Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 32

The new release 'Wise Eyed Open' by Arun D Ellis

Descent 7

Louis sipped his tea and continued to channel hop. He allowed himself a moment to reflect on the old man's passing, aware that had the revelations of the past few weeks not been made then he would have been in full mourning. However, the knowledge had been given to him and couldn't be taken back; that it had been done on his great-grandfather's instructions and apparently in the belief that he would understand was just an added irritation. He didn't understand, he was angry and confused and ashamed.

He rubbed his head in frustration, he was descended from Nazis and he couldn't get rid of the notion that evil had come down through the family line to lodge in him.

Admittedly apart from a bit of shoplifting (and who didn't do that) and a drug dabble (ditto) and ok, he'd tried to kill himself but the family thought it had been a mistake so that didn't count, and anyway it was all years ago, so apart from all that, he'd done nothing to concern his family or friends, especially Jenna.

He shivered; they did not know him as he knew himself; he knew what he was capable of and where his darkest thoughts could go.

His phone buzzed, a text from Jenna.

He allowed himself a few moments to contemplate taking comfort with her. He could see her face, both troubled and caring, warm eyes, soft lips and for a moment he wavered. He wanted to be with her but the last time they'd met up he could talk of nothing but his mixed up feelings.

She'd not been as supportive as he'd hoped when he'd explained his need to search out evidence of the Holocaust his great-grandfather had challenged him to find. Nor did she appreciate his need to find similar evidence to refute all the old man's ramblings about pre and post-war conspiracies to stifle the 'social revolution'.

On the other hand, she'd supported his original plan to burn the folder and put the whole thing out of his head; that he hadn't done either of those things was a source of conflict between them that he couldn't handle right now and had no intention of revisiting anytime soon.

He ignored the text, sipped his tea and changed channel yet again.

The post clattering through the letter box broke through the immobility that had seized him. He snatched at the cardboard, ripping it open to reveal the book he'd ordered. He stared at it; to his mind, one of the most dangerous books ever written, one that professed to explain Hitler and the Nazis; clearly revisionist. He felt odd just holding it; somehow defiled. He was convinced he had been put on some surveillance list the minute he looked it up on line.

He sighed and sat back to read.

He hoped the book would be bunkum; easily dismissed to the file marked 'revisionist nonsense' that he was trying to compile. He had worked out a methodology to make his task easier; read until an outrageous claim was made and then check the claim either on line or on his bookshelves. He had been convinced he would find evidence to debunk the assertions but thus far he had only found evidence in support.

This book proved to be more of the same and three hours later he was still reading; finally he yawned and let the book slide from his lap, he wanted to read more but he was dog tired.

He pinched his cheeks, got up and splashed his face with water from the sink, did a few half-hearted stretches and resumed the task, deciding on an internet search to find an interview with the author, discussing his book. Ten minutes later he started to search elsewhere, the book might well have been intensively researched but the author was sending him to sleep.

He found several other revisionist videos and watched them over and over. Something in them, the very concept of what they preached left him feeling uncomfortable after every viewing.

He stood up and stretched, grabbed his coat and went for a walk.

He returned with a food stock that should hold him in good stead for the next few days while he continued his research. He made short work of a Belgian bun and a can of coke, then slumped down in front of his computer, flicking through until he found a traditional video on the causes of the war.
He watched with quiet satisfaction as frenzied, hysterical Germans, dragooned into lines along the roadside, saluted the megalomaniac dictator. The video had a backdrop of satanic music and the commentary was one he could relate to; Hitler deceiving the masses with tricks like 'Strength through joy' where he bought their loyalty with cheap rate holidays and cruises. It rattled through the same old stuff about how he reduced mass unemployment by building roads, once again buying the loyalty of the masses.

Louis found himself relaxing; his long-held beliefs re-energised as he watched. This fitted what he knew from extensive reading, that Hitler was a control freak, a pervert whose love life was a farce, a man who was obsessed with his mother and couldn't form proper relationships, who as a young man formed an obsession with a young girl, was virtually a stalker, hanging out on street corners with Kubizek, the homosexual. Who later in life totally controlled his niece Gellie until she committed suicide to escape him, then he latched onto Eva Braun. He was a controller of people, a master manipulator and this video proved it. Louis hadn't been aware of how much this revisionist junk had been bothering him.

Louis sighed, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

One hour later he woke with a start, a question thumping in his brain. His sleep hadn't been restful.
He had a test he wanted to conduct and he set to it at once. He watched five minutes of the traditional video he'd fallen asleep in front of, then he watched similar scenes on a revisionist video.

Finally, he turned the sound down and watched them again; without volume they were identical.
Both videos showed thousands of happy Germans all frantic to shake Hitler's hand and they weren't brown shirted party members, these were all ordinary Germans; old men and women, working-age adults, young women and young children.

He rested his fingertips on his forehead, his thoughts racing; stripped of the music or talk overs there was nothing to influence his interpretations. He was left to make his own conclusions of what he was seeing on the screen.

'If they loved him this much then maybe there was something in what he said, in what he and the Nazis offered the ordinary German people.'

He let his thoughts go where they would, conjuring a revolutionary system that encouraged people to work together and for the nation...and supposing it worked, got the German people back into employment when every other western economy remained on its knees, no work, soup kitchens and the like.....

He burst out, his voice loud in the quiet flat, "I need to listen to original broadcasts, hear it for myself. Fuck it, why didn't I learn German?"

He grabbed his cup, rinsed it out in the sink, switched on the kettle, threw a tea bag in the cup. 'So where do the Jews come in?'

The kettle boiled.

Louis poured the steaming water into his cup, his brain still racing, 'surely not? Churchill didn't pursue the war just because the National Socialist philosophy was taking hold? That would be insane, waging a war over conflicting political philosophical outlooks?'

Cheers

Arun

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'Insurrection' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below

The Preacher had been sitting in the centre of the stage, eyes closed whilst the theatre had slowly filled. He had yet to move from that position; the audience was getting a little restless. Just as Barry was considering an unprecedented appearance on stage to nudge his man into action, the Preacher sighed, got to his feet and began, "Today I speak on a thorny subject, one that most of you will take issue with, not because you disagree but because you think you should." He walked slowly along the front of the stage, "We are continuously being bombarded by politicians, by the media and by the church with the notion that we live in a multicultural society."

