Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 12

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 following books will free from Amazon for Kindle/PC down load today

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

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.



5



By abortion, the mother does not learn to love,

but kills even her own child to solve her problems

Mother Theresa

The Preacher collapsed into a chair in the rundown dressing room, drained and tired; it had been a good session. There was a knock at the door and a man strode in, shaking the rain off his coat and brushing his hair back with his hand. A powerfully-framed man, mid-thirties, the Preacher had noted him in his audience, he’d come early and stayed until the end. He might even have been before.

“Hi, Barry, Barry Onslow,” he said, sticking his hand out for the Preacher to shake. When no hand materialised he let his own drop, ignoring the slight. “And that was truly amazing.”

The Preacher’s eyes narrowed and he tilted back his head, unused to such praise.

“I mean, you really had them there,” Barry continued, unfazed by the silent scrutiny, “especially with all that ‘live your life’ stuff.”

The Preacher said nothing; he didn't trust many people and this man was too confident and bullish.

“Look," said Barry, unruffled, "those people out there, they’d like to hear more from you.”

“They are always welcome to listen,” said the Preacher, his voice a quiet dismissal. He was still trying to get the measure of this new arrival; irritated that once he would have been able to assess in seconds what now seemed almost impossible, so out of touch was he with the world.

“Well that’s just it, er…I don’t know your name?” said Barry, settling himself into a chair he’d pulled from a stack in the corner. When he received no response he continued smoothly, “Where are they welcome? Here? Do you own this place?”

The Preacher shook his head, “No, I use it when I can get in.” He left a pause, then thinking it would do no harm to unbend a little, volunteered, “At night it’s usually full of the homeless.”

“So where can people hear you? Some of these people are busy, with jobs and families ….”

“Of course,” said the Preacher, “I know how busy they are – that is part of my point, after all.”

Barry recognised the need to proceed slowly, “I’m just saying that not everyone can get here.”

“I also work on London Bridge…..I go to them because I know they can’t come to me.”

“Right,” said Barry, his attempt at patience abandoned at the first hurdle, “Look friend, I get what you’re saying but if you want to get through to as many people as possible, to get your message across, then you need to be more organised, you need to have a proper place to present your views, you need to have regular times, to advertise….”

“No,” said the Preacher, his eyes darkening, “I’ve turned my back on that culture.”

“I get all that,” said Barry, leaning forward in his chair, causing the Preacher to sit back in his, “but what about the people who would join you? What about the people who would also turn their backs on this crazy world of ours if they were just shown the way? If they were just given some help, some hope, guidance even? Surely you want to reach out to them?”

The Preacher shrugged. Barry took it as a sign and arranged a session for that afternoon.

∞

The Preacher scrunched up his eyes and rubbed his face. He was bone-tired. He had nothing inside him, no clue what to talk about, his mind a blank and then it came to him and he said, quite conversationally, "I have always held the firm belief that it is any woman's right to have an abortion if she feels it is the correct thing for her to do. It's her body that will be ruined by the pregnancy and she will be the one left holding the baby if the male runs out on her."

Barry froze; abortion, what next! He started to make swift assessments of the audience then gave up worrying; if it worked, it worked, if it didn't, then he'd lost nothing by it.

The Preacher started to pace slowly, "It is a valid argument; it could also be that the relationship is not one in which she would like to raise a child but that is a different conversation, that of the inherent responsibilities attached to the act of copulation."

The Preacher's glance fell on a woman looking up at him, she was nodding emphatically. He recognised that with his next words he was going to alienate her. "However," he was nodding himself now, "the current pro-abortion argument only takes into consideration the views and feelings of one, possibly two, of the three individuals involved."

He stopped and looked out into his audience, "Please can I have a show of hands, who believes abortion is acceptable?" Several arms went into the air and he did a rough count, "Well I make that roughly two thirds the hall, which must mean that the rest of you don't support it. Now, of those who support the idea of abortion, do you have any views you would be willing to share? Please raise your arms."

"You madam," said the Preacher, pointing to a matronly woman with a bitter expression.

"Why should the woman have to carry and look after a baby on her own? Two people made the mistake, it's a shared responsibility," she said, emphasising her point with a chopping movement of her head.

"Agreed," said the Preacher, "however, that's not relevant to the concept of ending another life that's merely relevant to the female position."

"Are you saying then," said the woman, her tone challenging, "that the woman has no right to choose? It's her body, why should she be the only one to bear the consequences?"

He looked out into the audience, making eye contact with the first few rows, raising his voice to reach those at the back, "This woman's argument is about the selfishness of the male who leaves the pregnant female in the lurch. Followed by the self interest of the female who would sacrifice her own child so that she can continue to live an unencumbered life."

"That's not what she meant," stated another woman, half standing in her agitation.

"Then help me to understand," said the Preacher moving towards her.

"Mistakes happen," said the woman, "why should two people who had a short sexual relationship have to commit to each other forever as punishment for that mistake?"

Several people applauded, others jeered.

"I understand your argument but what has that to do with terminating a life? That's like running your finger down a telephone list and saying whether or not a person should be allowed to live."

"No, it's not," shouted a man, "those people are alive, a foetus is nothing more than gunk."

"It's murder," shouted a woman from the back of the hall, "if you don't want a baby, use a bloody contraceptive." There were cheers from some parts of the hall, a few bursts of laughter. "Abortion isn't contraception, that's all some girls see it as these days."

"You'd have us go back to backstreet abortions with coat hangers," shouted the first woman.

"It's a woman's right to choose what happens to her body," said another, standing up and then sitting down again, point made.

"You are making my point," said the Preacher, "when we discuss abortion we talk only about the rights of the woman who will carry that child."

"What about where the baby threatens the mother's life?" asked a man from the balcony.

"Or rape?" demanded another man, "why should she get saddled with a rapist's child?"

"Again," said the Preacher, "you all make valid points....yet, it's all about the mother, or the partners who don't want a baby, or the family of a rape victim."

He paced back and forth whilst the audience argued amongst themselves, then he spoke again "Of course, where the mother's life is at risk, abortion is the only course of action. And if the rape victim is a child then clearly the experience of birth could be dangerous and mentally disturbing. So in child rape scenarios, abortion is acceptable." He waited whilst the murmurs of assent rippled round the audience, seeing nods of approval. "However I maintain that all other scenarios put the selfish needs of the potential parents above those of a defenceless individual."

"Contraception doesn't always work, mistakes happen...." This came from the matronly woman who had spoken before. His argument clearly wasn't reaching her.

"What about the child's rights?" demanded another woman, leaning over the balcony and shouting down at her.

"Shouldn't have sex if you're not prepared to live with the consequences," stated an elderly man two rows back from the front.

"Fuck you!" shouted the matron, "why should women be denied free sex? Men have always had it easy and women have always been made to feel like sluts if they do the same."

"You're a chauvinist," shouted another woman, "you want to fuck around but marry a virgin."

The Preacher returned to the centre of the stage and watched as the arguments flew around the hall. He waited for things to calm but when they didn't he reached down for the foghorn he had taken to keeping nearby and let rip. Shocked silence.

"I hear all of your arguments," he said, his voice emollient and placatory, "and I understand the points you are making but none of them address the crux of the matter."

He paused, waiting until he had their full attention, "Which is that, except in exceptional circumstances, abortion is the act of ultimate selfishness effected by either an individual or group of individuals who have behaved or are behaving irresponsibly."

The argument in the stands between both camps erupted again. He left the stage.

Hope you 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

24

Old soldiers never die;
they just fade away.
Douglas MacArthur

They were sat around one of the tables in the communal dining area; several cups of coffee later their heart rates were up.

"Okay, leave this to me," said Wilf.
Watching him fish a dog-eared scrap of paper out of his trouser pocket and stand abruptly to go over to the public phone in the corner caused the rates to accelerate to dangerously high levels. Johnno in particular was finding it hard to breathe.

Wilf looked down at the paper each time he stabbed out a number; the movement was slow but held a level of aggression that added to the tension of the moment. He allowed the phone to ring three times before he hung up. He waited 2 minutes, checking his watch to ensure the timing then repeated the process, checking the number again against the paper in his hand. This time he waited 3 minutes before re-dialling, foot twitching. He looked over at the watching group as he listened to the ringing, his breathing heavy. A gruff voice answered, one he recognized instantly, shouting "Who the fuck is this? Stop ringing my phone, you bastard!" before hanging up.

Wilf was taken aback; then he remembered the others were watching, had probably heard the shouting if not the words, and nodded to indicate this was what he’d expected, "It's been some time," he said to them, by way of explanation. He phoned again.

"Who the fuck is this?" said the voice in his ear.

"It's Wilf," he said gruffly, cupping his hand round the mouthpiece and turning away from the watching group.

"Wilf who?"

He paused, then, "It's Dog," he muttered.

"Did you say dog?"

"Yeah, it's me, Dog." Louder now, exasperated.

"Dog?" mouthed Bill. Johnno and Pete shrugged and Ron pulled a comical face.

"Are you pullin' my chain, mate?"

"Fuckin' 'ell Butcher," snapped Wilf, "it's me-e-e, Dog."

There was a brief silence on the end of the phone, then, "Oh fuck, not 'Mad Dog Murchison'?"

"Yeah," said Wilf, looking relieved, the others had begun to look a little concerned but Wilf felt his credibility was back.

"Fuckin' 'ell Dog…fort you was dead! How you keepin', mate?"

"I'm good Butch, but listen up, I need a meet."

"A meet?"

"Yeah, you know."

"What?" The tone was puzzled, no longer angry.

