Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 11

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

Why not try something new - why not try one of these FREE books - I mean what do you have to lose - they're FREE after all - and hey, here's an idea - why not get them all - now - FREE-----TODAY----YEAH TODAY -------FREE - I mean why wait until they're hits and you have to pay £10.00 each - and here's another crazy idea - when you get them because why wouldn't you - instead of leaving them to die a miserable death on your kindle or disappearing to the back of a thousand book read list - read them - I know it sounds crazy - off the wall even but hey these are crazy times right - but most importantly don't forget they're FREE so get them now - FREE - TODAY - NOW - FREE - YES FREE .

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

Prologue


For Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, of all the women in the group, one stood out. She was tall, with impeccably cut, gleaming bronze hair.

He noted the Givenchy Pandora box bag slung over the shoulder of her black crepe trouser suit, a Tyrwhitt, if he was not mistaken, and the raspberry shirt that softened the aquiline face was certainly an Emilio Pucci. He imagined a crop twitching against her Eleonaro black riding boots; the thought causing him to smile as he homed in. He had no idea of her standing in the group, although the clothes gave a hint to her status. He cared little; she was the most attractive person in the room and he intended to make himself known to her; his newly acquired knighthood must be good for something.

The faint silk scent of the window drapes was now combined with the perfume of luxurious colognes. The Chairman, a portly man with a well-used face, experienced the effect without enjoyment; well used to the smell of money. Taking advantage of his central seat on the small platform he surveyed the room. He was impressed all over again at the power of the Committee; to be able to summon two hundred people from the international political, military, industrial and social elites at such short notice and achieve their attendance was no mean feat.

Clusters of men, mostly white and middle-aged, their dark, sombre suits offset by a few in full dress uniform, a scattering of crisp white djellabas and several in multi-coloured dashikis. He noted the women; not enough to tip the balance.

All were veterans of this type of gathering, some chatting easily to each other, most keeping their own counsel. At the Chairman's nod, the man who'd been awaiting the signal detached himself from the group and walked to the podium; tall, slim, dark hair at the distinguished stage.

Kurt Silverman, Head of the Institute of Research. He cut an athletic figure; he looked good and he knew it. He also knew that he was amongst those for whom personal appearance mattered less than power and holdings; in that respect he was not their equal, he was there to serve them.

The view offered to him from the uplifted podium was of rows of seats, each one occupied by a glossy A4 booklet he'd prepared and placed there earlier. Gradually, as if in response to an unspoken suggestion, members of the group began to move to these seats.

After a short time the Chairman rose to his feet, his dark grey Kiton suit struggling valiantly to contain and command his ample body.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room. Given the ratio of male to female and, more pertinently, the balance of power he might have been forgiven for saying, 'welcome gentlemen'. Having caught the eagle eye of the auburn-haired woman in black, seated next to Sir Digby, such a lapse had been rendered impossible. He waved his hand towards the podium, introduced Kurt in a few crisp words and resumed his seat.

Kurt spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervousness; this was an august company and he would have been a fool not to have regard for their power, "Thank you for inviting me here to deliver, for your consideration, the proposed solution to the most pressing issue of our times; 'Peak Oil'."

He paused, making deliberate eye contact with the front row, then continued, "As you know, in the 70s it was estimated we would reach Peak Oil somewhere around 2015, after which the rate of production was expected to enter terminal decline, giving us a global fuel crisis somewhere about 2075."

He clicked a hand held device and the screen behind him came to life, showing a map of the location of the last known oil reserves, "However, increased warfare, rises in manufacturing and rampant population growth has meant a massively increased demand. We passed Peak Oil in 2005. As a result, we will reach the projected fuel crisis much sooner than expected."

He clicked again and the screenshot changed, "Of course, we took steps over the last few decades to try and contain the situation. Thanks to the work of the Neo Liberals in the eighties and nineties we were able to offset the increasing costs of oil production by shifting costs of manufacturing to the more cost effective labour force of the third world."

Kurt indicated with a smile the six-strong delegation from China, all male, in identical Prince of Wales check suits and to his eye, with identical faces. He gestured to the smaller group from India, two serious-looking men and one elderly, petite, sari-clad woman.

"You may recall it was estimated that we'd need a further three decades before the third world would be strong enough to take over the consumption of the West."

He paused before delivering the punch line, "I'm happy to say our recent studies have revealed that the new consumers are there in abundance as we speak, and more than able to take up the slack."

A few heads looked up at this revelation, most didn't react at all. Kurt had no time to wonder if they'd already had this information, he had to move on to the crux of the matter.

"This being the case not only have we no further need of the northern hemisphere labour market, we now have no interest in their continued ability to buy our products. In short we have no further need to sustain this part of the population."

Kurt was moving with poise now, as another chart appeared on the screen showing world population levels, "You will be aware of various natural phenomena supporting our aims of constraining population growth; the greatest of which are Aids and famine. The policy of appearing to work towards their eradication whilst achieving very little seems to be working. That takes care of Africa. Helpfully, Eastern and Southern European countries are being depopulated via sustained civil war and ethnic cleansing."

He paused, then, "Rapid economic cleansing is also underway; highly desirable areas of France and Spain are being de-populated and in the UK, London is being cleared to make way for settlement by the very wealthy, with the rest of the South-East to follow."

He couldn't prevent the smug grin that crossed his face; he'd recently snapped up some exquisite properties just outside Primrose Hill, so felt he had to follow up with, "Of course, you will get first pick of these prime slices of real estate as they become available. In fact, I believe you can book your plots now, is that right, Mr. Chairman?"

The Chairman rose awkwardly, caught out by the change of subject, but the words flowed with practiced ease, "Superior Homes has created an exclusive brochure, copies of which will be available in the foyer as you leave conference. You'll find outline plans for a deluxe chateau in an average lot size of 3,000 hectares in the new territories. "

An electric buzz swept the room.

Kurt judged the time was right for the big announcement, "However, attritional reduction of population in these areas is not enough for our needs. We must contain America, the biggest oil consumer on the planet."

Kurt looked round the room, then invested his voice with strength, "We now need to move into the last phase of our plan, which we are calling 'Operation Downsize'. I'd like to introduce General Nathan Goldhirsch of the US Army who will explain it to you."

The US contingent stirred in their seats and a tall man in full dress uniform rose to his feet and headed towards the platform. "That's US Marine Corps, Kurt," he said, smiling. There was a smattering of laughter, quickly suppressed.

"Okay," said the General, his frown bringing them back to complete order, "let's get down to business. We need to reduce the US of A population by at least 25% and we can't pussy-foot around. Economic destabilisation brings its own problems and we have one helluva civilian army out there, all armed. If they get a sniff of what's going on all hell will break loose. So, we gotta do it quickly." He turned to the screen and pointed at the image that appeared, "This here is La Palma, one of the Canary Islands."

A hush settled on the room, this was where it started to get serious.

The screen changed. "And this is the Cumbre Vieja volcano, it is extremely volatile." The screen changed again, "This is the western face of the volcano, which is gradually collapsing. One day, in the natural course of things this side will fall into the sea creating a mega tsunami which will sweep across the Atlantic, ravage the Bahamas and reach the Eastern seaboard in a matter of hours."

He allowed the magnitude of the pronouncement a few moments to settle then delivered the coup de grace, "Well, we don't have time to wait for the natural course of things, ladies and gentlemen, so we intend to blow the whole damn thing sky high. And we're doing it soon."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun







More in the 'Corpalism' series














Compendium editions

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

A 4 star **** review from Amazon for the book 'Corpalism' - verified purchase

I just heard that you haven't read this yet - I can't believe it - I mean it's only 99p - what the hell you waiting for - an invitation?


A review by - Niknakatarian

4.0 out of 5 stars
A book that gives you the feeling you have gained a degree by reading it!1 March 2015
Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase


Whats it about?
The worst you can imagine about how society is run and its demise. Karl Popper eat your heart out. Dystopia, or is it a reflection of where our society is heading right now.

There are several parts (volumes) to this book which were brilliant in themselves although I feel each would have been served better with their own story to tell as their own book. I don’t think they gel together very well as I got totally confused with Volumes 2 and 3 and how they fitted in.

So ,we start with organised anarchy in the boro’s (the ghettos of unemployed and dissident people) where millions live outside of the wealthy cities.

There is a detailed breakdown of how the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, and how those in-between become so debt ridden they are stuck in the middle forever.

But wait..the more the structure of society is explained the more complex and convoluted it becomes. Throw in the fact that someone is double crossing someone who is double crossing someone else who is…you get the picture, and you are well on your way to understanding society, economics, and politics but not a lot else.

Volume 1; Terry gets sent to the boro as punishment for tardiness at work, but all is not what it seems. Anarchy is provoked to mobilise the millions to rise up against the system.

Volume 2, totally threw me..was I still reading the same novel, is it a book of short stories? Delores returns after 40 days and 40 nights having no idea she was missing and starts spouting on about the unfair justice of the structure of society at every opportunity she gets. So, the theme is the same the characters are not. Is she mad like they all think she is, or is she correct in what she is saying? What did happen to her?

By now I have completely forgotten about Terry and Volume 1, but am totally immersed in Delores and Volume 2 when it ends.