He stopped and looked out at his audience, realising with a start of surprise that some in the front rows were familiar to him, he shrugged the thought away as distracting and continued, "We are told that the 21st century is dominated by the global economy and so multiculturalism is the future, but when I look back in history and search for successful examples of multiculturalism, I find none. What I find are civil wars such as took place in Nigeria in the late 60s; result: starvation and dislocation and its bedfellow, rampant criminality. When I look in today’s world for successful examples of multi-culturalism, I find none. I find intolerance and indifference, racism and hatred, callous rape and vicious murder and the underlying villain of the piece, abject poverty."

He took a breath, then "How does this affect us in the UK? We are told that this is Britain, we will not succumb to the weaknesses of the human condition; we won't go that way. That somehow as a race we are so advanced we can flourish in a social structure that no other society in history has ever survived."

He allowed them to digest his words for a few moments then, "What are the drivers of that complacency? Arrogance? Blatant stupidity? Criminal greed?"

He moved to the centre of the stage, "Look at the Balkans - racial hatred, look at Africa - tribal hatred, look at America - racial and cultural hatred. To say nothing of what happens when you toss religion into the mix." He paused, "If we look back into our own history we see that the country was divided up into kingdoms of different ethnicity, Vikings, Saxons, Danes, Picts and Celts and the land was constantly torn asunder by wars." He paused, "It was only when the Saxons emerged triumphant that we began to form a kingdom."

"What about William the Conqueror?" shouted a man from the front row.

"Of course," the Preacher flashed a rare smile, "We can't forget the Normans and their place in all this,"

He moved back to the front of the stage. "Consider...it was only when we had one culture, one religion, one language, one centre of political leadership that we finally became a strong and homogeneous peoples with but one aim, to be British."

There were several murmurings of disapproval but he ignored them, "But now we have a multicultural society and we are told it is good to have diversity. But I ask you, do we also not have an increase in opportunist crime? A divided language? Increased threats from home grown terrorists? A crumbling education system? Decline of our faith?"

He placed his hands together and breathed deeply, "I'd like to relate a personal experience of mine, from the work place, when many years ago I worked on a particular team. We worked under extreme conditions and brought in most of the money. We had a culture, a work ethic, an unwritten rule that everyone would stay until the last item was processed. We all pulled together to achieve the common objective so naturally we thought we were the best." He sighed, "In order to cut costs the management decided to run the section close to the bone, even though there was serious risk of loss. Not unexpectedly, we made an expensive error. In response they restructured the department, brought in new people from other teams."

He moved back to his chair and took a quick sip of water, "These new staff members came from teams where they had a more singular culture, where each person would get a bundle of folders and work through until the end of the day and then go home, no matter what. That was their work ethic," he returned to the front of the hall, "and the thing is, our unwritten rule was exactly that. It wasn't enforceable, it was just our culture, so when we got near the end of a time critical task all the new people went home and the only ones who remained to complete the tasks were those who had been on the original section. Although we were the 'indigenous' people we were unable to influence the new people into adopting our culture, our philosophy."

He waited for what he was saying to sink in, "Instead, the new people, arriving in such numbers, were able to impose their culture on the team. That was the end of our team culture, our team ethic." He started to move around the stage a bit quicker now, talking excitedly, "Now if that can happen in business just think what effect it can have on a society. We wouldn't know how deep that corrosion had gone until there was a crisis."

He was getting into it now, "Today!" he shouted, "we live in a time of supposed economic wealth, Britain still has an NHS, still has a state paid education system, still has a strong welfare system although all of the above have actually been crippled at their foundations by a lack of government funding, crippled to the extent that some time in the near future they will collapse."

He dashed to the side of the stage and dragged on a large globe, "Here is the industrial west," he was pointing to Europe, "and here is the impoverished third world," he added, "only it is no longer the case. The rich and the corporations have been allowed to invest heavily in the third world."

He tossed the globe aside, "This means that now, in the west, we are a service based economy and the third world has a manufacturing based economy. But it matters not to the rich. They get their divs from their investments in the new economic powerhouses south of the Equator."

He raised his hands skywards, "But it affects us, it will affect you and your children and your grandchildren because a service based economy cannot support the state or social programmes such as the NHS, education or welfare and the prime examples of that can be seen in history. The west was wealthy because it had a manufacturing base and the third world was poor because it was service based. Now that's all been flipped on its head. That's where the rich investors, where the Corporate Directors are driving the future."

He paused, then continued, "So what does that mean? And what's it to do with multiculturalism? Simple, our society is now rotten underneath and it is waiting for an event to implode it. That event will be unparalleled poverty. Once economies in the west collapse, which they will because there are now too many of us, once our social structures crumble beyond repair we will turn on our neighbours, we will allow our resentments and hatreds to rise to the surface, we will take to the streets and, as has happened in all other countries in such times, we will fall upon outsiders to our society."

He moved to the edge of the stage, "When once you decried the BNP or the EDL, saw UKIP as espousing old fashioned beliefs, yet soon they will appear as your only hope, just as all radical nationalistic groups have appeared to desperate peoples in the past. It's no good deluding ourselves into believing that somehow we are going to be better than those people. People are people and we all react the same, whether we like it or not. Thus when our economy finally collapses and we become a poor nation we will look around for those to blame or for those we can expel and it will lead to our own holocaust, that is where multiculturalism always leads", he dropped his voice to a near whisper, "and only fools delude themselves otherwise."

Cheers and hope you have a good week.

Arun

'Power Grab' the 8th book in the 'Corpalism' series by Arun D Ellis

New release 'Power Grab' by Arun D Ellis




The 2,000 Martyrs

The mosque had been completely restored since the bombing yet the dishonour of this insult had not dissipated.

According to news reports at the time, 75% of the ground floor, as well as large parts of the first floor and the roof had been destroyed in the blast. Funding for the restoration had come from a variety of unnamed sources; payback on the investments was about to come due.

Arrayed in straight lines, 20 by 100, the men in their black robes stood at attention.