"I need a meet," said Wilf, "I need some stuff."

The others looked at each other, definitely uncharted waters for them. Wilf was struggling between the need to get through to his long time friend and comrade and maintain his cool in front of his worried and open-mouthed audience.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, Dog? What kit?"

"Come on Butcher, stuff," said Wilf. He was starting to wish he was somewhere else; that he’d thought to make this call in private.

"What stuff?"

Wilf banged his head against the wall, "Butcher, hells bells, listen to me. Can we meet?"

"Not going well, is it," whispered Ron to Johnno, they all shook their heads.

"What d’you mean, meet?" said Butcher, "Where the fuck are you, anyway?"

"Best you don’t know," said Wilf, "but can we meet at the 'D & D'?"

"The what?" Butcher was shouting now.

"The fuckin' 'D & D'," yelled Wilf.

There was another silence, then, "Are you serious?"

"At last," said Wilf, blowing out a quick breath, turning to grin at the others.

"The 'D & D'," said Butch, "You mean like 'the old days'?"

"Hole in one," said Wilf, "Tomorrow."

Pete waved frantically at Wilf who turned his back on him.

"You want to meet at the 'D & D' tomorrow?" Butcher was speaking slowly, but at least he was getting it.

Pete struggled out of his chair, moved across the floor towards Wilf, trying to hurry, but he’d been sitting too long and it was more of a hobble. He reached his side and tugged his sleeve.

"Like in the old days?" Butch was using a sing-song style which was starting to irritate Wilf and Pete pulling at his sleeve wasn’t helping. He gave Pete a 'fuck off' look and Pete mouthed the words ‘pension day’. Wilf closed his eyes and put his palm to his forehead, "Shit." The others all nodded. "Wait a minute," said Wilf, into the mouthpiece, "tomorrow's no good, I need to pick up my pension tomorrow, make it Thursday."

"Who the fuck is this?"

"What?"

"Who is this?" repeated Butch, "Is this you Denny? Is this another of your fuckin' wind ups mate?"

"It's Dog, it's 'Mad Dog'." Wilf had forgotten to turn away from the group as he spoke and Johnno mouthed the words 'Mad Dog' to the others and their eyes visibly widened. Wilf heard Butch calling out to someone else in the room with him, "You're not gonna believe this I've got bloody Denny on the phone here, he's trying to wind me up, making out he's one of the guys from the old days," he laughed, "That fuckin' Denny."

"No," yelled Wilf, "Butch, it's me, 'Mad dog'."

"Yeah okay Dog," said Butch, "what you want then?
How about some assault rifles or some M16s or
AK47s?" he snickered, "or maybe a couple of glocks?"

"Fuckin' 'ell Butch," said Wilf, "Not on an open phone...they'll pick that up."

"Come on, Denny, stop pissing about," said Butch.

"Fuck," hissed Wilf, banging his head on the wall.

"What's wrong?" asked Bill, rising from the table.

"Nothing," snapped Wilf shoving his palm in Bill’s direction, "nothing. Butch, it's me, 'Mad Dog', from the old days."

"Yeah, right on," laughed Butch, "you can't carry this on, Den mate, you're blown."

"Butch," said Wilf, desperation in every fibre, "I didn't want to have to mention this but, Congo, 5 Commando, '64, you an' me, 3 weeks stuck in the bush surrounded by those bloody Simbas an' nothing to eat or drink ....'cept that bastard Richards."

There was silence on the other end, the guys round the table strained their ears to hear more.

"Mad Dog?" the voice was now a hushed reverent whisper.

"Yes." Finally, respect.

"It's really you?"

"Thursday," said Wilf, "down the D & D. Usual time."

"Usual time," said Butch, "wait a minute, Dog mate, are you serious? You seriously after stuff?"

"Yes."

"But....but.... I'm bloody retired, you prick."

"So?"

"So? Whaddya mean ‘so’?" said Butch, "I'm eighty fuckin' four, an' you must be the same, what the fuck you on about? What do you need stuff for?"

"Got a mission," said Wilf, "can't talk now, the busies might be listening in, talk on Thursday, down the 'D...."

"Are you fuckin' senile or something? You got a job on, an' the busies might be listening… what the fuck you talkin' about, the bloody busies aren't going to be listening to me, are they? I can barely cross the room without needin' a bloody piss, what the fuck you talkin' about?"

"Thursday," said Wilf before hanging up.

"Well?" said the others in unison.

"It's on," said Wilf.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

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

The Independents - What price democracy?

The meeting organiser approached the rostrum, he paused and waited for the cheering to stop, and then he spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this, the very first meeting of the Independent candidates. It’s wonderful to see so many of you here in one place. We’ve selected a few people to speak with you today from the hundreds of offers we had …for those of you disappointed this time, we have a list for our next meeting and gradually we hope to give everyone who wants to speak a platform.”

The applause rose again as he gestured to a slightly built, sandy-haired man standing to the side. “Now, please give a rousing welcome to the man who started it all, our inspirational mentor and guide… Colin Carpenter.”

The delegates rose as one and cheered and clapped as the man moved confidently to the centre of the stage and took up position behind the rostrum. As he did so a single file of people walked on stage and sat in the row of chairs behind him.

“Thank you, Chris, for that introduction.” Colin said, beaming, the lights glinting off his glasses, “It’s been a long hard struggle but now we’re here, a visible force to be reckoned with, so…” There were more cheers from the hall. “WELCOME,” he shouted raising both arms, “today is the day we begin to change everything. Today we lay down the marker whereby we reclaim our country, reclaim our world, today is the day we start the new era of real rule of the people, by the people and for the people.”

There were more cheers and scatterings of delegates stood to applaud him; then more followed until the whole assembly was on its feet.

“No longer will we tolerate a corrupt, locked in party system; no longer will we tolerate their machinations, their duplicity, their constant deceptions, and their fake party divisions. We know they’re all the same, that they represent the same hidden wealthy few who own this country, we know they all rub shoulders with this clique of scoundrels and that they pander to their every whim. We will resist, we will stand against these corrupt servants of the rich and we will win.”

There were shouts of ‘win’ from the floor. Colin gestured that they should sit as he prepared to begin his speech proper. He waited a few moments until all were seated and the hall was quiet.

“I set out on this trail barely a year ago, not knowing where it would lead. Like many of you, I watched the Occupy movement in its struggle to take back control from those who hold us in thrall. I admit it, I watched rather than joined them; I supported them in spirit.” He paused, “I tried to make a stand by myself. I tried to keep my business going; I was trading on fumes. I cut costs and used inferior materials, I streamlined processes until there was no slack, I had to lay off staff who’d been with me for years and make the ones I kept work a 3 day week. We missed deadlines and our quality dropped – in the end I closed it down. Rather than be associated with what we were being forced to produce, rather than re-locate to China and do what my competitors had done – take advantage of slave labour in the East, rather than sacrifice my principles, I closed down the business I had started from scratch 10 years ago.”

He stopped talking, leaving a gap as if mourning a lost dream then he spoke again, quietly but with deep passion, “I was deeply unhappy and desperate to do something to make these rogues realise and stop what they were doing; it was something that seared into me until I could stand it no longer. I spent hours thinking about what I could do; without a revolution I couldn’t see anything changing. Then it hit me – I could ‘occupy’ the Political Space! I could stand on an ethical platform as an independent at the next general election.”

He looked slowly round the hall, making eye contact where he could. “I am a loyal Briton, my lineage reaches into all corners of these great islands of ours and I have always loved this country and all it has stood for. I love its people and our culture. I can no longer sit idly by whilst the greedy rich dismantle it, whilst they remove all investment from the UK and place that investment in areas of the world where they use slave labour, I will not tolerate it.”

There were shouts of support from the floor and again people were standing in their excitement.

“It is intolerable that the uncontrolled greed of the few should impact so heavily on the many. It is unacceptable that the political jackals should spin their concoction of lies to justify their plans to run down the state of Britain. It is deplorable that they should think themselves free to consign workers of the west to destitution whilst enslaving the workers of the 3rd world. It is unacceptable that they seek to return us to the same conditions as existed in the Middle Ages, a time when the rich elite was served by destitute serfs. They must think we don’t have a thought in our heads.” There was a rapturous round of applause. Colin grinned and added, “They must think we’re STUPID!”

The applause continued, accompanied now by excitable foot stamping.

“They clearly believe that the years of watching junk TV, of listening to their constant lies about the economy, about economics, the GDP, the unions, the balance of payments, the national debt, the so called ‘scrounging poor’, the so called ‘benefit cheats’, the communists, the NHS, the welfare state, state run education, Muslims, world terrorism, our lack of productivity and competitiveness, has shrivelled our brains and blinded us to the real truth, the reality behind all this.” He paused, took a breath then thundered out, “We, the masses, are being sold out by rich greedy psychopaths.”

More clapping from the floor.

“There is a precedent for all this but they hope we’re too stupid to see it, that we have no knowledge of history, that we’re so wrapped up in ‘reality’ TV that we miss what is happening, miss the correlation with the past.”

He poured some water from the jug on the table before him, allowing a few moments for his words to sink in, “The Roman Empire which for centuries was the dominant power, had legions that controlled vast territories of the known world, and then we’re told, all of a sudden, Rome collapses.”

He paused, then raised his voice slightly, “I say to you, Rome didn’t collapse, Rome did not fall – the wealthy and powerful families of Rome took advantage of prevailing winds and reorganised.”