Volume 3 and we were in a pub all dressed in fancy dress discussing, guess what? Yes, society and the individual. Throw in some history and religion and here we go again.

And so it goes on.

Did I like it?

I love the sharp wit in the narrative of this book which makes it well worth reading. It is a bit like being at University and sitting round in the refectory over burger, chips and coke discussing life, economics, politics and how society is driven by greed alone, and feeling very grown up.

It is quite simply brilliant, encompassing all of the following:

New world order
Macro society managed by micro people
“...thats what they have achieved in their crazy desire to own all of the money. It’s insane, they are insane…they are economic psychopaths.”

Conspiracy theories
Crime and kidnap
Property law
sexual orientation / monogamy
terrorism threats
Cold war: Russians and Middle east
world economics, third world slavery, politics and philosophy
The Church, Religious history, political morality
religious vs society control
“‘...every other species is born free and lives free. We humans are born into economic slavery and life crippling dept.”

Royalty and ruling classes
Inequality, sexism and feminism
Talent shows (with Sam Cowbell HAHA!) and facebook
Gods vs evolution
World history class domination
Football and teamwork ruining creativity
“…who can only play ‘pass and go’ football which is what we’ve got today, its all just ‘pass and go’, in tight triangles. "

People: gays transexuals, pretty, plain, fat, thin, white, black, super heroes, victims, Muslims, Christians, Jews

Funny and brilliantly thought out and explained but by Volume 3 I was all lectured out and my brain was fried.

Coming up to an election in the UK this makes a great read…
Q. who would I vote for after reading it?
A. No point in voting society is following a path to becoming doomed already.

Now for the bombshell…..I just couldn’t finish reading the last part of the book because Ellis' brilliance overwhelmed me and it just got too much. I still give it 4 stars.





Books from the 'Corpalism series















The compendium editions

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

The Independents -The Debt Makers

“Hello, my name is Sandeep Rajan and I’m standing as independent candidate for London Borough of Ealing and like my esteemed colleagues, I have no party affiliation. Whilst I thank Chris for diplomatically introducing me as an entrepreneur, which I am, yet I prefer to stand before you in unvarnished truth: I’m an ex-trader who made and lost a lot of money in this broken system of ours and that makes me a bit of an expert in how it all works and what we actually did with all the money.”

He stood quietly, waiting politely to give the floor time to exercise their democratic right to boo him off the stage. Instead the audience greeted his words with complete silence; he decided to take this as permission to continue.

“I’m only going to speak to you briefly but I’m going to discuss ‘austerity’, why we have austerity and what they want from us.”

Silence; broken by the odd cough.

“As we all know the banks lost a lot of money back in 2008. We know this because they told us; we had the threat of a financial Armageddon. But was it the truth? What really happened with the banking crisis? What really happened to all of that money and whose was it in the first place?”

A few people leaned forward, more alert, interested.

“Well the banks definitely lost a lot of money, and that’s for sure. But what they didn’t tell you is that they lost all of the money, everything, all of it,” he used quiet emphasis, no shouting and that somehow made it all the more believable. “And by that I don’t just mean what they had in their vaults” he shook his head slightly; “I mean all of the imaginary money as well.”

He left that with them for a few moments, glanced over at Colin, received a nod of affirmation then continued, “I have assumed you know how the banking system works, although a lot of people don’t. So, if you will forgive me, I will go through the process for you.”

He walked away from the rostrum, towards the front of the stage, the better to engage; a slim figure, immaculate in a bespoke city suit, an impossibly white shirt and expensive shoes. He hadn’t thought it tactful to dress down, clearly.

“A lot of people don’t realize how much of a confidence trick the whole process is; most people think that money comes from the government, and that Parliament dictates the amount of money that the Bank of England distributes. However, that is not the case, the banks do that.”

He waited for a response but there wasn’t much forthcoming.

“When someone puts their money in a bank, say £100 for simplicity sake… the bank can lend 90% of that money to someone and keep 10% in their vaults. In other words, the bank can lend £90 to someone who spends it and the £90.00 they spend ends up being deposited in another bank. That bank can then lend 90% of that £90 to someone else; or £81, as long as it keeps 10%, in this case, £9, in its vaults. The £81 is spent and ends up in another bank and this bank can lend 90% of that or £72.90 to another person and so it goes on. So what have we got? Add it up…we’ve lent out £90 + £81 + £72.90. So in total we’ve lent out £243.90 in three transactions when there was only ever £100 in the first place. And this practice goes on and on with ever larger sums of money. They even have a name for it; it’s called Fractional Reserve Banking.”

There was some shuffling in the audience and some noises indicating increased interest and, Sandeep hoped, a slight lessening of hostility. “And that’s only the tip of it,” he said, excitement in his voice, “because what do you think they issue money against in the first place?”

He scanned the crowd, “Did someone say gold? No, no, we’re no longer on the gold standard; we’re not on any standard. They just issue money, and that’s it.”

He drank some water from a bottle he’d brought with him. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that you want a loan. You phone up the bank and say ‘Hi, I want to borrow £10,000’”. There was a stifled titter from the crowd and Sandeep smiled, “Well, how does it go after that? If your credit rating is good they will lend it to you, if your credit rating is not, then they will not. That is all there is to it. They don’t go to their vault and see how much is in there….They don’t get a warning come up on their screens saying ‘not enough money left’…They just give it to you and add your debt to their figures, it’s as simple as that.”

He paused, comfortable and relaxed, sipped more water, “so the question now is, if the banks don’t really have the money in their vaults and they just make up the money they lend to you… who are the banks? …Surely, you might say, it must be the government…it must be regulated in some way. They can’t just lend money they don’t have, surely? ...But they can and they do. The banks are owned and run by private investors. The private investors are making up the amount of money that they want to lend out and for this service they are charging you interest.”

There was a stunned silence; in part because a lot of the audience hadn’t ever thought about the concept before and in part because now they were being forced to do so and weren’t sure what to make of it.
Sandeep gave them time, then judging them ready, continued, “Let me put it another way …you go into a shop and you buy a chair, and what have you got? Simple…You’ve got a chair, it’s solid, 3 dimensional, and you can sit on it, it’s real… but if you phone a bank for a loan they type a few things into a computer and you have a loan. You have no real money, you understand, you have pretend money that you can spend on their say so.”

He paused to look around the hall, no doubt, they were all listening now “They pass the numbers across to your bank account and when you spend it the numbers go to another bank. There’s no requirement to dig hard cash out of a vault; they transfer the numbers across on the PC. It’s a numbers game and they have us all trapped in it. Our wages are paid directly into the banks. Who amongst you can remember when that was not the case? Or has older relatives who tell you about those days when paper money appeared in a little brown envelope in your hand each Friday? The good old days when you could choose to put your cash in a box under the bed or into a building society? It is now a job requirement that you have a bank account; you have no choice. You are encouraged to pay by direct debits, incentivised so to do, the transfer is made invisibly from your bank to another bank, you don’t see any cash, so where is the money? Where is the real money?”

Sandeep stared around the hall, “Think about it, they’ve lent you something that doesn’t exist. It isn’t theirs, they haven’t taken any hard earned cash out of their pockets, it’s not real, it’s just made up money, but they’re going to charge you interest on this. They’re going to charge you interest on money that doesn’t exist, that they never had, that isn’t theirs and isn’t real. But they are going to charge you real interest on it; they are going to take money by direct debit directly from your bank. And make no mistake – this is real money which you have earned by your labour, and the banks are going to deduct this from your wages to cover interest on money that never existed.”

Sandeep watched whilst the audience digested his words, then launched again, “We accept this craziness because we think we get something out of the deal; a new car, the latest TV or a new kitchen. What we ignore is that we are being robbed by the banks. The only real money in this whole process is your money, you pay back real money on the loan and you pay back real money on the interest. They have lost nothing during the period of the loan. So, to recap, what they lent you did not exist so the lack of it for the period costs them nothing, the interest they charge is pure profit on a loan of nothing. It’s a cheap confidence trick.”

He paused briefly, “Well when deregulation started to come in the high street banks merged with the investment banks they started gambling with people’s savings, then we had the subprime loans - all of which combined to lead to the ultimate crash, now what was the crash? I mean what happened and what did it actually mean?”

He seemed to actually expect answers from the floor but it appeared no-one was willing to betray ignorance, so he was forced to continue, “Not to put too fine a point on it, the banks lost all of the money, not just the real money in their vaults but all of the made up money as well. They lost everything; which is why people started talking about a financial Armageddon. But was it really that bad? This is the big question because it’s why we have austerity today and why if they get their way, we will have austerity for decades to come.”

Sandeep paused again to let his words sink in, “I can see a question in your eyes…” some in the audience turned to look at their neighbours, “You’re asking, if the banks created all the money from nothing in the first place why, when they’ve lost everything, don’t they just go and create more?”

He lifted his hands and his shoulders went up, “The answer is simple; the banks never created any real money in the first place, they simply created the impression of money. Now people have lost faith and want their real money back from the banks that haven’t got it to give them.”

He drank more water from his bottle, “So now the banks have creditors on their backs; they have debts they cannot honour and if they were an ordinary company they would have gone bankrupt. They would’ve crashed without a government bailout and by government you need to read taxpayer… you and me. So if we had let the banks fail? What then? Well, you and I, the small investor would have lost our savings and that’s bad. We would have lost a few thousand, but would still have our homes and our jobs.”