The Imam walked slowly along the front rank and then climbed the 3 steps to the small platform and stood in front of the microphone.

He was older than all of those assembled, venerable and authoritative. He stared out at the men in front of him, capturing the full attention of every one of them, then he raised his hands and spoke, his voice throbbing into the space, a powerful yet melodious sound, "You are the shahid. You are the spirit of all Muslims everywhere. You are the soldiers we will send deep into the lands of the unbelievers." He paused, the silence a single baited breath, "You are the sacred hand of vengeance."

Insha'allah, Insha'allah came the rumbling response.

He waited for silence then spoke again, "You will be the dagger driving deep into the soul of the west, destroying their culture and destabilising their lives. You will be a constant threat, moving from place to place, evading their police, creating fear in their hearts. Remember your brothers all over the world who depend on your efforts, on your determination and on your success."

He paused, "You will wreak havoc in their cities, in their streets and in their towns. You will defile their women and emasculate their men." He raised both hands to the heavens and put a deeper energy into his voice, "You will strike terror and fear into the infidel! Allahu Akbar."

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar resonated round the room, rising and falling in waves as row after row confirmed their obedience.

Behind a long curtain at the back of the mosque the man from the Committee sipped his iced tea and smiled.

Cheers


Arun

Extract from the books 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' & 'Corpalism'.

The Independents - Why not a woman?


“Hello, fellow delegates, my name is Stephanie White and I’m standing for Parliament in the London Borough of Wandsworth. At 24 I’m one of the youngest delegates and I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

She smiled at the laughter, “I’m also one of the least experienced so you’ll be pleased to hear I’m sticking to what I know! I was born and raised in Clapham Junction and where I live now 6 out of 10 young people are unemployed, and 4 out of the 6 are women. I work in a shoe shop and as a single Mum I consider myself extremely fortunate to have a job.”

She looked around the hall, “I won’t take up much of your time; I’m just here to highlight the issue of women’s rights.”

The women present cheered and clapped. The men looked immediately beleaguered.

“I know a lot of people think there’s no issue for women and I also know, from personal experience, that not all of these people are men” there was more laughter, this time from the men, “I know a lot of women who would rather not discuss women’s rights, who are quite alright thank you very much so it’s not them I am speaking for here, but for the majority of women who are NOT alright.”

She took a sip of water, her mouth uncomfortably dry, she’d been advised against the coffee earlier and now wished she’d taken the advice. “I know that a lot of people think that things are equal in the work environment but they’re not, because it is a fact that in many instances a woman doing the same job as a man will be paid considerably less even though it’s been illegal since 1970 to treat women less favourably than men in the pay stakes.”

She sipped again, “Women at work have to work harder than a man just to get noticed. A woman has to butch up and out macho the men to get noticed, in essence she will have to become a man. Believe me I know, the shoe business is a cut throat world!” there was a burst of laughter; what she lacked in age, she made up for in cheek, “Admit it ….we’ve all seen it… women these days, they’ve become men. They out drink men, they out shout men, they out party men, they do all of these things because being a woman is seen as being weak, they have to be tough and macho to be thought of as any good… but why? Why does a woman have to be more like a man to have her opinions, her views, her thoughts valued? What’s the deal here?”

She paused to let the question sink in, and in truth to steady her breathing; the size of this crowd was awesome.

Marissa murmured, “Go for it, girl” and Stephanie grinned.

“The answer’s quite simple; women have not been accepted for who they are. They have had to change, to adapt, and to become manlier to compete with men. Is this really a free system where all people are treated as equal and rewarded for their efforts and ideas or is it a system where the biggest, loudest, most hectoring voice is heard and that voice is always the voice of a man or a macho woman? Are we allowing ourselves as women to be denied true equality in our own right as women?”

Her words gained her general nods of approval round the room, even some men, presumably distracted by reminiscences of acquiescent, womanly women, were nodding happily.

“Why can’t we behave like women and have the same chances and rights as men? We form half of the world’s population, do you realize that? We are half of the world’s population and we are treated as second class citizens, we cannot get the proper recognition at work, in the office, in the board room, in the cabinet anywhere.”

She glanced behind her and received a nod from Catherine; they’d talked beforehand and, when she’d finally opened up, Catherine had told her how long it had taken her to get a headship when her university contemporaries (male) had achieved it years earlier. Marissa had quite readily said much the same thing when quizzed about her accountancy opportunities.

“To be honest, we women are our own worst enemies. When we gain the top spot we don’t offer a hand to another, rival woman – think of the Iron Lady – how many women in her cabinet? Let’s face it, we aren’t united, women don’t fight as one entity. We fight for our own cause, for our own family, our own interests. We’re not trained since babyhood like men to stand together, to fight for our rights as a group, as a marginalised section of society. Well, perhaps we should stop and think for a bit, stop and look at how the men have done it, stop and see what unity can do for us; we should unite as one and say no more of this. We should learn from the Dagenham women that united we are strong .”

She took heart from the applause that followed that comment, “But the problem is; there is always the woman willing to sleep her way to the top, to stitch up her competition, stab another woman in the back. This type of woman has no moral compass, no conscious sense of anything other than her own desire to get on."

She nodded, hearing the muttering and responding directly to it, " Now I know there are similar types in the male world but frankly, that’s not our concern, our concern as women should be how we prepare for the fight, how we prepare for the cause, how we set out our stall and how we go about uniting in the coming struggle. We need to consider how we are treated and how we are looked upon. We should look at the lack of respect, the lack of courtesy, the lack of opportunity, the lack of reward that exists just because of our gender. It has nothing to do with our minds, with our imagination, with our abilities, with our intellectual capacity; it is all just because of our gender."

She paused, the tossed in, "Do you realise there is more concern today about racism than about the sexploitation of women?”

She waited for her words to settle with the audience before continuing, “Do you realise that? The media, the internet, twitter, everyone, including women, everyone is more concerned with how black footballers are treated on the pitch than with how all women are treated everywhere. Do you realise this? And do you know why? Because the footballers are men, that’s why. I love football, by the way … I just want to put that on the table, but I won’t take my son to a game because of the foul language and use of the ‘C’ word.”