He glanced out across the hall, checking the attention of the audience, “They recognised that maintaining legions to hold territories was costly, and they had a new weapon in their arsenal - religion. Caesar became the Pope, the leading families entered religion, the Roman Empire transitioned into the Roman Catholic Church collecting more revenues than a thousand legions could gather. That’s what happened to the Roman Empire, that’s what happened to Rome.”

He banged the table abruptly, startling a few people in the front rows, “But what happened to the ordinary people of Rome, to the plebeians, the out of work soldiers? They were reduced to penury as the Rome they knew disappeared from the map. As they starved, these legions that had made Rome great, the wealthy Romans, the patricians, the upper classes became richer than ever and the Pope found he was able to control the whole world with a few monks and threats of excommunication, of burning in hell for all eternity.”

He paused and took a quick sip of water, he knew that making the link was vital and these concepts were new to most of his audience.

“And that is what is happening to us…though it’s not belief in God that’s the new export, the new method of raising gold for the new aristocracy, the new export is a new religion altogether, and is called ‘consumerism’ or the ‘market’. The rich have exported our jobs to the 3rd world where wages are minimal, where land costs are minimal, where there are autocratic leaders and armies willing to crush the workers who ask for more, where there are billions of potential economic slaves to serve them and gain them even greater wealth.”

Someone in the crowd called out ‘Apple’ and a couple of others picked it up.

He nodded, “A good example, thank you” he said quietly, then raising his voice continued, “There’re one million people employed in sweat shop factories in China producing Apple products…think about it, one million jobs that could’ve been situated in the West but for the fact of having to pay minimum wage and provide decent working conditions.”

He stopped and stared out at the crowded hall, his eyes burning, “Wealth, that’s what this is all about, it’s what it’s always been about, the creation of wealth for the very few, for the greedy psychopaths who want to own everything and drive the masses into the gutters so that they can lord it over them; in order to feel rich they have to have the poor.”

Colin studied his audience, “So what of the British worker? What of the US worker? What is intended for us? In the recent past we had service industry jobs, easily accessed credit and the creation of massive debt, all this was done to ensure a smooth transition from production and purchase from the West to the East. It was no accident; it’s part of a plan and exactly what they intended and so far they have been successful. They have managed to transfer most of production from the West to the East and during that time the Western worker had artificial service industry jobs to ensure that there was still a market for products being made in the East. However, we have reached an end of the first phase - the credit bubble in the West has burst, the western worker is no longer able to provide the buying power required to maintain supply and demand so the wealthy few and their economic and political servants are looking to provide easier credit to the worker in the East, where there is a potential new market for debt.”

He waited a moment, and then continued, “… I’ll say that again because it is an important concept… not a new market for products but a new market for DEBT… where there are billions of potential buyers all wanting to borrow from the western elite, ready and willing to pay interest to the western elite. They are doing today what the wealthy Roman families did to Rome all those centuries ago; they are abandoning the nation state and taking all of the money with them. They will oversee the breakup of the UK into small and dysfunctional territories unable to work in unison for the benefit of all. It is the same old story of divide and rule but we will not tolerate it!”

The hall erupted as the delegates all stood and cheered. “WE WILL NOT TOLERATE IT! We will change things, we have changed things already; never before has over 600 independent candidates applied to stand for Parliament, never before have the people stood as one and threatened to wrench control from the economic and political elites. This is OUR time and we’ll wrest power from their grasp and do it by peaceful democratic means.”

The noise was deafening and Colin waved them to stop, “But we do have some very big problems. We’re here, our supporters are here and our followers are here but as a movement we still only number in the tens of thousands and there’s a reason for that. Where is the media? Where are the reporters? Where is Sky news? Where are the BBC and ITV? Where are the red tops and the broadsheets? They’re not here and there’s a reason for that, they’re all owned by the rich elite and it’s not in their interests for us to be successful. They will impose the same suffocating news blackout they’ve used with the Occupy movement, and try and prevent us from reaching a mass audience, obstructing us in our attempts to spread the word, restricting our access to massed support and so thwarting us in our aims to gain power.”

He paused, “But we do have some friends, Russia Today [RT] is here, Al Jazeera is here so we will have an internet presence and those who follow these things will know what’s happening. We just have to encourage them all to tell someone, use Twitter and Facebook to spread the word and we must get out on the streets NOW to get our message across to the ordinary voter, to help them understand that as independents we can form a viable government and that we can solve this nation’s issues.”

His voice throbbed into the room “DO NOT UNDER ESTIMATE the size of the problem facing us. It would be easy to think that we will sweep all before us because we have right on our side but we are up against the evil of our times; Goebbels called it propaganda, they call it spin, it doesn’t matter what name it comes under it’s the same thing. They will attack us on all fronts; besmirch our names, belittle our efforts, deny our credibility, assail our good character, criticise our aims, pick holes in our structure.”

More cheers and applause; a few cries of ‘shame on them’. He acknowledged it all with a smile.

“They will say that we are a party the same as any other but we are not. We are as we must remain, INDEPENDENT of any lobby group, of any financial backing and of any political affiliation. We seek to govern by concord, to make constructive policy, to implement cohesive policy when in power, to lead this nation into a fairer and better world where all can benefit. We are independent of the powerful rich elites who will never be able to blackmail us or bind us with gifts. We are not a party with a programme designed to benefit one social group. We have one purpose, and one purpose only and that is to do what is right.”

Cheers met his words, and there was a palpable feeling of excitement emanating from the floor.

He got his notes together, notes he’d not needed to refer to throughout his speech, “A note of caution” his voice dropped slightly, “although we are here and here is a great place to be, although we’re making progress, and we think and feel we’re unstoppable, we have not yet achieved our aims. We have not yet forced these rogues from office, we have not driven these thieves from their dens of vice, we have not crushed the beast that lusts after power and wealth, and we have not won yet.”

He moved to the front of the stage, “To finish, I would like to read you something that Oliver Cromwell said when he instituted the dissolution of the Long Parliament (1653).”

He pulled out a sheet of paper from his notes and held it high, brandishing it for a moment, then began to read, the Old English sounding strange on his tongue, “It is high time for me to put an end to your sitting in this place, which you have dishonoured by your contempt of all virtue, and defiled by your practice of every vice; ye are a factious crew, and enemies to all good government; ye are a pack of mercenary wretches, and would like Esau sell your country for a mess of pottage, and like Judas betray your God for a few pieces of money.”

He took a breath, and then continued, “Is there a single virtue now remaining amongst you? Is there one vice you do not possess? Ye have no more religion than my horse; gold is your God; which of you have not barter'd your conscience for bribes? Is there a man amongst you that has the least care for the good of the Commonwealth?”

The audience was entranced, hanging on his every word, “Ye sordid prostitutes have you not defil'd this sacred place, and turn'd the Lord's temple into a den of thieves, by your immoral principles and wicked practices? Ye are grown intolerably odious to the whole nation; you were deputed here by the people to get grievances redress'd, are yourselves gone! So! Take away that shining bauble there, and lock up the doors.”

He waited a second, and then said, “In the name of God, go!”

The audience was on its feet now, some had moved into the aisles and were moving forward to the front, the better to acclaim their messiah.

“As Cromwell did then, so we must do now to the villains in our Parliament and in order to win we must pound the streets, speak in open forums, in markets, in town centres, in village halls, we must knock on doors and let people know that we exist and persuade them that we are a viable option worthy of their vote. But know also, there will be one hell of a machine waging war on us in the coming year, a machine of immeasurable wealth and influence and power and privilege and prejudice aiming all of its guns ON US. And we must WIN, we must win because if we fail then this country is lost and the world will sink into years of dictatorship, a thousand-year Reich. It won’t be the German Nazis ruling it; it will be the Anglo Saxon Nazis ruling it here and in America.”

Colin stepped back and raised his hands. Instantly everyone in the auditorium stood and cheered and clapped and chanted his name. He turned without another word and made his way to his seat, passing the meeting organiser who approached the rostrum to introduce the next speaker, Catherine Jenkins.

Hope you 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

I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of military authority, because I believe that the War is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it.

Siegfried Sassoon
(1886 – 1967)


Preface

The man poured tea into a translucent porcelain cup then, after flexing long, elegant fingers, he caressed the keyboard and opened the file entitled 'New World Order/Final [1]Yishuv', sub heading 'Significant threat to British autonomy'.

He had discovered the file on first taking up his post; he'd been adding to it since taking office. He hoped he was doing justice to the earlier work by his predecessor; a man of dogged purpose and relentless patriotism.

He looked at the now familiar graphs charting the rising global debt which would ultimately culminate in global financial collapse. This collapse, he knew, would be followed by a financial lifeboat, courtesy of the IMF, in the form of a new global currency issued by the World Bank, controlled behind the scenes by the elite banking families, primarily the Rothschilds, in the interests of Israel.

From this point onwards, Israel would control the global banks, the markets and the world.

He leaned back and thought about the growth of Israeli influence and power in the west from the country's inception to the present time.

He considered the careful placement of individuals as CEOs in banks, and as leading politicians, others achieving positions of seniority in the judiciary, the skilful use of powerful lobby groups across Europe and America, control of the Council on Foreign Relations (CFR).

He marvelled at the deft way they had achieved control of the media, and the take-over of Hollywood, and the master stroke, duel citizenship of Israel and the US, along with Zionist control of the Federal Reserve.

He clicked on a link; 'A Strategy for Israel in the 1980s'; published by the 'World Zionist Organization', author Oded Yinon, objective: to divide up the Arab countries Iraq, Syria, Libya and Iran into smaller and, by definition, weaker territories.

He sniffed his derision; clearly Israel could not have expected to achieve this on her own, with insufficient military hardware and personnel, besides which, under normal circumstances, the superpowers would have stepped in to prevent it.