Sandeep looked around the hall, “And the pension schemes, they would have lost a fortune as investments turned bad and share prices crashed. But that is an even spread, bad news for some, but not disastrous.”

There was movement in the hall, as they wondered where he was going with this.

“Then there’s the super rich investor, the millionaire, the billionaire; the wealthy 1%. Where do you suppose their money actually is? It’s invested by the financial services, by the banks and that is the reason the banks weren’t allowed to fail.”

He left a moment for his audience to absorb his point, “The banks were bailed out using PAYE tax payers money only because the wealthy 1% were about to lose everything; this greedy 1% of individuals would have lost all of their millions, all of their billions, their many homes, their jets, their yachts and their livelihoods. They would have been rendered poor. That is why the governments bailed out the banks, not to save us but to protect the investments of the rich, of the wealthy, of the 1%.”

Finally, applause from the hall.

“The wheels have come off the wagon but they will not admit that this is due to their profligacy and bad management. They are using our money to prop up these institutions to protect the super-rich, so that the rich 1% can keep their investments and keep cashing in their interest payments, and keep hold of their valueless shares until the market recovers, so they can keep their many houses and yachts and jets and fleets of cars.”

More applause and a few cheers, some people were standing to clap.

“That is why we really have austerity; we have austerity so that you and I can give more of our hard-earned money to the government so that it can continue to bail out the rich. That is the reason you are being taxed so heavily, that is the reason they are privatising the NHS, the reason they have raised VAT, the reason they are cutting public services, and that is the reason they are reducing funding to councils who in turn are reducing community services.”

He walked to the edge of the stage, clearly emotional for the first time.

“ Make no mistake about it…they are robbing the poor to pay the rich; robbing the 99% to prop up the 1%.... and it is not fair, it is not just and ….it is not democratic.”

The hall erupted.

Have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

Ken had lived in the same street as Alb and Gerry when they were children, too young to have been in their gang, an acquaintance rather than friend. He now lived in a corner apartment in the same part of the complex, having arrived at the Village, out of the blue, some years after them. Almost all the male residents were ex-army, navy or air force; Ken had no military connection. Alb was certain he had used questionable excuses to avoid playing his part. For this and myriad other reasons, Alb and Gerry held Ken in no particular regard.

"You in there, Ken?" asked Alb, thumping on the door.

"Ken!" added Gerry. "We're after biscuits, you got any?"

Silence. Then they heard movement and muffled voices; a door opened and closed.

"Who's in there with you? Is that Val you've got in there? 'Cause it better bloody not be," Alb was rattling the letterbox, scowling. He considered bending to peer through it but Ken's voice was suddenly close at hand.

"You can't come in here yet; I'm not decent."

"Who's that with you?"

"No one."

"Is that Val? Val, is that you?" demanded Alb.

He couldn't have explained why he felt so territorial about it; he had no claim on Val, it just got his goat to see her wasting herself on slime ball Ken.

Gerry was holding back laughter, his eyes watering with the effort. He couldn't understand Alb's fixation with Val Compton, the Village siren but there was no doubt, fixated he was.

She opened the door, pink-cheeked and flustered, adjusting her skirt, her voice aquiver, "I'd appreciate it if your tone wasn't so insinuating."

"Insinuating?" repeated Alb, "I'm not insinuating, I'm downright bloody accusing."

"Well, you'd better not be." She pushed past him with a toss of her head, a gesture that in her younger days would have resulted in hair rippling attractively but currently only served to slightly disturb a carefully constructed blue rinsed concoction. Age not withstanding she was off down the corridor as fast as Alb had ever seen her walk.

"Where you going?" demanded Alb to her swiftly disappearing back.

"And what were you doing?" asked Gerry with barely suppressed glee.

"Certainly nothing that concerns you, Gerald Arbuthnot,” she threw over her shoulder.

"What were you two up to?" Alb was now addressing Ken, whose head had appeared round the door. He looked flustered, and his hair always heavily 'Brylcreemed', was a bit mussed up.

"Nothing." Ken’s voice was surly, every bit the recalcitrant child.

"Then why won't you let us in?" Alb was desperate to see round the door, identify what it was that Ken was trying to hide, "What's that about you not being decent?"

"Val was just helping me with my back," offered Ken.

"Doin' what with your back?" pressed Alb; they all knew about Ken's slipped disc, ancient history yet he moaned constantly about the discomfort.

"Erm...she...she...she was rubbing it for me."

"Oooh, she was ‘rubbing it for you’."

Gerry was enjoying himself too much to let this one go despite Alb’s obvious distress.

Ken was anxious to placate Alb, not wanting to have him for an enemy, not even at this late stage in their lives, "You remember, she used to be a professional masseuse?"

Alb mulled this over, "Okay," he said, letting it go, "you got any biscuits?"

"Oh yes," said Ken, keen to move on, "Bourbons." He opened the door fully and ushered them in.

The apartments were all organised the same way; no hall, front door opening straight into the living room, with a compact kitchen off. The bedroom with en-suite bathroom was accessed via a short corridor; this also led to the 'outside space' - a small easily maintained courtyard.

"Custard creams?" asked Gerry, adding in a mumble, as he and Alb bundled in, taking the best seats, "bit dark in 'ere, more like a bloody cave…and what’s that smell?"

Ken crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains, hastily snuffing out scented candles before Alb, who'd grabbed the TV remote, turned up the volume, and was busy flicking through the channels, made some caustic comment, ".... uh...would you like a....."

"Cuppa?" Gerry nodded happily, "Yes please."

Alb had found the lie detector show, and settled down in the recliner to watch the next pair of unfortunates. "Bugger, we missed the end of that Felicity and Randall."

"Don't matter," said Gerry, pulling over the velvet pouffé Ken kept by the side of the TV, “we saw enough to know she was lying." He leaned back, settling his feet up for a long stay.

"True," said Alb, "spotted that a mile off. You just had to look at her to know she was lying."

"That Randall had her bang to rights," Gerry responded, with a deep sigh of contentment.

"Well," said Alb, "I'd definitely know if a woman was lying to me, that's for sure."

"Did you see the news?" asked Ken returning with the biscuits, overhearing the tail end of the conversation and keen to move it on. Gerry grabbed a custard cream, filching a Bourbon as well as the plate moved away. Ken continued despite the lack of interest, "Some of the top families have agreed to adopt the orphans of 12/12."

"What do you mean?" asked Alb, his mouth full, "top families?"

"I saw that," said Gerry, nodding, into outrage mode in an instant, "Adopted by the richest families in the country, hah, they'll live like pigs in muck for the rest of their lives."

Ken nodded, even though having lost his own parents when he was quite young he had some sympathy for their plight. He was disappointed that Gerry appeared to have forgotten; still Gerry and Alb weren’t the types you argued with; not when they were kids and not now.

"That's not the bloody point," spat Alb, "what are they doing about the terrorists?"

"Well, they're dead," said Ken, amiably.

"I know that," snapped Alb, "destroyed Wembley fucking stadium in the process, the heathen bastards. But, what about the rest of them? All those other ‘home grown terrorists’. It's them that should be in the news, not a bunch of kids."

"What’s up with you, Alb? It wasn't the kids’ fault was it?” Ken had drawn strength from somewhere and continued, “At least they'll get something out of all this."

"And it's better than the orphanages they've been stuck in," Gerry was aware he was arguing both sides to the middle as his mum used to say, but Alb did that to people sometimes.

"Bollocks to that," snapped Alb, "it's the bloody politicians’ fault anyway."

"How d'you figure that?" This from Ken.

Gerry nodded; it was the question he would've asked had he not been munching his third custard cream.

"Because the politicians let them in here in the first place." Alb looked over at Gerry and Ken and saw blank incomprehension. "The bloody foreigners," he continued patiently, speaking now as if to children.

"Ah well, yeah," agreed Gerry, "you're right there, but what can you do."

"They're here now," murmured Ken, pacifically.

"That's not the point," stated Alb, "just 'cause they're here doesn't give them the right to go around blowing things up and killing British people does it."

“Course not," said Gerry and Ken in unison.

"So what are the politicians doin' about it?"

"Well," said Ken, "they're getting the kids adopted...."

"Not the kids," blurted Alb, "what are they doin' about the bloody mess they've created?"

Gerry responded quickly, sensing that Ken was stuck, "They're fighting the terrorists, Al Qaeda and that."

"Not Al Qaeda, what's that to do with home grown terrorists anyway?"

"Well," started Ken, "they were...."

"Shut up, Ken," snapped Alb, "if these foreigners weren't here do you really think 12/12 could've happened?" Ken opened his mouth to comment, but was cut off by Alb’s dismissive, "Don't give me that, just tell me, do you think 12/12 and 7/7 could've happened?"

"Well no," said Gerry, answering for both of them, "As it happens.”

"Exactly," said Alb, "so what are the politicians doing about that then?"

"Well," said Gerry thoughtfully, "I don't know, maybe behind the scenes they're...."