She shook her head slightly at the gasp that went round the room, “you’re shocked, yet that word is used on the terraces every Saturday all round the country to insult males and as long as you don’t attach ‘black’ to it, you’re fine.”

She stared round the hall, deliberately seeking out the men, fixing them with a look, “How is it you can call a footballer, of any colour, the ‘C’ word, you can call him an ‘effing c***’ if you want to, but you can’t call him anything racial. Do you realise what that means? Do the women here realise what that means? It means that society and the law backs a man’s right to call another man a ‘c***’ and it’s OK, why? Why is it ok to use a slang term for the female sexual organ as a way of insulting a man? A deep insult at that! Anybody? Because in a man’s world women are seen as less than men, because women are seen by everyone, including women, as being less, as having less weighty opinions, less weighty views, women are just seen as fluff whose only purpose is for sex or to sexually gratify men. Other than that women can go to the back of the cave and wait until they are needed again to satisfy man’s sexual urges. Well that’s not the way it should be.”

There was some uncomfortable shuffling of feet and throat clearing, a smattering of clapping.

“I realise I must seem very radical.” She dropped her head for a moment and the room went very quiet, she counted five slowly then lifted her head, her eyes blazing, “ well if that’s what I need to be, then radical it is! I mentioned ‘sexploitation’ earlier and I used the term deliberately. One of the things we have to change is women’s role in the entertainments industry. Why is it that it isn’t good enough for a female singer just to be a good singer?
Why does she have to be a sex symbol as well? Why isn’t it enough for a woman to have a good voice, to write powerful lyrics, why must she appear semi naked in her videos? Why must a female singer pose semi naked for hundreds of media shots? Why must a female singer sell her soul to the industry to sell her music? “

She stopped speaking abruptly, aware she was being controversial, that such a divisive message wasn’t to be readily accepted by this audience, by any audience. She’d asked Donny, her boyfriend, to come for moral support and knew he would be groaning somewhere.

She took a deep breath, shook her hair off her face and continued, “The implication is that if a woman doesn’t sell her body then her songs won’t sell. Rubbish…Music is an audio entertainment, there are no videos on the radio, there is no video playing when you put the CD in your player. A song is a song, a good song is a good song, regardless of whether or not the female singer is attractive, semi naked or fully-clothed, the whole industry has been abused and women have been abused by it.”

There was more applause now, she’d moved on to a safer subject it seemed, she continued “and it’s totally unacceptable to say that it’s just sex and that in today’s market sex sells, it’s not sex… it’s sexploitation, it’s abuse of women, it’s another example of where a woman’s contribution isn’t valued for what it is, another example of where it isn’t enough to be talented, it isn’t enough for a woman to have a good voice, it isn’t enough for a woman to be creative she has to be manipulated, controlled by men who only want her to be a sexual symbol.”

She paused again, “And then there’s acting, TV and films, why is it that in films and TV programmes today a woman always has to take her clothes off? Why is it that a female star has to be attractive and when she’s no longer considered so her roles start drying up? Why are there so few strong parts for women? Why is it that most women are chosen for their physical appearance rather than their acting ability?”

Someone shouted from the audience, and she rebutted with, “Don’t say Meryl Streep at me – she’s one woman out of hundreds of men, that’s why she wins all the female Oscars.”

Laughter and applause greeted that snappy rejoinder.

“Is it the same for men? Of course not, male actors can go on into their 90s but most female actors are finished when the first wrinkles and grey hairs start appearing. Then the movie making industry starts plying the halls for the next young piece of female meat to parade around on our screens, why? Why do we females accept this double standard? Why do we accept the notion that we’re nothing unless we’re young and attractive? We're our own worst enemies. It’s women singers and actors who are giving in to these demands, who accept it as part and parcel of the way things are. We won’t win this war unless women in the industry unite and are prepared to stick together to stand against the sexploitation."

She shook her head, saying, "The irony is that most women don’t start to think like that until their looks start to fade; then they’re willing to make a stand.”
She sighed loudly and was rewarded with amused laughter, “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you… by that time it's too late. They don’t need you, they aren’t going to listen, they’ve found your replacement …and the new sex goddess isn’t in the least bit interested in fighting for women’s rights, not if it will block her route to fame and glory and wealth… but that’s exactly what they must do."

She raised her arms, imploringly, "That’s exactly where it must start…we must unite; we must recognise we are half the world’s population, half the world’s work force, half of a partnership. We have power, we have influence and we can make things change. We must all stick together and we must demand equality of the mind, equality for who we are and what we are, then and only then will our thoughts matter, will our efforts count, then and only then can we as women be accepted for our minds and our personalities, then and only then can a woman really be equal for until that time occurs women will always be second class citizens who are just used and abused by the system and that will only encourage the average man in the street to see women as less than themselves. I’m Stephanie White, thank you for listening.”

Cheers

Rob

The new release 'Wise Eyed Open' by Arun D Ellis

Preface

November 1973

"David, tell me what went wrong."

David Elazar, Chief of General Staff sighed and shook his head.

He faced the speaker, his leader, Golda Meir, the Prime Minister, and raised his hands, a plea for her forgiveness, "It was close this time, for Israel and her people, we came close to total defeat."

"I disagree, David," this said robustly by the man standing by the window, his back to them both. Moshe Dayan, Minister of Defence making a, not unexpected, defence of his own strategy. He continued, his voice raised, "They made gains yes, but they were never going to win, and in that event, we always had the nuclear option."

Elazar shot back quickly, although his voice was still soft, "I don't know how you can say this, how could we use this option? This nuclear? The world would have turned its back on us. I say that without Sharon's victory all would have gone against us."

"Besides which," said Golda Meir, "the world doesn't yet know about our nuclear capacity and it is our policy to ensure that situation remains for as long as possible."

"Exactly," said Elazar.

"We won," said Dayan, his voice heavy with disdain, "because we were always going to win."

"If you had....." began Elazar.

"Gentlemen, please," the woman interjected quietly; out-ranking them both, she had no need to raise her voice, "the war is over."

Both men turned in deference to their Prime Minister as she continued smoothly, "I have been speaking with some of our main political and economic supporters and we are in agreement, the conduct of the war has lessons for the military and those lessons will be learned."