He clicked another link; 'A clean break. A new strategy for securing the realm'; a document calling for the cessation of peace talks with Yasser Arafat, the launching of attacks on occupied territories in Palestine and the overthrow of Saddam Hussein.

He noted the authors: Richard Perle, Douglas Feith and David Wurmser, all with dual Israeli American citizenship. He noted further that the document had been written in 1996, at the time when they held high office in Benjamin Netanyahu's Likud government. He found it interesting that they all later held office in the Bush administration, post 9/11.

He nodded as he read; appreciating the step by step approach to the destabilisation of the Middle East. The challenge for the Zionists would be to make these objectives become American objectives as well.

He scrolled through, found a new heading: 'Project for the New American Century': a think tank created circa 1997 dissolved 2006. Founders: William Kristol and Robert Kagan, both holders of dual American/Israeli citizenship. Key signatories: Jeb Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Kagan, Paul Wolfowitz, Donald Rumsfeld, Dan Quayle, Elliott Abrams.

The project described the US as 'the World's pre-eminent power', and stated that the US needed to 'shape a new century favourable to American principles and interests,' with increased military spending, ensuring US 'political and economic freedom abroad,' and that the US should 'challenge regimes hostile to our interests and values.'

He checked the Foreign Policy Initiative, clearly designed to control the Democrats in the same fashion as the previous think tank controlled the Republicans. This too was founded by William Kristol and Robert Kagan, but the described objectives had now changed; 'address the rising challenges facing the US such as a resurgent Russia and China and rogue states that sponsored terrorism and pursued weapons of mass destruction.'

He found it interesting that the plan had survived being temporarily blown off course when Donald Trump had shocked the world and won the presidency.

Whilst none of the documents referred to the world's dwindling oil stocks or to OPEC directly he read between the lines; without the power to control the price of oil or its production America would become insignificant on the world stage. Russia, on the other hand, with her abundant stocks would be preeminent.

He sipped more tea, it helped him to think.

Whilst he could not stop the projected global collapse or the Israeli land grab, yet he was determined to secure Britain's place in the world.

He was Sir Phillip Blackmore, supreme Head of British Intelligence and, as such, in a position of some authority. He was also a knight of the realm; surely that had to count for something.

As he saw it, in the same way that Britain had been manipulated into giving the Zionists the Balfour Declaration, America was being manipulated into destroying the stability of the Middle East.

The resultant vacuum and the distraction of America's renewed confrontation with Russia and China, thanks to the Foreign Policy Initiative, would allow Israel to expand her influence and power from the Mediterranean and a line drawn from the Euphrates to the Nile incorporating Eastern Iraq, Eastern Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Sinai, Western Egypt and Northern Saudi Arabia.

He couldn't help but admire the long-term thinking; Dick Cheney, Paul Wolfowitz, Donald Rumsfeld had all come to high office in the Bush administration.

To his mind, they ran it, backed by the likes of Perle, Feith and Wurmser. Jeb Bush, signatory to the 'New American Century' had stolen the 2000 election for his brother GW and without a Bush in the Oval Office there could've been no intervention in the Middle East.

9/11 had been the new Pearl Harbour, Osama Bin Laden the CIA operative, a Lee Harvey Oswald-like patsy. Blackmore recalled his shock at the willingness of so many people to believe the events of 9/11.

To his mind, and that of any rational person, he reasoned, the idea that a steel skyscraper could be toppled by a passenger jet was preposterous. Trying the same con twice and topping it off by bringing down a 3rd building, claiming it to be the result of vibrations and office fires was laughable. When the mythical passenger plane crashed into the Pentagon, the most heavily protected building in the world, he gave up on the credulity of the masses.

He turned to his paper notes and the conclusion he had written:

Israel : a young and energetic country with a widespread, influential and deeply embedded propaganda network, supporting a forceful and uncompromising global purpose based on a deeply held belief in her own supremacy.

As such her ambitions cannot be contained.

It behoves me, on behalf of my country to ensure that the men with power in that network are either controlled by or, failing that, become in some way deeply beholden to Britain.



He sat quietly for a few moments, committing his notes to memory. He re-read the final paragraph, intoned the last sentence out loud. Then he put the sheets neatly together and fed them into the shredder.





Descent 1

Hitler has only got one ball...

He was an attractive young man; his mother told him, often. He was a serious person; Jenna, his girlfriend, said that a lot, somewhat accusingly. He was extremely clever; this from his tutor, somewhat despairingly when his work didn't match up.

Whilst he agreed he was good-looking, (tall, brown-haired like his father with his mother's steel blue eyes) and conceded he was serious, (dour) enjoyed being called clever, (to the point of scholarly, albeit lazy) he wished he could be more easy-going (as opposed to intense, bordering on obsessive).

Good-looking, too serious, too clever, lazy. What did any of that matter now?

He stared at his laptop, his mind in turmoil. How could he work? He leant forward and rested his head in his hands, moaning softly into his palms.

He stood up and started to pace, suddenly aware of the confines of the bedsit of which he had been hitherto so proud. The front door opened straight on to a large living room/kitchen; high-windows, ceiling rose and coving. There was one large bedroom with an en-suite toilet and wash basin. The bath was a shared facility down the corridor. Gampy had found it for him, paid the key money and he had loved the place from the first moment he set foot in it but now, like everything else linked to his Gampy, it disgusted him.

He kicked out at the remains of last night's pizza. Then he slumped onto the sofa and stared at the wall for several minutes.

His phone rang; the jaunty tone an insult to his mood. He picked it up, stared at the screen; his mother, just what he needed. He tossed the phone onto the sofa. It rang again. He put it on silent but in the end he succumbed.

There was silence for several seconds before she spoke, "Louis, are you ok?"

He snorted, "Fucking great, what do you think?" He knew it wasn't her fault; she was only the messenger.

"I'm here, if you need to talk about it...."

"Oh? Talk about what, exactly?"

His voice broke and his thoughts scattered. His sweet-natured, great granddad, Gampy Jaggs ...a cold-eyed killer? He felt sick, all those years at Gampy's knee, enjoying an affinity across the ages that he'd not felt with his grandparents, not felt even with his own father, destroyed. This new knowledge put him at variance with the rest of the civilised world, with Jenna, his class mates at Uni, with Dean, both friend and class mate. He groaned aloud, how the hell was he going to approach his thesis from an unbiased viewpoint? Louis Walker, great grandson of the infamous SS Oberleutnant Friedrich Jaeger of the SS Das Reich, offers you his unbiased, scholarly thoughts on: The Causes of the Great War'.

"Louis, talking sometimes helps..."

"What's to say? Oh Louis, your great granddad was a Nazi? And everyone knew except you?"

"We waited until you were older, Louis. Until we thought you could handle it...."

Her voice died away, no further comment required about the proven fragility of his coping mechanisms, the shared knowledge of his vulnerability; the strange voices he'd heard as a child, the worrying behaviour, the deep depression that had culminated in a race to the hospital after what his parents preferred to call an accidental overdose, and what Louis knew had been anything but.

Louis broke the silence, "Where shall I start with the handling? He shot Russian peasants. Let me think, oh yeah, I'm OK with that. He was a mass murderer. Yeah, that's cool. Is that what you want? What else? Oh, Auschwitz...yeah, I'm down with that. See Mum? I'm handling it."

"Louis, don't do this to yourself," her voice was a soft plea.

"You did it to me, all of you... why didn't you tell me before?" He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist around the phone. This ruined everything.

She paused, "You knew he was German, that he was a soldier in the war. As for the rest, it's a matter of public record, Louis, if you'd have looked it up..."

"So it's my fault now, is it? I didn't look it up? I believed in him?" His voice was rising now, "I knew he was a soldier yes, but not SS, I mean, fucking SS."

She heard the panic in his tone, tried to dampen it, "Louis, they weren't all like that....."

"Like what exactly? Raving loony fanatics, hell bent on conquering the world, not to mention murdering every single Jew that ever lived."

"I can't talk to you when you're being...."

"Oh well done," he snapped, "you called me, remember?"

"You flew out of the house in such a state, I was worried you might..." She paused, started again, "I thought we could talk about it, sensibly."

"Talk about what? What can we possibly talk about? You're a Nazi and I'm not."

"Now you're being ridiculous, Louis. I'm not a Nazi, I'm not even full German. I'm as English as you are."

"Great, thanks, Mum, that means a lot."

"Louis, you should try to understand what it was like back then."

"Oh, yeah, understand why Gampy was a heartless killer? Yeah, Mum, I'll get to work on that right away."

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun

15 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

The next meeting was being held at Donald’s. Terry had wanted to be there early but Donald had said he’d need time to prepare the rest of the committee. Reluctantly Terry’d agreed to arrive a little after the meeting started, about 8:15. The group was in place, desultory conversations underway before the meeting proper was called to order. Tom had arrived promptly, happy to have the meeting away from his home, and now stood in conversation with Jimmy who’d been filling the rest of them in on his brief spell in incarceration, some nonsense about birds falling and the Bible. Donald was still working out how to broach the subject of Terry when the doorbell rang, causing immediate consternation and a couple of those present got up to leave.

“It’s alright,” said Donald, “that’ll be Terry.”

“How’s that alright?” asked Tom.

“We’ve vetted him,” said Donald.

“Without the committee?” questioned Eric.

Sandra and Terry entered the room. Donald got up and whispered something in Sandra’s ear; she nodded and took Terry through to the kitchen.

“Yes, Eric” said Donald, “there were exceptional circumstances.”

“There must’ve been,” said Tom.