"Behind the scenes? Tosh," Alb’s dander was up now and no mistake thought Ken, reminding himself to stay out of it, "you know as well as I do that behind the scenes they're not doing anything, oh...with the exception of placing these bloody orphans that is, how's that going to help? How's that going to change anything?"

"Well...." started Ken, best intentions forgotten.

"There are millions of these buggers in our country now and they can do whatever they want." Alb's tone brooked no interruption, "They can protest against our troops in the streets, our troops, British troops coming home from fighting a war to protect us from these bloody terrorists…."

“I know,” agreed Gerry, “where’d they get the idea they can do that? And how'd it ever come to pass that they'd murder one of our lads in broad daylight?”

“And who let the bastards in? We fought for this country, in Korea and Aden and the like, who the fuck let them in?”

Ken had sidled out of the room, least said soonest mended, another cuppa that was what was needed. His back was sore from Val’s ministrations amongst other things best not mentioned and he could do without one of Alb’s tirades

“That’s right,” said Gerry, “Enoch had it right, blood on the streets, an’ to my mind, it wasn’t their colour he was talkin’ about, it was their not bein’ British.”

Alb nodded, “An’ what's the bloody Government doin’ about it? Nothing as usual. I really don’t get it, why don’t they just deport all these bloody foreigners and make the streets safer?”

“We fought for this country,” said Gerry, his eyes taking on a ruminative stare, “an’ we lost mates, an’ that’s what hurts the most, the fact that we gave everything.”

“I know,” said Alb, passion spent, an old man again, reaching for the solace of a Bourbon, “what was it all for if they’re just going to give it all away?”





4



We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be ....

we shall never surrender.

Winston Churchill



Alb and Gerry chose to breakfast in the communal room, both wanting the proximity of others although the gruffness of their exchanges hid this well; to the uninitiated it would appear that the last thing either of them required was the company of another living thing.

"Bloody Muslims," muttered Alb, head in his newspaper, "It says here they're pressing to have Sharia law. Foreign laws here, in England? What's that about?"

He sounded grumpy, never at his best at breakfast, not yet having unwound from the night’s tightening that welded his joints together. He'd had his tablets; fifteen in all, some to counter the side effects of another and so on. He was privately convinced that that was where the last vestiges of his sex drive had gone. One day he'd stop the lot and just see what happened.

"The government wouldn't let them introduce that," said Gerry, looking up from the demolition of his second boiled egg.

"Says here that they're thinking of it," said Alb, "and apparently they have it in Canada. There's a piece about these so-called honour killings as well, apparently there's more of it going on all the time. We've let these bloody people into our country and they go around flouting our laws."

Gerry nodded, happily eating his toast soldiers, aware that his doing anything other than listening would be superfluous to requirements at the moment.

Alb continued, "And there're the Muslims who prey on our young girls, as well. What's that about, why aren't the police dealing with that, eh? I bet they're worried about causing offence."

Gerry nodded vigorously, still waiting for the right moment to speak; he knew from experience it was not yet.

"We're English so this land should have English laws, we can't go around changing our laws just because some idiot let too many bloody foreigners in. And don't even get me started on that mutilation they're doing to young girls right under our noses..."

"Hmmm." Gerry wasn't sure that that was Muslims but the point was valid so he let it pass.

"That's why we fought the bloody krauts in the first place," said Alb, "to defend England so that we could live like Englishmen, with our own laws and own way of life."

He went back behind his newspaper, explosion over. Gerry waited a few moments, munching steadily, then said, ruminatively, “You know, someone should do something, something to make people sit up and take notice.”

“Eh? Like what?” asked Alb, muffled words emerging from behind the newspaper.

"I don't know," said Gerry, "something."

"That's all very good and well," said Alb, "but what?"

"Petition our local MP," offered Gerry.

"Ah, what good would that do?" dismissed Alb, "When did they ever listen to what we want? It's all about them and their fancy careers."

"True, and whether or not they can claim it on their expenses. Well, what about getting a local protest movement together?"

"Waste of time," Alb snorted, "who'd turn up?"

"We could do a Hitler and form our own party?"

"At our age? Anyway, it's a waste of time," Alb was back into his newspaper, "there's nothing that we can do to save our country. If Churchill were alive today he'd turn in his grave."

"Ha!" said Gerry, "turn in his grave, like it."

"What?" Alb was frowning; he'd already forgotten his exact words.

"If he was alive today he'd turn in his grave," repeated Gerry.

"Oh, you know what I mean, he'd know what to do." Alb was in no mood for jokes.

"Of course he would," said Gerry, "he knew what to do when the Nazis were threatening....we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds...."

"We shall fight in the fields and in the streets...." Alb chimed in.

"We shall fight in the hills," said Gerry, with a wide smile, they'd done this before.

"We shall never surrender," spoken in unison, loud with a deep growl.

They were quiet for a few moments in homage to the Great Man and also to give some of the other occupants of the communal dining area a chance to eat in peace.

Then, "He'd lead a bloody revolution against this lot, that's what he'd do," said Alb, "but there's nothing we can do about it."

Gerry sat upright and lengthened his neck, "Well, there is," he said, his voice mild as befit the fact of other people’s proximity, “we can fight back.”

“We already covered this, Gerry.” Alb was curious as to why his friend was re-working the argument, it was unlike him. He surveyed him, his head bent forward at an odd angle the better to see him over the top of his reading glasses.

“No, I mean as in 'fight' back.”

Ken plonked himself down, jarring the table as he did so then leaning past Gerry and helping himself to toast. Alb surrendered the newspaper to him, folding it in half and half again, like the old days when it was a broadsheet and had proper news in it.

“Like the rioters, you mean?” now a little more interested.

“No, like soldiers.”

“Ah,” said Alb, propping his chin in his hand, “you mean a proper military campaign? Like Churchill would organise if he were alive today.”

Gerry was pleased with Alb's interest, and his idea grew on the strength of it, “We were in the forces, we’re trained, we’ve all seen dead bodies, we’re more than qualified to take these bastards on.”

“Dead bodies? Take who on?” Ken whispered, looking round at the other tables. "Have I missed something important?"

Alb ignored him, playing with the idea. “Mmm, they’re all a bit fitter and younger than us.”

“Yes, but we're trained,” said Gerry, “and we’re not afraid to die, I mean, at our age an’ all.”

"Die? Why would we die?" Ken was aghast, his voice high.

“You’re right, Gerry and when you’re right, you’re right!" Alb nodded, thoughtfully, musing, “We could do it, you know.”

Ken looked from one to the other, his face almost young with wide-eyed astonishment.

"And let's face it the army and police can't go after them, the government won't let them, they're chasing votes and it's not 'PC'," Gerry did the fingers movement as he spoke.

"What?" Alb stared at him

"PC – you know, ‘Politically Correct’."

There was silence for a few moments; Ken appeared to be having difficulty swallowing and his voice was strangulated, "I don't understand, Gerry - go after who?"

Gerry continued, “We need to get the others together and see what we can come up with. But, there's Pete for starters, he was a sapper."

"An' Wilf," said Alb, naming one of their oldest friends, "he was a marine and did a spell as a mercenary in the Congo, if I recall correctly."

"Pete's not very ...fit, though, is he." Ken inserted a down-to-earth bubble buster into what he rather hoped was a purely fanciful conversation.

"Then there's Jonesey, he's an ex-para."

"And David Hall, he's ex-REME," said Gerry.

"Now Dave, I do know, finds it hard to walk very far." Ken was growing desperate. "And you know I...I didn't serve in any...my feet for one thing..."

"Okay, that's settled, we'll get them all together, later on and sound them out."

"Sound them out for what?" Both Alb and Gerry turned to stare at him as though he'd appeared from nowhere.

"More toast?" asked Gerry, proffering the now empty plate at him.

"Oh, yes," said Ken disappearing with alacrity into the kitchenette.

"What about him?" whispered Alb.

"Don't know, do you think he knows too much already?"

Alb nodded, "We might have to silence him."

"I can't do it," said Gerry, affronted, "he's my bridge partner, it wouldn't be right."

"Well, I can't do it either," said Alb, "he went out with my sister."

"Not Margie, she'd not..."

"No, Flora."

"Oh, 'cause I liked Margie," said Gerry, ignoring Alb's quick scowl.

They fell silent; Gerry in contemplation of a tall girl with warm brown hair and equally warm brown eyes, married a spiv who left her high and dry. By that time he'd married his Gwennie and that was that. Alb's mind was on the potential disposal of Ken and the wider campaign, running through the inhabitants of the Village, discarding all the women, about whom he knew little, remembering past conversations whereby each man on arrival had paraded his military credentials to demonstrate a prouder time.

"What about Johnno? He's a mate, he'd do him for us."

"No," said Gerry, "heart condition and besides he likes Ken, they play chess together."

"Someone will have to do it if he bails on us."

"Don't worry," said Gerry, "if he bails, we'll find someone."

"If who bails?" Ken asked, approaching soundlessly, plate proffered.

“No-one, Ken,” Gerry spoke fast, grabbing toast off the plate, "and get Mags to bring some of her Angel cake, she makes lovely Angel cake.”

“Right on,” said Alb, a high colour in his cheeks, have to sharpen up, be more alert if this was going to work, walls have ears and all that.

