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Satire
“Horst, Horst, wo die blauen Flammen sind, bist du? [Where the blue blazes are you?] “All day I trip over you, and now when I want you, you are nowhere to be seen.” Thus shouted an angry Klouse (the K is silent) Swab, founder and oberster Führer [supreme leader] of the World Ectoparasitic Floor’em.
“I’m right here, sir,” purred Horst, seemingly appearing out of thin air. Horst is the invaluable secretary upon whom Klouse leans more and more heavily as his aging brain loses its former agility.
“Sit down, Horst,” snapped Klouse. “I’m hearing disturbing reports from a few countries ruled by my puppets, and I want to know what is going on. What can you tell me?”
“It would seem that quite large numbers of people are not happy with what your, or rather our,” hastily corrected Horst, “leaders are doing to them. There are large demonstrations by the people in many of these countries.”
Klouse spluttered angrily. “What? What nonsense! The people like a bit of authoritarianism, it gives them a sense of security. If the government is constantly telling them what to do, they think that we care, even though we don’t. Who are these incompetents?”
“The usual collection, sir,” replied Horst. “Emmanuel Microbe has many thousands of protestors descending on Paris, and has ordered the gendarmes to break car windows as a deterrent. Also, he’s teargassing them.”
“Break car windows!” spluttered Klouse. “Was für ein feiger Trottel [what a gutless numbskull]. Heads are what need to be broken, not windows. A few tears are totally ineffective. Has he never heard of baseball bats? No, perhaps not normal gendarmerie issue. Has he not heard of the army? How will breaking a few windows deter these, these…” his enraged brain groped for the correct word.
“Pöbel [rabble]sir,” prompted Horst.
“I was looking for a stronger word, but it will do,” said Klouse. He thought for a moment. “Send him a message saying ‘Stop pussyfooting around. Exterminate them, and do it properly’. His wife will know what to do, even if he doesn’t. Then the whole incident can be removed from the history books, and Bob ist dein Onkel [Bob’s your uncle].”
“I also have two identical messages from two other leaders,” said Horst, waving two sheets of paper. They both say ‘Help. The peasants are revolting. I don’t know what to do. Awaiting instructions.’ Of course, they are Jackinda Trudern and Justinda Ardeau.”
Klouse clapped his hands on his head and tottered (if one can totter while seated). “Die beiden dümmsten Idioten im Dorf [the two dumbest idiots in the village],” he cried in torment. “They are the only two errors of judgement in my entire life,” he added with a typical lack of modesty. He thought for a moment. “Tell them to send in the brownshirts,” he cried. “It’s the best way to deal with die Bedauernswerten [the deplorables].”
“Surprisingly, they have already thought of that,” remarked Horst. “Unfortunately die Braunehemden used excessive force for the New Zealand public’s taste, and it was captured on video by unbought media. They had to stop doing it.”
“ Kommissar Straßenhändler [Commissioner Costermonger] is losing his grip,” muttered Klouse, a malignant scowl on his face. “He’ll have to go when we have this situation under control. But at least some of the police have the right idea on handling the deplorables. Those ones who had no qualms about bashing women and children need to be noted and marked for promotion when the brownshirts are formed. Ardeau, the squeaky little woman with the weird teeth, needs to go.”
“But with whom can we replace her?” enquired Horst. “Her deputy is that fat fellow; Grunt Slobertson, I think his name is. He’s one of ours, but is not much smarter than Ardeau.”
“No, definitely not him,” replied Klouse. “He gets diverted too easily. If he smells a sausage roll he won’t rest until he’s found it and eaten it. His Achilles heel. I’m just worried that those deplorables might bribe him with pies and sausage rolls; he’d probably defect in a shot. No, we have two possibilities but not in the same party.”
“You mean that airline bloke?” said Horst. “The one we’ve been cultivating for years?”
”Ja ja, that’s the one,” responded Klouse. “We picked him even before he was at the airline. He’s one of us alright. He’s already talking about the Great Reset, but at least he’s not dumb enough to use the word ‘Great’ yet. That’ll get sneaked in later. I’m seriously thinking of winning him an election. Perhaps a Grand Coalition with the Ardeau Party, but I don’t think that would work too well. But it’s an option.”
“And the other one?” queried Horst.
“That Seemore fellow,” smirked Klouse. “He’s eating out of my hand now. Complete sellout.” He gave a malevolent chuckle, such as is produced by a hungry alligator spotting a giant chicken stuck in the mud within lunging distance. “We had a bit of difficulty due to his party philosophy of personal freedom and limited government interference, but ve haff vays. He was happy to toss those principles out the window, and promote mandates. They make it too easy really.” He gave another sinister chuckle.
“So we put the Ardeau creature on the back burner for now,” said Horst. “We’ll deal with her as it suits?”
“Richtig [correct],” said Klouse. “Just tell her in the meantime to double down, in true socialist fashion. Let the chips fall where they may with that one.”
“And how about Trudern?”
Klouse looked a bit puzzled, and then the pfennig dropped. “Oh you mean the Castro boy!” he replied. “He’s become a joke even amongst some of his own party, so same solution for him. Double down, back burner until not required and then replacement.”
“Very good sir,” responded Horst.
“Now Horst, earn your keep. Schnapps and plenty of it. Now! And when I say now, I mean five minutes ago!”