“Like what?” demanded Dave, a short man, pugnacious and handy-looking.

“Dad has it sorted,” said Don, stepping in to cover his father, “we’ll explain when Terry comes in.”

“I’m not sure I want to do this,” said Tom.

“I don’t see why we need anybody else,” said Eric, remaining seated but perched on the edge of the chair, a long-legged creature preparing for flight, “I mean, there are a lot of us already and the risks of discovery are only growing.”

“Come on Eric, Terry can help us,” said Don, now firmly convinced, he was displaying all the vigour in Terry’s defence of an ex-smoker denouncing the evil weed.

“He can fight,” said Jimmy, “I vouch for that and that comes in useful when you’re out there.”

“Maybe,” said Eric, “but what does that have to do with us? Why does he have to see us?”

“Because we’re all in this together,” said Donald, “besides I’m hoping he can teach us all to fight a bit.”

“What the hell for?” demanded Tom, “I’m not fighting anyone.”

“And what if we’re discovered ever? What do you think they’re going to do with us? Pat us on the head? Tell us we’ve been naughty?” Donald was almost biblical in his sudden fury. “You know what happened to Mike …they’re either going to murder us in our homes or in their cells or they’re going to throw us in prison, you know what kind of people exist in prison?”

“Nobody said any of this before,” said Tom, “I’ve never wanted any trouble, you know that, Donald.”

“D’you want to run the daily risk of being beaten to death? Of being murdered in your cell for the want of being able to handle yourself? Do you want to be gang raped in the showers?”

“No but,” struggled Tom.

“Oh, come on, Tom,” said Dave, “we’ve always known there’s risks to all this, that’s why you were so keen to get out the door just now.”

“But I don’t think we should antagonize them.”

“Look,” said Donald, striving for calm, “it’s a fact, we’re all breaking their laws by doing what we’re doing, we’re breaking them right now by have this meeting. If they ever catch onto us or decide to stamp down on the sink then we’ll have no choice but to try and defend ourselves.”

“Yer, right on,” said Jimmy.

“You know what I think,” Tom was insistent, “I think if they come we could always just comply, let them do what they want and then maybe they’ll let us go.”

“Why?” murmured Eric, still teetering on the edge of his seat, “why would they let anyone go?”

“It makes sense,” said Tom, “they can’t lock everyone up and they certainly can’t kill everyone.”

“Can’t they?” questioned Donald, “it’s been done before, we all know that.”

“It wasn’t like that,” said Tom.

“Wasn’t it?” demanded Dave, pushing close to Tom “what planet have you been living on? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to put all that stuff out of your mind? Hidden it away somewhere?”

“No of course not,” said Tom, “but that was so long ago now, they’d never do it again, besides there was always the element of doubt.”

“Doubt?” snapped Don, “What the fuck do you mean doubt?”

“Well I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Tom defensively, “just that the government always said that they were terrorists and revolutionaries…”

“Oh, so you believed they were all enemies of the state, did you Tom?” demanded Dave, “since when? As I remember it, you were there with the rest of us on the picket lines demanding fair rights and decent incomes for all.”

“I know,” said Tom, “Look, stop … you’re getting me all mixed up.”

“Are you sure it isn’t you we should be worried about?” asked Dave, “I mean you’re the weak link here.”

“That’s enough, Dave,” said Donald. “Leave him alone.” Dave looked like he had more to say but shrugged instead and sat down. “Come on Tom, sit down and we can explain.” Tom fidgeted from foot to foot and then returned to his seat. “Alright, all of you listen … Terry was sent here on penal, for various reasons he got behind with his loans and rent and as we all know they don’t like it when you can’t pay.”

“So what you sayin’ now, he’s a debtor?” asked Eric, he rose up from his perch and looked towards the door, “’cause we all know, if they’ve got something on you like that, they use it.”

“Yeah,” said Lawrence, speaking for the first time, “he could be a plant or a snitch.”

“We‘re aware of the possibility,” said Don, “but Dad has thought this one through.”

“Oh?” questioned Eric; “Donald has done all of this, has he?”

“Come off it Eric,” said Dave “Donald’s got us where we are today.”

Eric breathed deeply, “Well go on, you might as well finish, we’re here, he’s here, let’s just hope he didn’t bring the police with him.”

“Do you think he could’ve done that?” asked Tom.

“No, you idiot,” said Dave, “he’s messing with you.”

“Are you Eric?” asked Tom, “Are you …”

“Well, Donald? Am I?” said Eric.

“Look I’ll level with you,” said Donald, “it’ll probably get out anyway … these things always do.”

“What will?” asked Lawrence.

“Terry used to work for Relocations.”

The room fell silent as they considered the implications.

“And we’re sat here, having this discussion?” asked Eric eventually.

“We should be in there,” Dave pointed to the kitchen, “beating the crap out of that bastard.”

“By all means be my guest,” offered Jimmy, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“He’s one of them, Donald,” pressed Eric, “he’s the enemy.”

“We should just leave now,” said Tom.

“No, he’s not,” said Donald forcefully, “he’s just like us.”

“How can he be?” demanded Dave, “he worked in Relocations, he could still work for them.”

“If he does then he must be some kinda masochist,” said Jimmy, “’cause they really beat the crap out of him, I’m not kidding.”

“Well, if they could do that then what use is he to us, I mean if he’s not that good a fighter he can’t….” began Lawrence.

“Oh, he can fight alright,” said Jimmy, “Don’t misunderstand, they had him trapped in a cell and they swamped him, not much anyone could do.”

“Okay,” said Lawrence, “but Donald, really? Relocations? And you think we can trust him?”

“Yes I do,” said Donald “and I think you should all talk with him, hear what he has to say, how he says it. Then I think you’ll understand my confidence in him.”

There was a moment of silence whilst each man thought a bit and scanned the reactions of his colleagues.

“Well, okay,” said Eric finally, “we’re here and so…well, I guess we should hear him out.”

“Okay then, I agree,” Dave nodded, illustrating the point, “you’ve never lead us wrong before Donald, so yeah, let’s have him in here.”

“I still don’t know,” said Tom.

“Well, if Don and Jimmy both go for it,” said Lawrence “I guess it might be okay.”

“We’re already in,” said Don, speaking for Jimmy who nodded vigorously.

“Tom?” asked Donald, “you know we need your ‘yes’ vote.”

“Oh, come on, for Christ sake,” said Dave, “strap on a pair won’t you.”

“Don’t you…” snapped Tom, pointing his finger at Dave, “you’re always riding me; I just don’t like the sound of it, that’s all. He’s already admitted to working for them in Relocations… I mean, Relocations,” his voice rose on the word, “so he must be one of them.”

“Look,” said Donald, “all I’m asking is that you listen to the boy and give him a chance.”

Tom looked down and clenched his trembling hands, “I don’t like it, Donald,” he said, “I really don’t.” He looked round for support and finding none, nodded once.

Consensus achieved, Donald quickly left the room and came back in with his daughter and Terry; hand in hand. Releasing Sandra gently Terry took up position into the middle of the room, casually maintaining a visual all round. He appeared relaxed and only mildly interested; a condition only Jimmy knew not to trust.

“Okay,” said Donald, “if you have anything you want to ask Terry, now’s the time.”

“Are you a spy for Relocations?” asked Dave, his head pushed forward, a belligerent terrier.

“Dad!” said Sandra.

“Oh come on, Dave,” said Eric, “that’s not how you do it.”

“Yeah, that’s right Dave,” said Tom, “you ask him.”

“Guys,” said Donald, “let’s just keep it civil shall we, okay.”

“It’s okay, Donald,” said Terry, “I was expecting this, look for what it’s worth I was never one of them and I was never a part of the system.”

“But you worked for them in Relocations,” said Eric, putting the same question but more gently.

“Yeah,” said Terry, “but remember, I was born into that stuff, I didn’t know the ins and outs of it all. It was just what was expected of me.”

“And that makes it alright does it?” asked Dave, “The fact that you didn’t know you were a Nazi bastard.”

“Dad,” said Sandra.

“Come on guys,” said Donald.

“And what do they expect of you now?” asked Lawrence.

“I think they expect me to rot,” answered Terry, “and to work for nothing until the day I die.”

“But you could understand us not trusting you,” said Lawrence, “I mean you were one of them.”

“As far as I knew, as far as any of us knew we were the good guys, it was the people we were relocating who were the villains, the thieves, the slobs, the benefit cheats, the lazy lay-a-bouts, the rebels, the revolutionaries, the trouble makers.”

“Okay,” said Don, “we get the picture.” He was affronted; Terry was not making defending him an easy task.

“Yeah, well,” said Terry, “it was all we knew, so it was only natural that we did everything that was expected of us. I mean my ex-colleagues are still in there doing it and they won’t know what’s wrong with that. As far as they’re concerned they are on the side of right.”

“But that doesn’t justify it,” said Dave, “it doesn’t justify anything.”

“I’m not saying it does,” said Terry.

“And it doesn’t excuse you,” added Eric.

“And I’m not looking for that either, I know now that what I did was wrong, that I was sending people to a ghetto. Not to put too fine a point on it - I know we were servants of a corrupt system, one designed to control and manipulate people. But that’s my burden and I expect to carry it.” He was doing his pompous bit but they didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah,” said Tom, “but how do we know you aren’t still working for them?”

“Let me see…” Terry leaned his head to one side, pretending to consider the question. “I’ve lost my job, my home, I’m stuffed financially, I live in virtual squalor, I clean some of the most disgusting toilets you’ve ever seen, I’ve been abducted, beaten, starved, interrogated and generally fucked over, so exactly what kind of job description covers that?”