∞

Gerry and Alb passed the afternoon in an agony of impatience; Ken had retired to his room to lie down. Given he'd not long got up Alb took it to mean he was shocked and wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Gerry was all for smothering him if he dozed; he could get another bridge partner if needs must. Alb urged caution; an unexplained death would 'draw the heat' and they needed to keep a 'low profile'. They consoled themselves with making a list of those in the Village who could prove useful, bearing in mind the need to be selective, and firming up their plans for attack.


Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

Descent 10

Louis had been disappointed but not surprised to find that Jenna had reported back to his mother that he was 'gaunt, wired and twitchy'.

As a result, he'd had the maternal telephone lecture about falling asleep in front of the PC or with a book in his lap not being the same as getting a proper night's sleep. When she'd threatened a visit if he didn't promise to be more sensible he'd complied with alacrity and got himself to bed at a decent hour.

That he'd needed the help of a few shots to achieve release from a busy brain was neither here nor there.

In the grip now of an alcohol-fuelled deep sleep, he was dreaming; groaning and threshing about, the movements not sufficient to wake him.

"Herr Hitler," he said, not at all surprised to see the man alive and well.

He looked around, saw a field, flower beds, tables and chairs and benches and a few other people scattered round. No-one seemed to notice Hitler or that Louis was wearing pyjamas or if they did they were making a good job of hiding it.

"Hello Louis," Hitler said affably. "How have you been keeping?"

"I'm good, thank you," said Louis, a little confused; this was not how he had imagined him speaking, "do I call you Adolf, or Hitler or the Führer?"

"Most people call me the Führer. I allow some to call me Herr Hitler but you can call me Adolf, like my dear friend August."

" Kubizek?" said Louis.

"How are your studies, Louis?" asked Gampy Jags, appearing from behind Hitler.

Louis started, he hadn't been aware of his great grandfather, but there he was, strong and upright, resplendent in black SS dress uniform, "Christ, Gampy, you'll get us arrested!"

"All will be fine, Louis," said Gampy, "just listen to the Führer."

"Thank you, Oberleutnant Jaeger," said Hitler, "but I wish to speak to Louis alone." He smiled benignly, waiting until Gampy Jaggs had retreated some distance before saying, "I always did find all that ceremonial shit tiresome."

Louis responded tartly, "From the film footage I could've sworn you loved it."

"Ah," said Hitler, leaning back, "that was Goebbels, he liked the look of the thing."

"But you loved the power?"

"Tell me Louis, wouldn't you want the power to change things for the better?"

"For the betterment of whom, precisely?"

"Ah," said Hitler, brushing the question aside, "that's Mr. Churchill and the Jewish cabal that surrounded him talking. I made Germany a country worth living in."

"Mein Kampf is riddled with anti-Jewish stuff and it's in all your speeches. You planned to deprive them of their wealth, and their power and ultimately exterminate them."

"Sometimes you have to say things in a certain way to get the attention of the masses," said Hitler, smoothly. He started to walk away, "You shouldn't believe all the rubbish from your Mr. Churchill or that gangster, Roosevelt."

Louis rubbed his head, ran after him, "Where are you going? Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

Hitler ignored the question, saying instead, "The British and Americans made fun of my moustache, said I looked like that fool Chaplin but I used to have a bushy moustache, it came right out both sides, luxuriant and strong, but then one day the gas mask didn't seal and the gas got in. It was almost fatal. From then on I trimmed my moustache like others in the trenches. But what would Churchill or that cripple Roosevelt know of the trenches? I ask you, is this the mark of a fool or a badge of courage?"

"Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

"Here, take this." He watched as Louis shrugged into the beige trench coat with its abundance of epaulettes and storm flaps. He said, his voice musing, "One thing they did get right, I did come from the masses. Before the war I, like them, was poor and often starving, struggling to make ends meet."

"Yeah okay," said Louis, fiddling with buttons, "so you blamed the Jews, I get it."

"Silly boy, not the individual Jew, but the Jewish economic system that the world was slipping into, thanks to the rapid growth of the world's banking elite."

"Right," said Louis. Properly clothed he was now looking for an escape route.

An ice-cream vendor arrived next to him. The man seemed unsurprised to see them.

Hitler looked delighted, saying with a smile, "Two 99s."

"Oh yes!" said Louis, thrilled in spite of himself.

"£5.60 mate," said the ice cream man.

"You know me?" asked Hitler, winking at Louis, who was attacking his flake with gusto.

"Of course, Charlie Chaplin."

"So you'll know I'm good for it, put it on my slate."

"Is that Stalin?" asked Louis, ice cream on his nose.

"HA!" snarled Hitler, turning to glare at the heavy set man, "He turns up everywhere I go, won't leave me alone," he waved a fist, shouted, "I'll kick your fucking head in, commie bastard." He plunged his face into his ice cream, lifting it up to see Stalin twirling his moustache and summoning two surly-looking men to his side. He muttered an aside to Louis, "Let's move on a bit."

"Er, Adolf," said Louis, pointing to Hitler's moustache, "you've got some...um...ice cream."

"No distractions, Louis," said Hitler, tossing his cornet aside, "listen to me. It's important for you, for your country and your memory of Gampy Jaggs. Before and after the war Europeans lived in poverty but in Germany in 1918, we were desperate. Do you understand? Can you even begin to imagine what it was like for us, the country had been betrayed by the Jews...."

"The stab in the back," said Louis. Reluctant to throw his ice cream away he was trying to eat it without being seen. He muttered through a mouthful, "You made that up to cover your embarrassment at Germany's defeat."

"Not at all!" snapped Hitler, "World Jewry had contrived to defeat Germany so they could steal Palestine with British help and what of us, their victims? Our industries robbed of their produce, our mines confiscated, our land reduced, our empire given away to the British and French, our army reduced to 100,000 men whilst our enemies maintained forces in the millions right on our borders. Our navy was scuttled, we had no air force, we were weak and vulnerable to attack and the constant economic bullying of the old allies..."

"Er... .ice cream," said Louis, pointing under his own nose to demonstrate the position.

"The French invaded the Rhineland and stole our coal in 1923, the Poles were looking at stealing more land from us, the Czechs were pushing us around, everyone was taking what they wanted. We had an impossible national debt, that could never be repaid in a single lifetime... and we did not start the war. Do you understand our frustration, Louis?"

"Cakes for sale!" A woman was standing in front of them, a tray of cakes held out in offering.

"Ah! Cakes," said Hitler excitedly, "Ja! For me and for my good friend, Louis."

"Er..we're not, we're not...friends," said Louis, waving his hands.

"Cream buns," said Hitler, eyes crinkling at the thought, "ja, two. Put them on my tab."

He took a huge bite and the cream spurted out. "Germany was on her knees, Louis," he said, his cheeks stuffed full, "then recession hit and even more Germans were thrown out of work."

"It was the same for other countries, though," said Louis, staring at his own cake, wondering how to eat it without cream popping out from all sides.

"People were dying of starvation. Tens of thousands of German men committed suicide because they could not provide for their families, housewives became prostitutes. Our society crumbled, while rich Jews and American bankers were making a fortune out of our distress."

"I get the picture, you were suffering," said Louis, entranced by the blob of cream on Hitler's nose, not wanting to draw attention to it for fear of annoying the man.

"It all came about because of the Jewish banking system, Louis," said Hitler, "do you see?"

Louis decided to lick the cream out of the cake first, that way he could control how much cream came out when he bit into it.

"NO!" shouted Hitler. Louis jumped, almost dropping his cake. "No, Louis, not like that. Bite into it, enjoy the whole experience. This licking, it separates the tastes, you get no blend."

"But...urm...er" stammered Louis, "I'll get cream on my...er...nose."

"No matter your nose, how will you ever know the
full pleasure if you lick out the cream?"

"Bite into it, boy," thundered Gampy Jags appearing from nowhere, "obey the Führer."

Louis did as he was bid and got cream on his nose.

"It tastes better, ja?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead returning to the subject in earnest, "Germany was destitute, trapped between two ideologies; Judeo-capitalism was robbing the country blind and the Russian Communists crushing us beneath a common uniformity."

Louis, was still struggling with his cake, "Where did I put my 99? I can't remember eating it!"

Hitler continued undeterred, "My aim was to free my people from the Jewish economic yoke, and drive out the Bolsheviks from Berlin. That was my aim Louis, my only aim."

"You wanted to conquer the world."

"That was the accusation the Jews put into Mr. Churchill's mouth. They didn't want to lose their power, their control of all of the key posts and jobs, all the money. Ordinary Germans had been ruined by the war and the recession. Only the Vons and Jews came out on top."

"Why didn't you wage war on the Vons then?"

Hitler looked affronted, said, "They were German, Louis. I believed they would put Germany before their own self interests. All I wanted was to bring Germany back to her former glory."

"How does that fit with invading Czechoslovakia and Poland?" demanded Louis.

"Again they have obscured the truth; the Poles had a plan to invade Prussia as far as Berlin and all we had to protect ourselves was a pitiful army of 100,000 men."

"But you invaded Poland," said Louis, wiping the cream from his nose.

"They were killing Germans, we had daily reports of new casualties, the Poles were goading us into war. I had no choice, was I to let the Poles go on murdering Germans? Would Mr. Chamberlain have let any foreign power murder Englishmen without reprisal? I think not."