She looked meaningfully at Dayan, then continued with scarcely a pause, "Our concern and the concern of future leaders should revolve around the global impact."

"Israel has reasserted herself," said Dayan, steadfastly ignoring any implied criticism about lessons to be learned, "we are still a powerful, global force."

"I have to agree with Moshe," said Elazar, his voice betraying how unlikely a scenario this was, "although we came close to losing, we are still here and the world has learned to recognise the superiority of our forces, if not our tactics."

Golda Meir persisted, "There is a bigger picture, one that I have been forced to encompass in my thinking. Here in Israel we were not so aware of the effect of the OPEC sanctions, but in the West and in Europe particularly, I am told the impact has been quite devastating."

Both men shook their heads; the impact on the West a small thing compared to the fate of their beloved country. Elazar spoke quietly for both of them, "It is Israel that nearly died."

"Of course that is true, David, however, I am told the consequences for the West were extreme, and therein lies both our weakness and our strength."

Dayan and Elazar looked confused.

This time it was Moshe Dayan who spoke, "We won this war. By the time they try again we will be so powerful that they will be slaughtered in the deserts."

"I am not talking of another war," said the Prime Minister, her voice steady and resolute. "We are weakened by the threat the OPEC countries hold over the West, can you not see that? When OPEC reduced oil production it brought the West to their knees; power cuts, inflation, strikes. A myriad list of reasons why the West will one day turn its back on Israel."

"Then we need to ensure our intelligence is of a high standard," said Dayan, "assassinate any who are planning to attack us or affect oil production."

Golda shook her head. Her smile was tolerant of the fiery man, nonetheless her voice took on a firm, lecturing tone, "Peak Oil is the term given to the efficiency of the world's oil wells, Moshe. When maximum efficiency is reached in every field and world demand exceeds supply then we will be in the situation recently experienced where shortages will begin to influence Western political decisions related to the whole of the Middle East."

"That sounds like a nightmare scenario," said Elazar. "No right-minded leader would risk his premiership for the sake of another country. It's the end of Israel."

"It's not imminent, David. We have decades before that point is reached so we have time to plan."

"What do we do?" demanded Dayan, "We can't put oil where none exists. We can't sit here and wait for that day."

"It is simple, Moshe. Before it becomes an issue we must have destroyed the capability of our enemies to wage war. Furthermore, we must control their oil fields. That way we ensure our allies remain such."

"The world won't allow us to do that," said Elazar.

"No need, David, we will get an in depth report in the coming weeks but the thinking is that we get the Americans and the UN to do it for us."

"How? Why would they do that for us?" asked Elazar.

Golda smiled, "It is feasible if we think along the following lines; America allows its people to hold dual citizenship, yes?"

She waited for their nods of agreement before continuing, "So over the next 20 to 30 years we must ensure that as many Israelis as possible rise to positions of power within the US political and economic establishment. Once we've achieved that we will be able to dictate their foreign policy."

"Impossible," said Dayan.

She ignored his interruption, "We must ensure that there is an Israeli lobby group in every western democracy. We must back all sides in an election, that way whoever wins will be beholden to our supporters."

"Now that is possible," said Elazar, his expression musing.

"Imperative," she said, "if Israel is to survive."

"But even America cannot declare war on the Arab nations, the world wouldn't stand for it," said Dayan, "the Russians would go to war over it."

"All things are possible," she demurred, "as long as we make sure that America is seen as the victim and any response is by way of self defence."

"This cannot be done," said Dayan.

"It can be," said Elazar, "if approached from the right angle."

Golda Meir continued firmly, "We must gain complete control of the media, both Hollywood and their news outlets."

"That way we could pull all the strings from here," said Elazar. He was pacing now, excitement in his voice.

"But how do you make the US appear a victim to the entire world?" asked Dayan, "She is a super power and no-one can possibly hurt her."

"People will believe what we want them to," said the Prime Minister, her voice steely.

Elazar agreed readily, "It's worked in the past. We just need a workable plan, one that is adaptable to any situation."

"And one so unbelievable it will never be questioned," added Golda Meir, "for the bigger the lie...."

"The more they will believe it," said Dayan.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Corpalism-II...

amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Corpalism-III-...

The book 'Insurrection' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below-

Five minutes after Alb gave the command twenty model Spitfires were circling Big Ben to the excited oohs and aaahs of the watching crowd. The ex-RAF boys, having made their way round from their spot on the Westminster Abbey lawn, were standing in Parliament Square, each controlling his individual squadron with consummate ease. The troops and police watched in consternation, uncertain how to handle this spectacle without upsetting the watching crowd.

Alb then sent a text to Cynthia. Moments later the ladies of the WI, some of them sporting patriotic pink and blue rinses, tumbled out of their coach; bobbing like buoys in a rough sea.

"Out of my way, girls," hollered a big round woman in a large floral tent of a dress, her multiple chins flapping like a walrus, "pass me my cane, Ethel," she yelled back into the coach, "it’s with my gun thing."

"Don't crowd me, Hilda," hissed a frail yet waspish old lady, flapping her stick wildly against all and sundry, "don't crowd me."

"How does this thing work?" asked another, whipping out an Uzi from under her dress and waving it in the air. She was gloriously bedecked, leaning on a wheeled Zimmer frame.

"Good Lord," said a sightseer who was walking past the coach, "has that old girl got a gun?" He was hurried away by his wife, intent on getting a good viewing point for when the Queen left the building.

"Steady on, Clara," said Cynthia, her diamond bracelets clacking together as she waved her arms "we haven't had the off yet."

"Come on," said Fiona quickly, "hide your guns before they're spotted by the fuzz."

The police officers stationed outside Parliament stared over towards the WI coach, a sergeant clearly speaking into his radio. Several hundred feet above them a Police helicopter hovered. The Guards on the ground also turned their gaze on the WI coach, the men of the household cavalry pulled at their reins as if preparing to charge, though charge what they did not know.

∞

“Let’s get this show on the road," said Alb.
Gerry nodded and removing his flat cap waved his arm above his head from side to side; the attack signal to the RAF boys. Immediately the Spits zipped off in different directions, circled and then flew directly at the building where the House of Lords was situated.