“It would fit comfortably with a plant,” said Eric.

Terry looked at him, “What can I say, if that’s what you think then I don’t know how to convince you otherwise.”

“I didn’t say it’s what I think,” said Eric, “I just said it’s what you’d expect of a plant.”

“Look,” said Donald, “let’s get this into perspective; we’re not a big crime syndicate or a major terrorist cell, we just smuggle stuff into the sink to help make people’s lives a bit better. They wouldn’t have to do these things to a plant, not for us, we’re low level on their books. They’d just have to have someone snooping around, someone who was inconspicuous and just fitted in, that doesn’t exactly cover Terry, does it?

“You’ve got a point,” said Dave, “he has stuck out a bit. And to be fair if they’re going to go to such lengths for a bit of smuggling, what would they have to do for real terrorists?”

“Probably beat them to death,” said Don smirking.

“And then piss on them,” added Jimmy.

“And burn the ashes.”

“Where’d the ashes come into it? And anyway, you can’t burn ashes, Don” said Eric.

“I know that, don’t I, it was just something to say.”

Donald lay back in his chair, listening to them bicker, ‘Sorted’.

“Alright, Donald,” said Eric, “I’m in.”

“Me too,” said Dave and Lawrence at the same time.

“Tom?” asked Donald.

Tom grimaced a bit, rubbed his hands then said, “I guess so, if everyone else thinks it’s ok, Donald, then I’m in too.”

“Good,” said Donald, “then let’s talk about the 23rd.”

Cheers for reading

Arun






More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions

The book 'Rust' will be FREE from Amazon for download to your Kindle/PC/phone until Monday 24th December 2018

Pigs


The police car pulled up outside the Seascape B&B.

The two men inside the car had worked as a team for a fair while, were of an age, both with young children. Despite the similarities, they were as different as chalk and cheese. For one thing, Ken Jackson's marriage was more stable not least because he resisted the urge to mess around with the women PCs, something Tony Williams seemed unable, or unwilling, to do.

"You gonna do the talking?" asked Ken of Tony, the driver.

Tony sat back, affecting surprise, "Come off it, Ken, why me?"

"How can I put this? Oh yeah, 'cause I did the last one, Tony, that's why."

Tony frowned, creating lines on his perfectly sculpted 'cheeky chappy' face where none should be, "I don't remember that."

"Yeah you do," said Ken, this was an established rigmarole, "it's your turn, fucker."

Tony sighed, unclipped his seat belt and they exited the car together, "Well, I'm just saying, if it gets tricky you'd better back me up."

"It won't get tricky," said Ken.

"You know what I mean," said Tony, "you know I don't like this part of the job."

"No one does, but we've all got to take our turn."

Tony sighed again as he opened the small iron gate and they made their way to the front door. He tried one last time, "What say I do the next one?"

"No," said Ken, knocking on the door, "you're doing this one."

"I'll do the next two?"

The door opened.

Ken had barely a moment to register a short round woman, tired looking, mid to late 30s possibly, faded hair, before a low to the ground, extremely pugnacious, dog of indiscriminate breeding dashed out, and commenced barking wildly up at them.

"Caesar!" shouted woman, flapping her hands in a shoo gesture, "In, go on, in."

The dog ignored her commands and continued to bark, all four paws coming off the ground on each bark and all the while suspiciously eying up the intruders.

"IN!" This last instruction was a lung busting shout and was accompanied with more shooing. Finally the woman chased the dog into a room on the right of the hallway and shut the door.

"Miss Simpson?"

Without waiting for a response, Tony continued, "May we come in?"

"Why? What's happened? Is it Kerry?"

"Er, no," said Ken. No Kerry had been mentioned as far as he was aware, he edged past her into the front room expecting she would follow and when she did as he'd hoped he indicated the settee. "But I think you should sit down."

He'd estimated her weight at 13 to15 stone and there was no way he wanted to be lifting her up from the floor if she collapsed on them; it had happened before and he'd nearly put his back out that time.

She sat, hands trembling in her lap. She was responding to their grim faces, Ken knew, this was what usually happened. He waited for Tony to take up the story, no way was he doing this one.

"Tell me what's happened...."

Tony did his best to look miserable, it was a trick he'd tried before, in similar circumstances and it seemed to work.

"Well, what is it? Why are you here?"

Tony coughed and looked towards Ken, subtly guiding her attention away from him. Ken winced slightly, 'Well played you bastard,' he thought.

"Well?" pressed the woman, now looking straight at Ken.

He dipped his head a little, "I'm very sorry, but we have some very bad news about your parents."

"Mum and Dad? What do you mean? Are they alright?" She half-rose from the chair then sank back at the expression on his face.

"Is there anyone who could come over and sit with you?" Ken was not just playing for time, he genuinely thought she should have someone with her.

She shook her head, muttering something about Kerry being only a phone call away.

Ken threw a dark look at Tony and then took the bull by the horns, "I'm sorry to have to tell you that your parents are dead. It appears they took their own lives."

She stared at him for a second, eyes widening as the words sank in, then she groaned, "Oh my god."

"I'm very sorry," said Ken. He indicated with his head for Tony to get in the kitchen, a cup of tea would surely help the situation.

"How? When? Are you sure?"

"I'm afraid so," said Tony. He was always quite happy to take part after the initial words had been spoken, liked to use his easy charm to get them past the worst.

A tall, slim, young woman entered the room.

Both men blinked. Is this Kerry? Why hadn't Miss Simpson mentioned her as being in the building?

Whoever she was, Tony straightened; this one was worthy of his charm offensive.

The new entrant addressed the tearful, shuddering wobble of a woman on the settee with an air of authority, "Is everything alright, Stacey?"

Ken frowned; he wasn't sure about Stacey being the name in front of the Miss Simpson he'd been given, but couldn't recall anything else to put in its place.

"It's my mum and dad," wailed Stacey, her voice thick with tears, "they said" she pointed accusingly at Ken and Tony, "they said they're...they're dead."

"I'm so sorry, Miss Simpson," said Ken to Stacey, "it would appear that they managed to get hold of some tablets before they were taken to prison."

"Prison?" Stacey was horrified on top of her obvious grief, "What are you talking about?"

Ken gave Tony a look; surely the woman had been expecting prison? They were bound to be found guilty and refusing a room to a 'Mr & Mr' was a cast iron, guaranteed, done and dusted custodial sentence in today's world, albeit the length of the sentence had been a bit steep.

"I'm Miss Simpson," said the new arrival, "what's this all about?"

"Oh, thank the lord," said Stacey, her tears drying in an instant, "it's a mistake. You're not talking about my parents at all."

Ken's mouth fell open, they had royally cocked up. He turned to face the woman he now knew to be Miss Simpson, the woman to whom they should have brought the tragic news.

She had made the connections and had paled visibly.

"Miss Simpson, I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, however...."

"Oh my god, Rosemary!" Stacey leapt up and put her arms out to her employer's daughter, for that was the relationship. The double shock appeared to affect her badly and she continued in broken voice, "I can't breathe, I can't breathe."

"What happened to my parents?" demanded Rosemary.

Stacey fell to the floor, gasping for air and pulling at her throat.

Rosemary appeared sublimely unaware, asking again in an icy tone, "What about my parents?"

Tony looked at Stacey, rolling around on the floor, gasping for breath, her tongue hanging out and her face going a beautiful shade of crimson.

He looked at Rosemary, clearly getting angrier by the second.

He looked at Ken, clearly floundering, no help there.

He looked back at Stacey and did the first thing that came into his head; he grabbed the vase of flowers off the coffee table and tossed them, and the liquid therein contained, into Stacey's face.

It had the desired effect for she instantly stopped dying on them.

Ken stared at him, open mouthed. Rosemary, eyes now wide, teeth bared in a feral snarl, lunged at him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket.

"WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MUM AND DAD?"

Ken gulped. Rosemary released him and turned on Tony, screaming into his face, "WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MUM AND DAD?"

Tony reacted in an instant, reflexes honed by hours of self-imposed training, "TASER! TASER! TASER!" Rosemary shot backwards across the hallway, knocking open the door to the room opposite. Caesar, no longer confined, bounded out of the room, threw himself on his now shuddering, prostrate mistress, then turned to face Tony, baring his teeth and letting out a low mean growl before charging.

"SHIT!" yelled Tony. He pressed the switch on the Taser but he'd used all the battery up in the one assault on Rosemary. He climbed onto the coffee table.

"You fucking bastards!" shrieked Stacey, launching herself at Ken's throat.

He fell backwards, Stacey on top of him. She had him in an iron grip with hands made strong through hours of manual labour. He struggled to escape her grasp, to wriggle free from beneath her. He was aware his tongue was swelling and protruding from his mouth as she squeezed ever tighter.

Caesar, now in a state of hysterical confusion and unable to get near Tony, turned, barked, charged and sank his teeth into Stacey's upended bottom.

Stacey's eyes bulged, she screamed and released her grip on Ken's throat, then she stood up shakily and staggered towards the kitchen, Caesar dangling from one of her ample cheeks.

"Quick," yelled Tony, stepping off the coffee table and giving Ken a hand up, "let's get the fuck out of here."

They sprinted down the short path, hurdled the gate and flung themselves into the car.

Tony locked the doors and revved madly, careening down the road like the devil was in pursuit.

In the rear view mirror he could see Caesar giving chase, barking insanely, spittle flying from his jaws as he went.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

The book 'Power Grab' will be FREE from Amazon for download to your Kindle/PC/mobile until Monday 24th December 2018

Introduction

We will know our disinformation program is complete
when everything the American people believe is false

William Case, CIA Director 1981


Mark Cholmondeley was seething.