"Well, that's as maybe," said Louis, "but you resorted to war instead of negotiation."

"I had tried to negotiate, but as soon as Rydz-Śmigly got Mr. Chamberlain's ridiculous treaty he would not listen. Who can blame him? If I had had such a commitment from the British Prime Minister then I too would've tried to win the world."

"I need the toilet," said Louis, crossing his legs awkwardly.

"Answer me this, at the turn of the twentieth Century Europe was wholly Christian and followed the word of Jesus, ja?"

Louis nodded, "I really need to go now."

"And now very few Europeans follow Christ, is that true?"

Louis scrunched up his face. It seemed important not to let go of his bladder at this point.

"But a lot of people still believe in God, is that not right?" pressed Hitler.

"So?"

"Jews do not believe in Christ, Louis," said Hitler, "they have killed European Christianity but left God as the supreme power. Ergo, they have killed Christ a second time."

Louis awoke with a start, extricated himself from his duvet, tumbled out of bed and rushed to the toilet, 'Fuckin' 'ell,' he thought, 'I've gotta lay off the Hitler stuff....."


Hope you have a nice week

Cheers for reading

Arun

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

Prologue


For Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, of all the women in the group, one stood out. She was tall, with impeccably cut, gleaming bronze hair.

He noted the Givenchy Pandora box bag slung over the shoulder of her black crepe trouser suit, a Tyrwhitt, if he was not mistaken, and the raspberry shirt that softened the aquiline face was certainly an Emilio Pucci. He imagined a crop twitching against her Eleonaro black riding boots; the thought causing him to smile as he homed in. He had no idea of her standing in the group, although the clothes gave a hint to her status. He cared little; she was the most attractive person in the room and he intended to make himself known to her; his newly acquired knighthood must be good for something.

The faint silk scent of the window drapes was now combined with the perfume of luxurious colognes. The Chairman, a portly man with a well-used face, experienced the effect without enjoyment; well used to the smell of money. Taking advantage of his central seat on the small platform he surveyed the room. He was impressed all over again at the power of the Committee; to be able to summon two hundred people from the international political, military, industrial and social elites at such short notice and achieve their attendance was no mean feat.

Clusters of men, mostly white and middle-aged, their dark, sombre suits offset by a few in full dress uniform, a scattering of crisp white djellabas and several in multi-coloured dashikis. He noted the women; not enough to tip the balance.

All were veterans of this type of gathering, some chatting easily to each other, most keeping their own counsel. At the Chairman's nod, the man who'd been awaiting the signal detached himself from the group and walked to the podium; tall, slim, dark hair at the distinguished stage.

Kurt Silverman, Head of the Institute of Research. He cut an athletic figure; he looked good and he knew it. He also knew that he was amongst those for whom personal appearance mattered less than power and holdings; in that respect he was not their equal, he was there to serve them.

The view offered to him from the uplifted podium was of rows of seats, each one occupied by a glossy A4 booklet he'd prepared and placed there earlier. Gradually, as if in response to an unspoken suggestion, members of the group began to move to these seats.

After a short time the Chairman rose to his feet, his dark grey Kiton suit struggling valiantly to contain and command his ample body.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room. Given the ratio of male to female and, more pertinently, the balance of power he might have been forgiven for saying, 'welcome gentlemen'. Having caught the eagle eye of the auburn-haired woman in black, seated next to Sir Digby, such a lapse had been rendered impossible. He waved his hand towards the podium, introduced Kurt in a few crisp words and resumed his seat.

Kurt spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervousness; this was an august company and he would have been a fool not to have regard for their power, "Thank you for inviting me here to deliver, for your consideration, the proposed solution to the most pressing issue of our times; 'Peak Oil'."

He paused, making deliberate eye contact with the front row, then continued, "As you know, in the 70s it was estimated we would reach Peak Oil somewhere around 2015, after which the rate of production was expected to enter terminal decline, giving us a global fuel crisis somewhere about 2075."

He clicked a hand held device and the screen behind him came to life, showing a map of the location of the last known oil reserves, "However, increased warfare, rises in manufacturing and rampant population growth has meant a massively increased demand. We passed Peak Oil in 2005. As a result, we will reach the projected fuel crisis much sooner than expected."

He clicked again and the screenshot changed, "Of course, we took steps over the last few decades to try and contain the situation. Thanks to the work of the Neo Liberals in the eighties and nineties we were able to offset the increasing costs of oil production by shifting costs of manufacturing to the more cost effective labour force of the third world."

Kurt indicated with a smile the six-strong delegation from China, all male, in identical Prince of Wales check suits and to his eye, with identical faces. He gestured to the smaller group from India, two serious-looking men and one elderly, petite, sari-clad woman.

"You may recall it was estimated that we'd need a further three decades before the third world would be strong enough to take over the consumption of the West."

He paused before delivering the punch line, "I'm happy to say our recent studies have revealed that the new consumers are there in abundance as we speak, and more than able to take up the slack."

A few heads looked up at this revelation, most didn't react at all. Kurt had no time to wonder if they'd already had this information, he had to move on to the crux of the matter.

"This being the case not only have we no further need of the northern hemisphere labour market, we now have no interest in their continued ability to buy our products. In short we have no further need to sustain this part of the population."

Kurt was moving with poise now, as another chart appeared on the screen showing world population levels, "You will be aware of various natural phenomena supporting our aims of constraining population growth; the greatest of which are Aids and famine. The policy of appearing to work towards their eradication whilst achieving very little seems to be working. That takes care of Africa. Helpfully, Eastern and Southern European countries are being depopulated via sustained civil war and ethnic cleansing."

He paused, then, "Rapid economic cleansing is also underway; highly desirable areas of France and Spain are being de-populated and in the UK, London is being cleared to make way for settlement by the very wealthy, with the rest of the South-East to follow."

He couldn't prevent the smug grin that crossed his face; he'd recently snapped up some exquisite properties just outside Primrose Hill, so felt he had to follow up with, "Of course, you will get first pick of these prime slices of real estate as they become available. In fact, I believe you can book your plots now, is that right, Mr. Chairman?"

The Chairman rose awkwardly, caught out by the change of subject, but the words flowed with practiced ease, "Superior Homes has created an exclusive brochure, copies of which will be available in the foyer as you leave conference. You'll find outline plans for a deluxe chateau in an average lot size of 3,000 hectares in the new territories. "

An electric buzz swept the room.

Kurt judged the time was right for the big announcement, "However, attritional reduction of population in these areas is not enough for our needs. We must contain America, the biggest oil consumer on the planet."

Kurt looked round the room, then invested his voice with strength, "We now need to move into the last phase of our plan, which we are calling 'Operation Downsize'. I'd like to introduce General Nathan Goldhirsch of the US Army who will explain it to you."

The US contingent stirred in their seats and a tall man in full dress uniform rose to his feet and headed towards the platform. "That's US Marine Corps, Kurt," he said, smiling. There was a smattering of laughter, quickly suppressed.

"Okay," said the General, his frown bringing them back to complete order, "let's get down to business. We need to reduce the US of A population by at least 25% and we can't pussy-foot around. Economic destabilisation brings its own problems and we have one helluva civilian army out there, all armed. If they get a sniff of what's going on all hell will break loose. So, we gotta do it quickly." He turned to the screen and pointed at the image that appeared, "This here is La Palma, one of the Canary Islands."

A hush settled on the room, this was where it started to get serious.

The screen changed. "And this is the Cumbre Vieja volcano, it is extremely volatile." The screen changed again, "This is the western face of the volcano, which is gradually collapsing. One day, in the natural course of things this side will fall into the sea creating a mega tsunami which will sweep across the Atlantic, ravage the Bahamas and reach the Eastern seaboard in a matter of hours."

He allowed the magnitude of the pronouncement a few moments to settle then delivered the coup de grace, "Well, we don't have time to wait for the natural course of things, ladies and gentlemen, so we intend to blow the whole damn thing sky high. And we're doing it soon."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun



Others in the Corpalism series

















Compendium editions

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

Descent 11

"Okay Adolf, you canny old bastard."

Louis was at his book shelves, rummaging. He had taken to referring to Hitler by his Christian name ever since his dream, feeling as if he'd been given permission. He was also speaking out loud, something he had been doing more and more, "Let's just check out your racial theories, shall we? I know just the place to start, Jesse Owens. Let's see, you wouldn't shake the black man's hand, or so legend has it..."

He stopped abruptly, scowling, then his glance fell to the piles of books on the floor, seeing them as if for the first time. He knelt down and continued rummaging, "now... 1936 Olympics, got to be here somewhere."

He sat back, dispirited.

He did have rather a lot of books; some he'd accumulated over several years, a few had come in courtesy of Dave, still more had been coming in the door fast and furiously over recent weeks. He had not disposed of the packaging that the new ones had come in and this added to the general disorder. "I'll have to alpha sort this lot one day, but not now..."

He reached for his phone and speed dialled Jenna.

"Hi babe," he spoke over her excited cries, "have you seen my Nazi Olympics book?"

"What?" Her voice was instantly frosty.

"My Nazi Olympics book." Her icy tone had not registered.

"I heard you, Louis but seriously, that's the first thing you say to me?"