"Someone shoot those bloody planes down!" yelled a sergeant from the guards, at which a hundred L85A2s, the standard British army rifle, aimed skywards.

The infantry fired and two spits exploded but the others sped on and smashed through the paned windows, exploding on impact, sending glass, brick fragments and splinters everywhere. Then the remaining planes flew through the openings and crashed into the red leather seats bearing the rich and obscenely plump behinds of the Lords. At the same time the OSS set off smoke bombs that they had cunningly taped to the underside of their wheelchairs, though not so cunningly as it turned out, for two of them promptly keeled over and died of asphyxiation.

Alb turned towards the crowd and, pulling his AK47 from under his coat, fired off a couple of rounds into the air and shouted, "Get back!"

Immediately the crowd started a panicked dispersal, running for cover, away from Parliament. At the same time Gerry and the others let off a smoke bomb each. The soldiers stationed just in front of Alb's little army turned and aimed their rifles.

"Get out of the way!" ordered the soldiers, seeing only age and infirmity. The old people hastily complied and scurried as fast as they could past the red coated warriors, towards Parliament.

The Police on duty all turned their attention to Parliament Square; they were looking for an ethnic minority group or maybe a young terrorist faction but all they could see was a bunch of old codgers stumbling their way towards them, they presumed desperately seeking cover.

"Over here," yelled the sergeant of Police, waving frantically as he did so, "and keep down."

"They're in the way, Sarge," said a young copper, "I can't see who's firing."

"Out of the way," yelled the sergeant at Alb and his troops.

"What the bloody hell's going on?" yelled a rotund copper; known to his mates as six bellies, "where did those shots come from?"

"Over there," stated Gerry pointing towards Westminster Abbey, "Over there."

"Quick lads," shouted six bellies, "get the chopper over ‘ead, see if they can't see anything."

∞

Meanwhile Bill and Johnno had opened up the rear doors of the van from where Wilf, his sights zeroed in, was taking pot shots at the Police. Unable to identify where the shots were coming from the officers withdrew to the visitor entrance off Cromwell Green.

The nearby guards had fallen back on the Parliament building itself and were also looking for the source of the incoming rounds.

Alb, Gerry, Mags and their small army were still shuffling across the road, intermittently gasping their “For Britain” battle cry. They eventually made it and piled into the courtyard to the side of Parliament, to be joined by the freshly cut and dyed, tight curly perms of the WI.

"Where did all these bloody old gits come from?" demanded a sergeant of the Guards.

"I don't fucking care," yelled the Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, "just get them out of the bloody way."

"This way mate," said a young guard to Alb and Gerry as they paused for breath, Alb with his hand on Gerry’s shoulder, wheezing at the smoke, "If you hang around out there you'll end up getting shot."
Alb and Gerry nodded and squeezed past, followed by Mags and the rest of their motley crew.

∞

"What the..?" yelled a police sergeant as a tiny, wrinkly old lady dressed in a voluminous dark blue evening dress and be-jewelled in diamonds and emeralds appeared through the smoke. For a moment he thought in horror that it might be the Queen then, eyes adjusting to the smoke, he realised his error and called, "quick granny, over here."

"Less of the granny, my boy," snarled Clara as she levelled her Uzi and let rip with a long burst, emptying her magazine. The bullets smashed into everything around the police sergeant. He blinked, unscathed; a shocked expression on his face. "Oh dear," she mused, "I seem to have run out."

"Run for your life, BOY!" yelled the big round woman in the floral dress as she bounced out of the smoke wafting across Parliament. She stepped in front of Clara, shielding her with her huge bulk. "Or I'll waste your ass."

"Shit!" hissed the Sergeant, scuttling backwards for cover.

∞

Wilf, never having had the patience to be a sniper, had abandoned the van and was leading his happy band across St. Margaret Street in what he considered a charge but which was in fact a muddled shuffle. "Death or Glory!" he muttered intermittently, not having the energy for the rallying battle cry he could hear so clearly in his head.

"Keep moving that way," yelled a Colour Sergeant, pointing in the direction of the Peers’ entrance.
Puffing uncontrollably Wilf nodded, wanting very desperately to sit down and never get up again. Cursing himself for an old fool, instead he dug deep and stumbled on until he came to rest at the impressive entrance to the Lords, "Fire in the hole!" he yelled, dumping a satchel of grenades through the doorway before seeking cover further back. The double doors disintegrated into a whirlwind of splinters.

"Up and at 'em, lads!” He yelled to his collection of ruthless warriors; Bill, Johnno, Pete, Ron, Dave and Sticky. Johnno responded with quite a loud shout of “Death or Glory!"

Behind them three Chelsea pensioners, who had been sight-seeing for the day but were now lying in the road sheltering from the mayhem around them, struggled to their feet, they stared wide eyed for a minute or so then with broad grins spread across heavily lined faces they were off and hobbling, screaming at the tops of their voices, "Death or Glory!"

"Give no quarter, take no prisoners," yelled Sticky savagely, surprising himself.

"Who are they?" demanded Johnno of Pete, pointing over his shoulder at the Chelsea old boys.

"No idea," said Pete, "they didn't come with us, did they?"

"They haven't even got weapons," said Sticky.

∞

Alb had been watching Wilf’s assault on the doors with something approaching envy. "Who does he think he is?" he demanded, "he's not running this bloody show."

Suddenly Cynthia appeared, displaying agility that belied her years, hurdling a prone and groaning policeman, then dashing into the darkened, smoke-filled building, following in Wilf’s footsteps, firing madly as she went. Bringing up the rear was Vera, re-loading as she ran, bunions forgotten in her haste to get into the action.

"Bloody crazy woman," muttered Alb, "she's going to hurt someone with that thing in a minute."

Gerry, at his side as always, made a very strange growling noise; his dander was up and he had the scent of fresh blood in his nostrils, "Death or Glory!" he yelled.

"Er....er, Nobby," stammered Mort, "I need to go to the lavatory."

"Well hold it," ordered Frank, pushing Nobby back into line.