Not an unknown state he had to admit but this time it was with good reason.

It was intolerable that the UK Prime Minister could be summoned like a naughty schoolboy to answer to a group of doddering fools, made powerful simply because they'd been born into the world's richest banking families.

Knowing that it was to them he owed his continuance in office served to increase his sense of humiliation.

The only plus side of what was coming was that he would be sharing the carpeting with the similarly indebted, US president, Orland Stone.

This was why both Cholmondeley and Stone were shown to a separate meeting hall at the back of the complex, whilst their peers, like them, delegates to the exclusive Bilderberg meeting, made their way to the main lobby.

To their chagrin they were made to wait on either side of huge double wooden doors for several minutes before finally being invited in.

They rose together and straightened their jackets.

"After you, Mark," offered the President with a disarming boyish twinkle. Cholmondeley sighed under his breath, nodded with a tight smile and lead the way into the room.

In what was obviously a calculated plan to increase the sense of impending doom the room was dark; heavy curtains drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking any hint of sunlight, and every other wall lamp had been switched off.

There was a log fire burning in the magnificent fire place at the end of the room which, whilst throwing out some light, was also abetting the gothic effect. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, then they became aware of two high backed chairs in the middle of the room.

Ahead of them, above the fireplace hung a portrait sized blacked out screen.

"Take a seat, gentlemen," said a cultured voice.

As these words resonated a large letter G set in the middle of a set square and compass appeared on the screen with a flaming numeral 1 burning underneath it. Then six more screens flickered into life, three on each side of the room, all showing different graphics, each with a number underneath.

"Be seated," said the voice again, this time with a little more force to the command.

Stone did as he was bid. Cholmondeley adjusted his suit jacket again and took his seat more slowly, making a play of pulling up his trouser legs to avoid spoiling the creases, damned if he was going to jump.

"What went wrong with La Palma?" demanded the voice behind screen 1.

Whilst a dressing down and interrogation had been expected Cholmondeley had thought they would sit down round a table like gentlemen, not be made to go through this ridiculous farce with faceless TV screens.

In his annoyance he left a gap which Stone filled.

"We did our bit, Mr Chairman, we provided the ordnance but the Brits messed up."

Cholmondeley was instantly furious; back-stabbing yank, "We most certainly did not, Stone."

"You drilled too deep," said Stone.

"We drilled to the depth instructed by your experts, so if anybody messed up then it was your people."

"We gave you accurate intel, pal, but you put amateurs on the job and they messed up."

"Mr Chairman," said Cholmondeley, standing up to address screen 1, "my people assure me that we drilled to the exact depth specified...."

"No way," Stone too was standing, a head to head confrontation, all pretence at diplomacy gone, "we gave you accurate figures, you messed up..."

"How can you know that?" demanded Cholmondeley.

"You blew the whole bloody island to smithereens, you idiot," snapped Stone.

The formless voice cut across their altercation, "We lost our trail leading back to Al Qaeda."

Cholmondeley and Stone froze in their adversarial positions, then sank back into their chairs.

The flames flickered on the screen with the number 2 on it, "You blew it, our justification for going into Iran."

The man had pronounced Iran as 'eye-ran'; an American voice with American directness. The skull and crossed bones on the screen made Cholmondeley shiver.

"Well?" This from another screen, one further to the back of the room, showing the number 3.

Cholmondeley was furious at not being able to say what he felt, for not having the courage to walk away from this puerile nonsense with the flames and the numbers and the icons, but then he spoke and there was a tremor in his voice, "It wasn't our mistake."

"It so was," stated Stone, "who did the drilling?"

"This whole operation was a complete fiasco," this came from screen 4 on the left, a thin, reedy voice, but no mistaking the venom, "years of planning...all for nothing."

"Do you people realise how much money has been lost?" demanded screen 5, this one portraying the all-seeing eye of the Illuminati. The bored tones were at odds with the seriousness of the charge.

The voice continued, "Everything was in place; resources, media stories, the vote to the UN for the official invasion of Iran has been prepared, palms had been greased, we were ready for the off and now we have to stand everything down and treat the whole affair like a natural disaster."

Both Cholmondeley and Stone had realised at the same moment that further protest was only delaying the inevitable. They had been brought here to accept blame not extricate themselves from it. Both men appeared to lose physical stature in that abrupt realisation.

"The primaries are approaching, Stone," said the American voice behind screen 2, "any more screw-ups and our support goes elsewhere."

Cholmondeley suppressed a smirk, he at least could not be threatened with democratic removal, not after the destruction of Parliament and the loss of so many MPs. He was necessary. It was his time to shine.

"You may leave, Prime Minister Cholmondeley," said the voice behind screen 1.

Cholmondeley's face betrayed his concern; would something important be agreed behind his back? Then he rose from his seat, looked over to his sometime friend Orland Stone, cleared his throat and left the room, his tread slow and very uncertain.

As soon as the door had closed behind him the screen 2 interlocutor spoke, "Listen up, Stone. In the coming weeks there will be an atrocity against one of the Israeli settlements in the West Bank."

Stone stared at the screen, his mouth suddenly dry.

The voice continued, "Israel will be forced to make a radical decision."

Stone spoke without thinking, "What does that mean?"

"It is not for you to question," the screen 1 voice cut in sharply, "it is for you to listen and to do as we bid."

"I am the President of the United States," said Stone, finding strength from somewhere, "and I will not be spoken to like this."

"My dear Stone, I thought we had made quite clear the tenuous nature of your position," said the thin voice of screen 4, the icon a rose with a cross inside, "perhaps we weren't clear enough."

Stone stared at the screen, impotent fury burning through his veins.

The American voice continued, "Israel will be forced to clear the Palestinians from the West Bank for the sake of security."

"All of them?" asked Stone, aghast, "Surely not, there must be some other way."

"Damn right there's another way, Stone," said the American, impatient with his errant countryman, "but this is the way it's gonna be. The West Bank will become Israeli territory, as will Gaza in due course and the US of A will support Israel in this matter. The only question is whether it's under your leadership or not, remember that."

Stone's head fell; his brief resistance over.

"Now to further business," said the voice behind screen 1, "recent figures indicate that over 75% of Americans are now living below the poverty line."

"I've followed your economic plan to the letter," said Stone, "it's not my fault, the recession has bitten deeper than anyone could've imagined."

"We have examined the details," the cold voice continued, ignoring the interruption, "and most of those living in poverty are in the South; the Hispanic South-West and the Black belt of the South-East."

Stone shrugged; this was not news.

"We intend for the US to break up into four separate countries," said the hitherto silent partner behind screen 6, a thick tone to the voice, a slight hiss to the words. Stone's instinct said South American.

"What?" said Stone, "No, that can't happen, not on my watch. Not today or any day."

"As previously stated, quite succinctly by my esteemed colleague, it will happen, President Stone," said the man behind screen 6, "with or without your help."

Stone had some difficulty understanding quite what had been said, the rich accent distorting some of the words but the key message came over, loud and clear. He asked, knowing he shouldn't, "But why? What will it get you?"

There was silence, then muted murmurings. Stone was beginning to wonder if he should leave, and then screen 1 flickered and the cultured voice broke the stillness, "We have sufficient wealth. Retaining these redundant parts of America will merely serve to drain resources, add to our tax burden."

The American voice broke in, harshly, "Cut 'em loose an' let 'em rot."

"You're talking about the United States of America," said Stone, pulling himself to his feet, "that's the name of the country, the United States."

"Well, son," said the American, his voice dry, "times change."

Stone thought he heard him snicker.

"The relevant parties have been financed and they will begin pressing for independence in the coming months," said screen 1, "your job is to accommodate them, do you understand?"

Stone stared at the screen above the fire.

"I expect an answer, Stone."

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

∞

Cholmondeley was shocked at the sight of the man who came through the doors.

He looked diminished. Gone was the boyishly bouncy, all-American kid made good, with his impossibly big, white teeth and equally impossible big hair and bone-crushing hand-shake.

Stone was shaking his head and muttering, "Looks like I'm going down as the President who oversaw the break up of the good old US of A."

"Surely they don't mean....." said Cholmondeley.

"They do mean exactly that," said Stone, "and don't think you guys got away with it either."

"What do you mean? Got away with what?"

"Brexit and that Scottish thing," said Stone, "that's just gonna come back and bite you in the ass."

"Did they mention that?"

"They didn't have to. Where'd' you think the pressure came from in the first place? Where'd'you think these fringe groups get their funding and media support?"

Cholmondeley loosened his collar, "Did they mention anything else about La Palma?"

"Like what?"

"About me?"

Stone sneered, "Not to me but if I were you I'd double my security detail."

"They did say something," pressed Cholmondeley.

"No, they didn't," stated Stone, "they threatened me with the coming elections, but they can't do that to you now. They'll need another stick to beat you with, to keep everyone else in line."

"Surely you don't think they'd...."

"Let's just say, I wouldn't make any long term plans."

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun

14 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Getting to know you
Always do what is right. It will gratify half of mankind and astound the other.
Mark Twain

Terry sat back in the arm chair and rested his aching head. He was dully angry; he’d had to forgo stitches due to the disconnecting of his chip and the fact he had no cash. The best Donald could offer was butterfly plasters, a lot of them admittedly, but he’d scar and not prettily. Sandra came into the room, sat on the arm of the chair and stroked his hair. Terry smiled and held her hand.

“I guess someone should’ve warned you about doing things like that in public,” said Donald, “they’ve got cameras everywhere.”