"What's wrong?" He leaned over to dig about in one of his stacks, "Who's upset you?"

"Louis, we haven't seen each other for a week, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

He stood up, she had his attention, "Sorry Jenna, I've just been so busy studying."

"Rubbish Louis, you're still researching your great-grandfather's folder."

'Oops,' thought Louis, 'busted.'

"Louis?"

"Yeah," said Louis, not realising he had been expected to say more.

"LOUIS!"

"Sorry, I know it's been ages," he spoke hastily, fearing a visit, "but I've been studying babe, honest. I changed my thesis, combined the two...look, I'll try and get to see you tonight...."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, not for my sake," said Jenna, trap laid. She waited for the protestations, the promise to turn up come hell or high water.

Louis was about to do exactly that but he spotted the book he had been seeking, 'YES!'

"Well?" pressed Jenna.

"Cheers babe," said Louis, a smile on his face, as he hung up.

He grabbed the book and stumbled over to his desk, searching the index for Jesse Owens, found the bit he wanted page 227 item 17 and read through the paragraph, 'Owens was the recipient of more adulation than any other athlete had received from the German crowds.' And what's this? Jesse Owens claimed that 'When I passed the Chancellor he arose, waved his hand at me, and I waved back at him. I think the writers showed bad taste in criticizing the man of the hour in Germany'.

"No, fuck!" wailed Louis, "FUCK!"

His head drooped, he waited a few seconds then turned the page, it went on, 'Hitler had congratulated several German and Finnish winners on the first day but as the day ended he left early and didn't shake the hands of the American high jumpers, two of whom were black.' "Hmm, now I have you Adolf, you lying bastard, that's more like the racist we know." He read on, 'Count Baillet-Latour, president of the International Olympic Committee, sent a message to Hitler that he was only a guest of honour and should either
congratulate all of the winners or none, so Hitler chose none. So it is unclear whether he would've shaken Jesse Owens' hand or not.'

Louis dropped the book, "You're a right dodgy bastard Adolf, kept everything under a shroud of mystery. Would you or wouldn't you have shaken Jesse Owens' hand? Damn you."

He got up and paced, telling the room, "And, as if that wasn't enough, Owens returned to segregation and poverty in the US, forced to earn a living racing horses." He sighed heavily, said, "A country where they were still lynching blacks not to mention keeping the Indians on reservations. Fuck, this is so messed up."

His phone buzzed, he checked, it was Jenna. He ignored it, he had bigger fish to fry. 

∞

Louis tossed and turned unable to sleep. Hitler was trampling through his thoughts; so many questions and no way of gaining any answers.

He kicked off the duvet and rolled out of bed. No point trying to sleep; he might as well get back to his research. He reached for his jacket and pulled out a small packet of pills. This time he had insisted on paying Dave. He popped one into his mouth and dry swallowed.

He waited until the immediate and familiar buzzing had quietened down, waited for the surge of creative energy, the second stage of the process that came when the chemicals fully hit his bloodstream.

He'd noticed a slight lag in the timing of the surge, a longer period of the angry buzzing, and was wondering if he'd got a bad batch. It was more likely that he was growing impatient.

While he waited he stared at the ceiling, his thoughts wandering back to a time in his early teens, when he had struggled with the meaning of life. The circularity of these thoughts had thrown him into mental turmoil. He had little recollection of that time in his life but for the residual feeling of frantic panic.
The chaos he was feeling now was reminiscent of the confusion he had experienced in those dark days.

He had been told by his mother that he had sat staring at the walls for weeks on end, so desperate had he been to resolve the issue of where life had come from and how it had evolved. He knew he had been 'referred' for treatment with a Dr Stephanovich and with that recollection came the memory of his 'therapeutic friend' the one that Dr Stephanovich had conjured for him to help break the cycle, the friend that was meant to bring him back from the depths of his mind.

Louis shuddered at the memory; it had worked but there had been consequences.

Where Dr Stephanovich had created a pleasant cuddly Koala Bear figure and called it Milo Louis' mind had turned it into a ghoulish zombie-like creature that wanted to kill his parents. It had taken a suicide attempt to bring him out of that and he certainly had no desire to return.

He stared at the wall and tried to conjure Hitler's image. Nothing. He tried again, nothing.

He flopped down and swiped his tablet into life and started interrogating the internet for more revisionist videos. On the wall of his living room he now had three pictures of Hitler in various poses.
That was another reason he didn't want anyone round his flat; he'd have a hard job explaining them away. He'd spent so much time studying them and Hitler that he now more or less knew every expression that the man had, or at least every televised version.

"This is insane," moaned Louis, as he finished another video showing how the holocaust could not have happened, "how could this be?"

"You just have to look, Louis," said Gampy Jaggs.

Louis woke with a start, although he couldn't be certain he'd been asleep. The video was still showing the credits but he was sure he'd heard Gampy's voice.

It was all getting too much for him; he was researched out, he knew everything there was to know about the revisionist claims, he knew all the revisionists' names, all their theories. He knew all the counteracting arguments.

His mind was awash with numbers and stats and Zyklon B and camp names and Poland and who declared war on who and when and what this leader and that leader meant by this or that but it was all a jumbled mess and none of it seemed to help him to a satisfactory conclusion.

He got his coat and walked out of the flat; fresh air would clear his mind.

He stopped, he was in the middle of the cereal aisle in a supermarket. He frowned, he had no memory of going in the shop, of the roads leading to it.

"Psst!"

He looked around, the aisle was empty but people were walking past at the bottom. He looked over to the nearest shelf, there was a picture of Hitler on a cornflakes box. He squinted, got up very close. 'Really? Hitler? On a box of cornflakes?'

"Cakes," said the face on the box. It sounded like a demand.

Louis slapped his cheeks, hard. Christ, he was hallucinating.

"Cakes," the demand came again.

"What are you doing here? How did you get here? Just go, before people see you," said Louis, waving him away, "are you even here? Am I here? Is this another dream?"

Just then two small children ran past, their mum close behind. She tossed some cereal boxes in her trolley, smiled at Louis and marched on.

Louis swallowed, looked back at the cornflakes box, no Hitler, he gulped, wiped his sweaty brow and made his way to the cake aisle.

He woke to find he was back in his flat. Or perhaps he had never left? He was holding a book, no longer reading the words, they were a blur.

It struck him that no matter what he read or where he looked he couldn't actually find any factual evidence that the holocaust as described ever happened. Of course, there were plenty of pictures of Jews with their suitcases, having their names written down at desks, getting onto over-crowded freight trains. There were pictures of gaunt people in rags, starving and probably dying of typhus which, although horrible in itself, was not proof of gas chambers.

"Fucking hell Gampy! Why couldn't you have been normal? Why did you have to saddle me with this?"
His voice sounded odd to his own ears, as if he was in a large, empty space.

"I need you to understand Louis," said Gampy.

"Yeah of course," said Louis, without thinking.

"It did not happen and I want you to be the one to tell the world."

Louis went over it again in his mind, desperately trying to be fair.

There was plenty of witness testimony and hearsay but never of the gas chambers only of the treatment that individual Jews had received from their prison guards. Whenever it came to the gas chambers themselves the so called witnesses always said something along the lines of "And of course they were sent to the gas chambers," and then, when pressed on the details, they said, "Well I never actually saw them go in myself but we never saw them again and the flames were always burning at the top of the crematoria." If he did find a witness testimony it was so outrageous that it would surely have been inadmissible in any court of law.

"No-one will listen," said Louis, still conversing happily with his dead Gampy, "All the revisionists are ruined; if they're not in prison for denying the holocaust then their careers are well and truly fucked."

"But I need you to be brave, Louis, like we were."

"You hid it from me, and from the world, you weren't brave," snapped Louis.

He waited several minutes, then, "Gampy?"

Silence.

"Gampy?"


Hope you have a nice week

Cheers for reading

Arun





























 

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

Prologue


For Sir Digby Chalfont, a connoisseur, of all the women in the group, one stood out. She was tall, with impeccably cut, gleaming bronze hair.

He noted the Givenchy Pandora box bag slung over the shoulder of her black crepe trouser suit, a Tyrwhitt, if he was not mistaken, and the raspberry shirt that softened the aquiline face was certainly an Emilio Pucci. He imagined a crop twitching against her Eleonaro black riding boots; the thought causing him to smile as he homed in. He had no idea of her standing in the group, although the clothes gave a hint to her status. He cared little; she was the most attractive person in the room and he intended to make himself known to her; his newly acquired knighthood must be good for something.

The faint silk scent of the window drapes was now combined with the perfume of luxurious colognes. The Chairman, a portly man with a well-used face, experienced the effect without enjoyment; well used to the smell of money. Taking advantage of his central seat on the small platform he surveyed the room. He was impressed all over again at the power of the Committee; to be able to summon two hundred people from the international political, military, industrial and social elites at such short notice and achieve their attendance was no mean feat.

Clusters of men, mostly white and middle-aged, their dark, sombre suits offset by a few in full dress uniform, a scattering of crisp white djellabas and several in multi-coloured dashikis. He noted the women; not enough to tip the balance.

