to have the trouble of an election?” asked Justinda. “It’s so tiresome, I don’t want to do it.”
“I’m afraid it looks as though we’ll have to,” Auntie Hellish said. “But don’t worry about it, you’re a shoo-in. The media will help you through, and we’ve got a bit of nasty stuff planned.” Her eyes lit up like unapproved high-wattage light bulbs and she chuckled like Stalin spotting a peasant wearing a MAGA hat. “I’m looking forward to it,” she added, “but of course I’ll be in the background as usual. And don’t forget, they have Todd Duller and Nikki Stray as leaders now.” She roared with laughter. “You won’t even need to do much. Just flash your fangs, and everything else will be done for you.”
“But I don’t want to do it,” whined Justinda. “I’ll have to do some… what’s that thing again? You know, the thing I don’t like.” She stood up expressly for the purpose of stamping her foot, then sat down again.
“Would the thing you don’t like be work?” queried Hellish sternly.
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” said Justinda, “I don’t like it. It’s yucky.” Tears rolled down her face and her bottom lip stuck out like a large oyster, “I hate fulltime work, I hate it.”
“Never mind, Justy Wusty,” Hellish cooed, in a talking to a baby voice, “don’t cry, everything’s going to be okay, you’ll”… Then her voice changed to a roar not dissimilar to the attack roar of a Patagonian Bass-Voiced Snow Panther, “My non-existent God, Justinda, every time we talk I end up feeling like I’m in a nursery. I get so embarrassed, it’s just as well nobody else can hear me. Just do what I tell you, keep taking the pills, and stop whining… that’s all!” She leapt to her feet, spun on her heel, and stalked out of the room, closing the door in a loud hate-slam.
Justinda remained at her desk, bottom lip quivering like a jelly, and repeating to herself, “I’se doing my best Auntie Hellish, I’se doing my best…”
Your intrepid eyewitness, gathering up his equipment and placing it in a briefcase together with a cold pie, emerged cautiously from the Parliamentary broom cupboard from which he had been observing proceedings, and walked briskly home, deep in thought as usual, while keeping a sharp eye out for Officers Rawsprat and Hagar.
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