"I can't," said Mort, pulling his dressing gown close around him, "it's all this excitement."

"Then go where you are," said Jonesey, "it won't matter in a minute will it; you'll be dead so you're going to piss yourself anyway."

Just then the Deputy Prime Minister stumbled out of the doorway clutching his head; blood running from a slight graze, "Help me," he moaned, "help me."
"Certainly matey," answered Lenny, taking aim and loosing off a whole clip.

The Deputy Prime Minister fell to his knees, "Don't shoot,” he begged as the rounds bounced around him, none finding a target.

"Bugger," moaned Lenny as he struggled to change his mag.

The Deputy Prime Minister checked to see if and where he had been shot, then realising that all of the bullets had missed he struggled to his feet determined to make good his escape. One of the RAF boys, having witnessed the incident sent his last spit crashing into the ground at the Deputy PM’s feet. There was a terrific explosion, a burst of flame and as the huge cloud of smoke and dust drifted off only a forlorn pair of shoes remained where the Deputy PM had stood.

The Prime Minister, from his hiding place in the doorway gulped and slunk further back into the shadows. Ron, emerging from the dust cloud pulled out a butcher’s knife, "Gotcha, you bastard," he snarled. Bill said from close behind him, "I've got the Labour leader."

"He's all yours," said Ron, party loyalties on the back burner, as he shuffled into the blackened building.
Just then the Queen, head held high, crown in her left hand and her tattered and torn robe hanging from her shoulders, strode out of the crumbling building, the Duke of Edinburgh strolling on behind.
Alb and Gerry were immediately transfixed. Mags moved slightly out of line of sight. Lenny stamped to attention, closely followed by Frank.

Prince Philip saw commoners and moved towards them, hand outstretched, "Hello, how are you?" he said, shaking the spell bound Lenny's hand.

"Well, it just isn't good enough, Philip," said the Queen.

"I was only helping her up, cabbage," he protested.

"It didn't look like that to me," stormed the Queen.

"Your Majesties," stumbled Alb, not at all sure of the etiquette required.

"Oh dear, more little people," muttered the Queen.

"Got to put on a good show, old girl," said Prince Philip.

"I don't need you to tell me that Philip," hissed the Queen over her shoulder, "Ah hello," she said, turning her attention to Alb and Gerry, both still mesmerised, "and what is it that you two do around here?"

"Leave this to me, cabbage, old thing," said the Prince, "I know how to talk to these types. Now see here urm, old man...."

"Corporal, Albert Rayner, of the 1st Battalion, Middlesex Regiment, your highness," said Alb, stamping to attention.

"Ah yes," said Prince Philip on firmer ground now, "don't suppose you've seen our carriage have you? It should be around here somewhere, or maybe the Colonel of the Guards?"

"You there," called the Queen pointing to Wilf who was kneeling over the prone figure of a pot bellied MP, "would you be so kind as to call me a cab?"
Wilf stared bog eyed, a bowie knife in one hand and something small and red in the other.

"I say, what do you have in your hand?" asked the Queen.

Wilf shook his head and stuffed something into his pocket.

"Oh my god!" hissed Alb, knowing Wilf, it was probably a trophy.

"What?" said Prince Philip. Alb nodded at Wilf. Prince Philip looked back and forth, a puzzled expression, "What is it?"

"I say," said the Queen, "a cab, per chance?"

"My kingdom for a cab," said Prince Philip sarcastically.

"Philip," snapped the Queen, "that isn't funny."

"Ear necklace," hissed Alb in Prince Philip's direction.

"I need someone to call me a cab," said the Queen.

"You're a cab," chuckled Prince Philip under his breath.

"I heard that Philip," said the Queen. "I say, what do you have there?" she said, addressing Wilf.
Like a naughty school boy Wilf found himself unable to speak or even to think, slowly he reached into his pocket. Alb's mouth opened in a silent scream, Prince Philip smiled benignly and time slowed down across the universe. Then, just as the bloodied trophy cleared Wilf's pocket, Prince Charles stumbled through the doorway, his multitude of ornamental medals dangling precariously from his chest, "Mummy," he wailed.

∞

Meanwhile in a sumptuous Executive suite at the Savoy, Mackie had positioned himself in front of three lap tops. He had a Skype connection open on two of them; the one on the left was the legal representative of a man identified only as Mr CS and the one on the right was representing a similarly identified, Mr MAF. The centre screen held 12 CCTV images of the events currently unfolding in Westminster.

"Okay, gentlemen," said Mackie, "as agreed, bidding will begin when the target is revealed."

"To clarify," said the man on the left screen, "how do you intend for this to work?" His usual urbane presentation had been overtaken by an unhealthy -looking sheen of what could only be termed, sweat.

"Simple," said Mackie, hiding a smile, "my man will usher the target towards one of the exits. They are all covered by SIG-Sauer SSG2000s which carry an armour piercing round. Each weapon is rigged up to my laptop from which I can control the shot, or shots. Each is fitted with a twenty round magazine. For the right price, working upwards from 5 million, sterling naturally, I will release that control to your client who will then be able to take the shot or shots."

Each of the two screens went blank momentarily; Mackie was untroubled; the middle men were, no doubt, conferring with their employers.

The one on the right, the representative for Mr MAF, came back on, "And how do we take the shot?"

"Press enter once I've switched control across," said Mackie.

The screen went black again.

"Oh, there he is," said Mackie, homing in on Prince Charles, "have to hurry you, gentlemen."

"Ten million," said the representative for CS, abruptly coming back on screen.

"Fifteen," said Mr MAF's representative; a disembodied voice.

"Twenty."

∞

The Queen turned her gaze towards her weeping son, only for a second but it was enough for Wilf to seek cover in the dust clouds sweeping back and forth across Parliament.

"What is it, Charles?" demanded the Queen.

"I think I'm going to be sick, mummy," he wailed.

"Bloody useless idiot," hissed Prince Philip.

"Charles, pull yourself together," commanded the Queen.

"It might be best if you moved on, your Dukeship," whispered Alb to Prince Philip, "it could get dangerous around here."

"Quite," said Prince Philip, smiling, "well, keep it up," he murmured, giving Alb a friendly pat on the shoulder, "you're doing a damned fine job, whatever it is."