All were veterans of this type of gathering, some chatting easily to each other, most keeping their own counsel. At the Chairman's nod, the man who'd been awaiting the signal detached himself from the group and walked to the podium; tall, slim, dark hair at the distinguished stage.

Kurt Silverman, Head of the Institute of Research. He cut an athletic figure; he looked good and he knew it. He also knew that he was amongst those for whom personal appearance mattered less than power and holdings; in that respect he was not their equal, he was there to serve them.

The view offered to him from the uplifted podium was of rows of seats, each one occupied by a glossy A4 booklet he'd prepared and placed there earlier. Gradually, as if in response to an unspoken suggestion, members of the group began to move to these seats.

After a short time the Chairman rose to his feet, his dark grey Kiton suit struggling valiantly to contain and command his ample body.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room. Given the ratio of male to female and, more pertinently, the balance of power he might have been forgiven for saying, 'welcome gentlemen'. Having caught the eagle eye of the auburn-haired woman in black, seated next to Sir Digby, such a lapse had been rendered impossible. He waved his hand towards the podium, introduced Kurt in a few crisp words and resumed his seat.

Kurt spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervousness; this was an august company and he would have been a fool not to have regard for their power, "Thank you for inviting me here to deliver, for your consideration, the proposed solution to the most pressing issue of our times; 'Peak Oil'."

He paused, making deliberate eye contact with the front row, then continued, "As you know, in the 70s it was estimated we would reach Peak Oil somewhere around 2015, after which the rate of production was expected to enter terminal decline, giving us a global fuel crisis somewhere about 2075."

He clicked a hand held device and the screen behind him came to life, showing a map of the location of the last known oil reserves, "However, increased warfare, rises in manufacturing and rampant population growth has meant a massively increased demand. We passed Peak Oil in 2005. As a result, we will reach the projected fuel crisis much sooner than expected."

He clicked again and the screenshot changed, "Of course, we took steps over the last few decades to try and contain the situation. Thanks to the work of the Neo Liberals in the eighties and nineties we were able to offset the increasing costs of oil production by shifting costs of manufacturing to the more cost effective labour force of the third world."

Kurt indicated with a smile the six-strong delegation from China, all male, in identical Prince of Wales check suits and to his eye, with identical faces. He gestured to the smaller group from India, two serious-looking men and one elderly, petite, sari-clad woman.

"You may recall it was estimated that we'd need a further three decades before the third world would be strong enough to take over the consumption of the West."

He paused before delivering the punch line, "I'm happy to say our recent studies have revealed that the new consumers are there in abundance as we speak, and more than able to take up the slack."

A few heads looked up at this revelation, most didn't react at all. Kurt had no time to wonder if they'd already had this information, he had to move on to the crux of the matter.

"This being the case not only have we no further need of the northern hemisphere labour market, we now have no interest in their continued ability to buy our products. In short we have no further need to sustain this part of the population."

Kurt was moving with poise now, as another chart appeared on the screen showing world population levels, "You will be aware of various natural phenomena supporting our aims of constraining population growth; the greatest of which are Aids and famine. The policy of appearing to work towards their eradication whilst achieving very little seems to be working. That takes care of Africa. Helpfully, Eastern and Southern European countries are being depopulated via sustained civil war and ethnic cleansing."

He paused, then, "Rapid economic cleansing is also underway; highly desirable areas of France and Spain are being de-populated and in the UK, London is being cleared to make way for settlement by the very wealthy, with the rest of the South-East to follow."

He couldn't prevent the smug grin that crossed his face; he'd recently snapped up some exquisite properties just outside Primrose Hill, so felt he had to follow up with, "Of course, you will get first pick of these prime slices of real estate as they become available. In fact, I believe you can book your plots now, is that right, Mr. Chairman?"

The Chairman rose awkwardly, caught out by the change of subject, but the words flowed with practiced ease, "Superior Homes has created an exclusive brochure, copies of which will be available in the foyer as you leave conference. You'll find outline plans for a deluxe chateau in an average lot size of 3,000 hectares in the new territories. "

An electric buzz swept the room.

Kurt judged the time was right for the big announcement, "However, attritional reduction of population in these areas is not enough for our needs. We must contain America, the biggest oil consumer on the planet."

Kurt looked round the room, then invested his voice with strength, "We now need to move into the last phase of our plan, which we are calling 'Operation Downsize'. I'd like to introduce General Nathan Goldhirsch of the US Army who will explain it to you."

The US contingent stirred in their seats and a tall man in full dress uniform rose to his feet and headed towards the platform. "That's US Marine Corps, Kurt," he said, smiling. There was a smattering of laughter, quickly suppressed.

"Okay," said the General, his frown bringing them back to complete order, "let's get down to business. We need to reduce the US of A population by at least 25% and we can't pussy-foot around. Economic destabilisation brings its own problems and we have one helluva civilian army out there, all armed. If they get a sniff of what's going on all hell will break loose. So, we gotta do it quickly." He turned to the screen and pointed at the image that appeared, "This here is La Palma, one of the Canary Islands."

A hush settled on the room, this was where it started to get serious.

The screen changed. "And this is the Cumbre Vieja volcano, it is extremely volatile." The screen changed again, "This is the western face of the volcano, which is gradually collapsing. One day, in the natural course of things this side will fall into the sea creating a mega tsunami which will sweep across the Atlantic, ravage the Bahamas and reach the Eastern seaboard in a matter of hours."

He allowed the magnitude of the pronouncement a few moments to settle then delivered the coup de grace, "Well, we don't have time to wait for the natural course of things, ladies and gentlemen, so we intend to blow the whole damn thing sky high. And we're doing it soon."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun



Others in the Corpalism series















Compendium editions

Hey - the whole Corpalism series is FREE for Kindle/PC/mobile phone download until Monday 24th December 2018 - so why not treat yourself to all 9 books - absolutely FREE

Suddenly

A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on.

John F. Kennedy


Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office. He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.

Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.

Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated,” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian” Peter interceded, “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare. The rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity was having a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly “there was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“When are they doing something about parking?” said Terry, opportunistic as ever.

“As we said yesterday and the day before and oh yes as we’ve been saying in all these months since you joined us they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?” Silence. “Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.” The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them. “You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes.” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

…yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life… “I know.” Terry murmured, humbly.

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:20 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter,” he tried, “I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and already put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.” Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan. “I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting,”

“Right now?” questioned Terry, “Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”

≈ ≈

He slumped into his settee and started flicking channels, more for something to do than actually find something to watch, he would probably channel hop for a good couple of hours. It was ironic that under other circumstances he’d have been glad of the time to run through his patterns; it would have surprised Peter Illyffe and his work colleagues to know that as a Tae Kwon Do 4th Dan he trained regularly.

However, abruptly out of work and awaiting re-location to God knows where he didn’t really feel like committing time to any particular activity.

The TV went dead at the precise moment the phone rang, “Terence Jones?”

“Terry,” he corrected, “I prefer Terry.”

“Mr. Jones,” said the woman on the other end, “my name is Delia Helm and I’m phoning from Central Services. We note that you were dismissed from Peter Brooke’s redeployment agency today and as a result are due to be relocated…”

“Well yeah,” said Terry, “but that was only about 5 minutes ago and….”

“From our records it was 2 hours and 15 minutes ago,” continued Delia, “and as a result of your dismissal and your financial situation we’re terminating all services with immediate effect.”

“What?” the word came out as a gasp, “All services?? But what does that mean?”

“It means that until you have repaid the £30,000 you owe your creditors or until you have the means of repaying them you will be unable to take advantage of any services offered within the UK.”

“What?”

“We have deactivated the purchasing power of your chip” she paused “and we will take possession of your flat and its contents today.”

“But you can’t do that!”

“Please don’t shout at me, Mr. Jones or I will have to raise a P118 which will be escalated to your local law enforcement officer.”

He fell silent awaiting the next hammer blow; he knew the drill, yeah but not the detail nor had he anticipated the speed and in any case, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Your flat and its contents will be auctioned this afternoon and the funds raised will go to settle some of your debts. For your information I can confirm that Galaxy have estimated that we will raise £1,500 on your possessions and £500,000 on the sale of your flat. However, as you are aware we are currently in a recession which means the market value of your flat is around £150,000 less than you originally paid for it…”

“Oh don’t give me that...” snapped Terry.

“As you had a 100% mortgage you will owe your bank the balance of £150,000 which plus the £30,000 sundry debts minus the £1,500 obtained from the sale of your possessions means you will be looking at an overall debt of approximately £178,500.”

“What!”

“As this sum exceeds the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the Employment Act” she continued relentlessly, “which for your information is £25,000, you will face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence.”

“You are fucking kidding!” the expletive resonated round the room.

“Mr. Jones, I warned you - I have raised a P118 reporting you to your local enforcement officer. Please do not leave the building.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” yelled Terry, “I’ll leave the bloody building if I want to.”

“Of course you must do as you wish however I should warn you that your details will have been passed to building security. The minute you step outside your flat you will be Tasered.”

“Fuck off!” shouted Terry as he hung up.

He turned and stormed to the door, opened it and stared into the hallway, ‘Tasered? Who’s going to Taser me? I can’t see anyone.’ He noticed a thin strip running the length of the hall on both sides of the corridor. ‘Nah, that’s just electric cable, surely?’

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun