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Satire
“I call to order this emergency meeting of the People’s,” (short snort of laughter from all at the table), “Committee of Public Fear.” Thus spoke Hellish Quark, who sat at the head of the table, along with the usual suspects on the committee.
The proceedings were being closely observed by myself, your intrepid eye-witness, via my notorious spyfly device. I had heard of this emergency meeting through one of my moles burrowed deep within the parliamentary dungheap and I felt that it needed an independent observer to report on the activities of this bunch of raving insane megalomaniacs, misfits, narcissists, egomaniacs, sociopaths and computer modellers.
Hellish Quark was sitting in the Chairtraitor’s position and glared at each member in turn. A bright pink blob sat opposite her. This was Fliouxie Whales, next to whom sat Shorn Bendy, then Mickey Faker on his right with Rod Klaxon well to the left. Rashley Broomfield sat at one end, and an empty chair at the other.
“The meeting notes that Justinda Ardeau is late again,” snapped Hellish. As she spoke, singing became audible from the corridor outside, the door opened and, with a whinny of greeting, Justinda made her way to her chair, grinning widely.
“Late again!” snarled Hellish angrily.
“Yip, yip, that’s what it is, so yup yup,” twittered Justinda breezily, flopping into her chair and propping her head in her hands. Her eyes were strangely bright as she looked at each committee member in turn.
“I know that inane smirk,” growled Hellish. “You’ve been at the icing sugar and gummy bears again!”
“Yup, yup, strawberries and icing sugar,” sang Justinda. “You’re looking beautiful tonight Hellish, yip, yip.”
Hellish sighed like a stiff Wellington southerly, and continued. “This emergency meeting has been called in order to analyse the attack on our dictat… er, democracy, by the insurrectionist rabble last Tuesday, and ascertain why these people aren’t cowering at home as all dictatees should be. Why have our terrifying scenarios not worked on these people? Have we failed in our efforts to terrify the entire population?”
“We’ve got more than eighty per cent terrified,” remarked Broomfield laconically. “The last twenty per cent perhaps need a bit of a push. I’m thinking that we could perhaps emulate our equivalent committee from Revolutionary France and introduce Madame La Guillotine to sharpen their focus, if you’ll excuse the pun. A few beheadings may well have the desired effect on their recalcitrance.”
He leaned back in his chair, a sinister smile flickering on his humourless face but unseen, as he was wearing his mask.
Hellish Quark pursed her lips and thought deeply for a few moments. “I’ve been increasingly thinking along those lines myself, I must admit,” she said thoughtfully. “Of course, death by Pfizzer can be very painful in some cases, as we know, so perhaps some may prefer the guillotine.”
Shorn Bendy spoke up. “My computer modelling shows that if we execute about nine million or so of these evil people, who refuse to sacrifice their lives for the greater good…” he paused briefly, “or rather we, the elite’s greater good, then the remainder will happily take the therapy.” He too, leaned back in his chair, looking smarmily satisfied.
“What remainder?” growled Hellish angrily, “you hebetudinous oaf. Does your modelling show how the population can reach negative numbers?”
“Perhaps if we pile the heads up outside the Hornet’s Nest, it may be more effective,” said Rod Klaxon eagerly. “A lot of people are visual learners, you know.”
“Yip, yep, yup,” said Justinda dreamily, “the Beehive lawn needs something attention-grabbing, and those nasty people wouldn’t assemble there again. They interrupted my icing sugar session on Tuesday. I was cross, yip, yup, very very cross.”
“Some of those people seemed to be angry for some inexplicable reason,” said Fliouxsie, stirring in her chair like an awakening Kraken. “I think we should just legislate, late at night of course, to make anger illegal. A five hundred thousand dollar fine seems fair enough to me, or compulsory harvesting of an organ or three after a public guillotining if they can’t pay the fine.”
“An interesting thought,” said Auntie Hellish deliberately, rubbing the large witch’s wart on her chin: a recent addition. “But what about Angry Spittle? He would be the first to break that law, probably within seconds of its passing.”
“A double benefit,” piped up Mickey Faker. “I always said he has just the head for a basket.”
A general murmur of assent rippled around the table.
“I’ve always said he’s a real basket,” said Hellish, allowing a slight smile to play across her cold lips. “But I think we’re getting away from the realms of reality here. We’ll keep the guillotine option on the back burner for now. But it was a good thought,” she added giving a nod to Broomfield. “You can take the mask off, Rash,” she added, “you yourself told us they don’t work.”
Rashley removed his mask sheepishly, saying, “Oh, right, sometimes I need a reminder about what lies I’ve told. It’s so hard to keep track of them all.”
Rod Klaxon spoke up again. “Perhaps we could just leave it to Delta,” he said timidly, “it will hunt the unvaccinated down and kill them, don’t forget.”
A roar of derisive laughter, followed this foolishness. “Did you forget that we made that story up in this very room, thou spleeny plume-plucked ratsbane!” shouted Hellish, breaking the yet-to-be-passed anti-anger law.
The meeting descended into chaos, with all the members of the committee shouting at each other. Hellish roared, “Enough! I have to leave for a meeting of the Inner Party Elite Retirement Fund Money Printing Committee now.” With which statement she swept from the room leaving the committee members glaring at each other.
Within a few seconds, Hellish reappeared. “Who the aitch ee double ell took my broomstick?” she shouted furiously.
Again I retired for the night after a stiff noggin, wondering how much longer these dissembling motley-minded pumpions would continue to blight our lives.
