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Information
Satire
I, your intrepid eyewitness, recently received information that yet another emergency meeting of the Committee of Public Fear was to be held the following night. Again the spyfly and I were ready and waiting as the usual participants shuffled, trotted, traipsed, plodded and sauntered into the meeting room.
The usual bunch of incompetents, government shills, and power-crazy useless eaters (to borrow one of their own phrases) was present. Fliouxsie Whales, Mickey Faker, Rod Klaxon, Rashley Broomfield, Shorn Bendy and Justinda Ardeau, (who, surprisingly, was not late but looked as though she had been dragged through a blackberry bush backwards), sat at the table apparently awaiting the arrival of the chairquisling, Hellish Quark.
As the gathered members started to look very annoyed and impatient, the clatter of a wooden object, reminiscent of a wooden pole falling to the floor, came from the corridor outside, followed closely by the entrance of a flushed and angry-looking Hellish Quark.
“You’re late,” snapped Justinda. “Did you bring it?”
“Yes, I’m late,” snarled Hellish. “The ruddy cat fell off the broomstick, and I had to go back to pick it up. It’s bad luck to travel without one on the stick. It was dead so I had to nail it back on. If you’ve ever tried nailing a black cat to a broomstick on a very dark night, you’ll know why I’m not happy.” She turned to Justinda. “Yes, I brought it. You can have it after the meeting.”
Justinda twitched and sat sulkily back in her chair.
Hellish flopped into her chair and fished a large folder of papers out of her briefcase.
“I declare this extraordinary, urgent and imperative meeting of the Committee of Public Fear, open,” she intoned. Then she addressed the committee members, giving each a baleful glare in turn.
“We have orders from above,” she said dramatically. “You will not be required to produce further fear mongering slogans tonight. This has already been done for us by Uncles Klaus, George, Bill and their supporting ilk. The only item on the agenda is what is being called ‘The Children’s Wave’.”
“Is that some sort of secret sign along the lines of our secret handshake?” queried Fliouxsie.
“No it is not,” said Hellish firmly. “It is already underway in Israel, if you’ll excuse the language.”
As one, all the committee members made various hand signs of protection against the feared nation.
“It refers to a wave of Covid amongst children, either engineered by deliberate infection in their classrooms, or alternatively by false positive tests. Testing will be compulsory in all schools. This will ensure the success of the next stage of our project, namely the vaccination of all children from eighteen months up.” She waved a sheet of paper at them. “This is imperative. It will be the next goal for freedom for the mindless masses and useful idiots. Ninety-nine per cent vaccinated including all children over eighteen months of age will be the next step in order to get more freedom.” She glanced at Justinda. “Or to get to a slightly less red light in your deliberately confusing and vague traffic-light system, which nobody, including all of us here, understands.”
“I love the sound of ‘The Children’s Wave’,” cried Rashley Broomfield, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “I’ve been wanting to get the needle into small kids since day one.”
“Me too,” said Justinda, “little Eve can’t wait to get it. She’ll be disappointed if I tell her that it’s only for ordinary children, not elite, inner circle kids like her. I’ll have to get her a fake one, like I had.”
“Let’s stay on subject,” said Hellish firmly. “In conjunction with this, Klaus, George, Bill and the others want us to start the ad campaign about how strokes and heart attacks are quite normal, even desirable, for children. The gullible fools will believe it, of course. As we know, this will happen a lot when we start medicating the children, and we want to deflect blame away from the actual cause.”
“We can tell them that computer modelling shows that about five million children will die of heart attacks and strokes if they don’t get jabbed,” cried Shorn Bendy excitedly leaping to his feet. “Oh, this is too exciting! I’ve gone quite weak at the knees.” He flopped down heavily in his chair, much like Justinda when she had failed to answer a question in the house.
“You realise that this will deplete the population for the future?” asked Rod Klaxon, slowly.
Hellish and the rest of the committee looked at him pityingly. “You’re so slow,” growled Hellish, showing her snagglefangs. “That’s the whole idea. New China – that’s OurTearRoar of course – has been chosen as the playground bolt hole of the rich elite. We don’t want people here, getting in our way. Just enough to be our servants and service our requirements. We don’t need tourism, oil and gas production or agriculture, unless you have a taste for pine needles. Everything we need will be flown in.”
“Bags I Judges Bay,” said Fliouxsie showing her first signs of animation of the evening. “I love to go there and sit on the beach and paddle in the supershallow sewage.”
“It’s yours,” said Hellish. “Well, get to it everyone. Spread the fear. I declare the meeting closed.”
As the members trooped out of the room, Hellish dug in her briefcase and produced a bag of ‘icing sugar’ which she tossed in front of Justinda who pounced on it like Grunt Robbingson sighting a sausage roll.
“And don’t do television interviews after eating that icing sugar,” growled Hellish.
As she left the room, Justinda galloped past her clutching the bag tightly.
I sat stunned for a moment, scarcely believing that these people were actually so evil that they would experiment on our children, realising that they had gone way too far, and that we must do all within our power to stand up against this evil. I slept very little that night.