“I realised that,” said Terry, “but I didn’t know they were so paranoid about stuff.”

“Oh yeah,” said Don, “They jump on any sign of group activity.”

“So I gather,” said Terry. “Now”.

“And training kids how to defend themselves wouldn’t’ve gone down at all well,” said Donald.

“I thought you wanted me to train people though” Terry said accusingly, irritated at not being given the heads up.

“Yes, but that would’ve been behind closed doors, Terry….”

Jimmy came into the room; he was limping and holding a bag of ice on the back of his head. His face showed strong evidence of the attention Terry had applied to it. He gave Terry a cold look and plonked himself down in the settee next to Don, “So why we here then?” he asked.

“Well you’re here because we collected you from the street where you were laying,” said Sandra, “out cold, as I remember.”

“Yeah, well I know that,” said Jimmy, “but what’s he doing here? And why are you so friendly with him? I thought you and I had something going?”

“In your dreams, O’Connell,” snapped Sandra. Terry looked at her for explanation. “We went out years ago, but he was a dickhead so I dumped him.”

“No I wasn’t,” said Jimmy, “it was a year ago, and besides I dumped you.”

“He’s just an idiot,” said Sandra, “who can’t move on.”
Jimmy got up to leave.

“Hold on Jim,” said Donald, “we need to talk a few things out first…”

“Why were you in there anyway?” asked Don.

“Got nicked the other night, didn’t I,” said Jimmy.

“What for?” asked Donald.

“Who wants ter know?” demanded Jimmy.

“Don’t be like that, Jimmy,” said Don, “you know we have to follow these things up.”

“It wasn’t nuffin’ to do with that,” said Jimmy, sullenly.

“To-do-with-what?” Terry asked Sandra. She shook her head and whispered, “Later.”

“Then what was it to do with?” asked Donald, “Jim, come on, tell us.”

“Oh fuck it,” said Jimmy, “I got pissed and took a slash against the nick, didn’t I.” Donald raised his left eyebrow. “Just my luck, a couple of pigs turned up at that precise moment.”

“Right,” said Donald, “sounds about the sort of thing you’d do, Jim.”

“Yeah, well” said Jimmy, shifting position to pull a pack of cigarettes for his pocket. At a look from Sandra he put them back.

“So I see you both got roughed up in there,” said Donald, “looks like they really wanted to teach you a lesson, Terry.”

“I think it bothered them that I do martial arts,” said Terry, “I think they felt threatened, you know, needed to show some macho stuff.” He flicked a glance at Jimmy who affected not to notice.

“Of course,” said Donald, “What did they ask you?”

“Mostly why I was here,” said Terry, “I think they’d got it into their heads that I was here to teach the estate how to fight, marshal some kind of uprising or something.”

“How’s that?” asked Don.

“Well,” said Terry, “they just kept asking me over and over again why I was here and why I was teaching the kids to fight, it really seemed to bother them.”

“Of course,” said Donald, “did they ask you anything else?”

“Nope,” said Terry.

“What dad wants to know,” said Sandra, “is did they ask you about the meeting? About the group and who was there?”

Terry frowned, “No, what’s the big deal about your meeting anyway?”

“Oh nothing,” said Donald, “it’s just them, they get really touchy about that sort of thing, you know, poor old Tom could end up being raided or something.”

“You mean banged up inside for a good thumping,” said Terry, “no they didn’t ask about the meeting and I never mentioned it, besides I don’t know anything.” Donald nodded, apparently satisfied. “And I never mentioned any of you either.”

“Why not?” asked Don, as if Terry’s additional comment had some kind of significance.

“Well for one thing, as I said, they never asked and for another it never occurred to me that I could lift the heat off me by telling them about you, if it had I wouldn’t’ve thought twice.” Sandra squeezed his hand, Jimmy glowered, and Don looked fit to explode. “Though I wouldn’t have mentioned you, Sandra,” She smiled then made a face at Jimmy. “Look, so what if a few of you get together and discuss I don’t know what, it’s not like dangerous for them or anything, I mean what you gonna do?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” said Donald, “but here on the sink we have to be really careful.”

“Yeah, careful of everybody,” added Don, giving Terry a hard stare, “’cause there’s always someone ready to snitch on you to get a few favours or a few nice things from outside, you know what I mean.”

“Well,” said Terry, “I’m not being funny but that Tom’s got some nice stuff in his house, maybe you should keep an eye on him.”

“No, Tom’s alright,” said Donald.

“Can’t be too careful,” said Terry, “like Don said.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” began Donald, “I think we should discuss the group.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea yet,” said Don, “I mean, just ‘cause he got banged around a bit doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know, son,” said Donald, “but I get the feeling Terry is okay, what do you think, Jim?”

“I don’t like him,” said Jimmy.

“Well that’s okay too, Jim,” said Donald, “but that’s not what I asked. You were in there with him, what do you think? Is he okay? Can we trust him?”

“I don’t like him and I don’t trust him,” said Jimmy.

“Alright,” said Donald, “but if you can get past the fact that he leaned on you a bit earlier you might see the value he could bring.”

“What value?” asked Don.

“The very thing the coppers are afraid of,” said Donald.

Jimmy scratched his cheek, “Well he sure can fight, I know that much.”

Don pouted, “Yeah but, can we trust him?”

“Well Terry?” asked Donald, “can we trust you?”

Terry looked confused, looking at Sandra for an explanation that was not forthcoming, “Trust me? Yeah, sure you can, though I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, that’s okay then,” said Donald.

“How much you gonna spill?” asked Jimmy.

“Dad?” said Don.

“I think he could be of value to the community, Don,” said Donald.

“What value?” asked Terry, “look, what are you guys on about?”

“Could you put the kettle on, Sand?” asked Donald, “I definitely need a cuppa, even if no-one else does.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” said Jimmy, “don’t forget the biscuits, Sand.”

Sandra stood up, reluctant to leave the conversation and annoyed to be put on tea-making duty. Terry pressed her hand and smiled; mollified she left them to it.

“Biscuits?” said Terry, “where you been hiding them then?”

“We haven’t,” said Donald, “they’re fresh; Don and Jim brought them in the other week.”

Terry sat upright, “from outside the sink? You can get outside? Past all the security?”

“We have a route,” said Don, “it’s a bit round the houses and takes a few days but we can get out and get back in easy enough.”

“And the pigs don’t know?” questioned Terry.

“One or two aren’t that bad,” said Donald, “and they’re willing to turn a blind eye.”

“For the odd favour here and there,” said Jimmy.

“They don’t earn much either you know,” said Donald, “they have things that they’d like to take home to the wife as much as anyone. They’re not all bad.”

“Though some of ‘em are complete wanking bastards,” said Jimmy.

“Well said, Jim,” added Don.

“Right,” said Terry, “well, that explains why you guys are so edgy all the time.”

“We have to be,” said Donald, “because if they found out…”

“You’d be fucked,” said Terry.

“Exactly,” said Donald.

“So where do I fit in?” asked Terry.

“Well,” said Donald, “once the boys are on the outside they have to hunt down the produce and it’s not always easy to get, sometimes they have to resort to a little physical activity.”

“Break someone’s skull,” said Jimmy.

“And as you can imagine that can cause complications,” said Donald. Terry looked at Jimmy and grinned. “But if they were properly trained…”

“Then they could get in and out with less risk of capture…” said Terry.

“Exactly,” said Donald.

“I want to go as well,” said Terry.

“No!” said Don, “out of the question.”

“Why?” demanded Terry.

“It puts all our contacts at risk,” said Don.

“I’m not going to tell anybody,” said Terry.

“It’s just one more person who knows and we’re not sure about you yet.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” said Terry, “I just want to get back at these bastards somehow.”

“No, Terry” said Donald, “we don’t get involved in any of that revenge nonsense.”

“See, I knew we shouldn’t’ve told him,” said Don.

“I’m all for getting back at someone,” said Jimmy, warming to Terry, a fellow cop hater.

“No” repeated Donald.”

“Why not?” asked Terry, “We could do something to mess up the system.” Donald shook his head. “But, why not?” Nothing if not persistent.

“We have a good thing going,” said Donald, “You weren’t here when we had nothing. You didn’t see the deprivation, it’s taken us years to get to this position, now we’ve a few bits to trade with and it helps keep everything ticking.”

“I bet you don’t bring much in.” said Terry.

“That’s not your business,” said Don, “it took a long time to build up what we have, what d’you know about anything anyway?”

“You only look after this estate, am I right?” said Terry, “What about the rest of Boro 1?”

“Boro One?” Jimmy’s question was lost as Sandra came back in the room and the atmosphere shifted down a gear.

“Each estate has its own crew,” said Don, “and they know not to make waves.”

“I’m sorry, Terry… but if they think someone is getting out of Boro to cause trouble,” said Donald, “they’ll send in the heavies and smash this place up, drag off the likely suspects, destroy our routes, take down our contacts and generally push us back 10 years.”

Terry puffed out a long breath, “Okay, I didn’t know … an’ now I do.”

“Why’d you want to go so badly, anyway?” asked Donald.

“I dunno, just wanted to be involved, I guess.”

“You’d accept the rules?” asked Donald. Terry’s face lightened with hope. “Don? Jim?”

“Dad?” protested Don.

Jimmy rubbed his chin, “Can’t think of a reason why not, apart from the fact that I hate him.”

“Apart from that,” said Donald.

“Sure, why not,” said Jimmy.

“Oh for chrissake,” said Don.

Cheers for reading

Arun







More books in the 'Corpalism' series
















Compendium editions