"Come on Philip," said the Queen, "We have to be getting orf. What about a bus? Do you think they'll let us on without any money?"

"Doubt it, old girl," said Prince Philip following on behind, "you know what things are like these days, got to pay for everything, gone are the days of the freebies."

"Yes," said the Queen sarcastically, "You would know all about them."

"Protect the Queen!" screamed the Sergeant Major and the guards doubled over to surround their Monarch.

"Fix bayonets!" yelled a corporal.

"Wait for me mummy," called Prince Charles, realising a bit late that he'd need to scurry if he wasn't to be left behind.

"Charles," Camilla had emerged from the smoke, her hair and face blackened, "help me."

"Not so fast, you bounder," snarled Hilda, the floral pattern of her dress clashing wildly with the AK47 she was levelling at Prince Charles' chest, "time to say hello to the devil."

"Bugger," groaned Prince Charles, abandoning Camilla and nipping back inside the House of Lords.
Hilda pulled the trigger but it wouldn't move, it was the same problem she'd been having all afternoon, "Wouldn't you just know I'd get the broken one," she complained.

"Remove the bloody safety catch!" yelled Gerry, as he shuffled past.

"Safety catch?" said Hilda, "what's a safety catch?"

Alb shook his head and followed Gerry into the smoke filled gloom, "Where do we go from here?" he said.

"I don't know," said Gerry, "just push on, I guess."

Meanwhile Prince Charles was ushered by his security detail towards the entrance by Cromwell's Green.

∞

"Okay gentlemen," said Mackie, "I'm going to need you to finish off now, the target will be available in a short moment, final bids please."

"50 million," said the representative for SC.

"60 million," said the representative for MAF.

"70 million," said the representative for SC.

"100 million," said the representative for MAF.

"Sold," snapped Mackie, "transfer of funds required up front, of course."

The representative for MAF then started to type frantically into his lap top.

Mackie sent a quick text, 'Hold at the entrance for my clearance.'

Meanwhile, Ken and Val, having also managed to slip passed the troops and police, a bucket each of hot tar and a bag of feathers in hand, were closing on Cromwell's Garden.

"Money is transferred," said the representative of MAF.

Mackie checked his account on his laptop and smiled, "I am transferring the shot to you, now," he said, "be ready because you will have only a split second in which to fire." Mackie then sent a text to his man in Prince Charles' security detail, 'Now.'

"It's alright, sir," said the security man, to Prince Charles, "I've just had the okay, the way ahead is clear."

"About bloody time," hissed Prince Charles.

"Not so fast," screamed Clara from the shadows behind.

"Bloody hell," groaned Prince Charles, before ducking out of the door.

MAF stared wild eyed at the tablet in his hands, his finger hovering over the enter button, then he saw his target and he started to bash away. At precisely the same moment Tom and Harry leapt out of the smoke and together launched a bucket load of tar all over Prince Charles. Horrified he raised his hands to his face and, stepping backwards, slipped on a police truncheon, just as the rounds from the Sig came crashing into the entrance killing his security escort outright. Ken and Val emptied their bags of feathers all over him.

Crowing with victory the small group disappeared into the grey and white smoke swirling around Parliament.

MAF stared at his screen, eyes bulging. He couldn't see anything through the smoke. His representative stood next to him, also peering.

At the Savoy Mackie was busy putting away some of his other equipment when he saw a lone figure standing up in the camera shot, a figure covered head to foot in tar and feathers. Mackie squinted, shrugged and closed the PC.

MAF looked confused, he stared at the screen, "Did I get him?" he asked, then, "He's still ALIVE!" he screamed, hurling the tablet across the room.

Prince Charles groaned and started to shuffle towards Bridge Street. Behind him he could hear the burst of automatic fire and the screams of dying politicians. "Bloody stupid...." he muttered under his breath. No one stopped him, checked his progress or attempted to molest him in anyway; they steered clear and let the sad lonely figure stumble on down the road, that is, all except a small mousey looking old lady, a bowie knife clamped firmly between her gums as she manoeuvred a bent and squeaky Zimmer frame along the uneven pavement, an empty Uzi dangling at her side.

∞

The Prime Minister, his tie pulled loose and his shirt buttons open at the top, crawled along the floor towards the House of Commons. Behind him he heard the continuous cracking of machine guns. He crawled onwards past a cowering reporter who, realising he had the opportunity of an exclusive, thrust a mike under his nose.

"Prime Minister, what do you make of the day's events?"

"Look," said the PM, falling into his usual intro, then he groaned and crawled off. Trust bloody Blackmore to balls it up.

∞

Outside the army had formed a defensive square around the Queen and the Duke. The police had cordoned off Parliament.

"Are you alright your Majesty?" asked the Colonel.

"Yes, but I'm just a bit tired," said the Queen.

"Sergeant Major!" shouted the Colonel, "seat for the Queen."

"Sir!" shouted the Sergeant Major turning to a couple of privates, "On your hands and knees lads and look sharp about it." The two privates dropped on all fours and the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh sat down.

"Don't suppose you could rustle up a cup of tea, could you?" asked the Queen.

"Cup of tea for the Queen!" shouted the Sergeant Major.

"Whiskey if you've got one," said Prince Philip.

"It's too early for a whiskey, Philip," snapped the Queen irritably.

"Damn it all," he muttered.

Just then about thirty MPs burst from the Peers entrance and dropped to their knees; gasping for air and praising the Lord for their salvation. Seeing their chance the OSS wheeled passed the distracted household cavalry and watching policemen, and rolled on towards the peers' entrance.

"Get them!" shouted a police officer, pointing towards the OSS but too late, for they had reached their target. The MPs, realising they had been approached by ancient invalids, acted as one and sought cover behind the wheelchairs, convinced that no-one would shoot a cripple. Ebullient that their prey had reacted so helpfully, the members of the OSS detonated their charges blowing themselves and the thirty odd MPs into the next world.

∞

Inside the Lord's Chamber Wilf and his merry band were busy despatching the few remaining MPs who had sought refuge behind the seats. They'd been joined by Fiona and Esmé; both of whom had proved to be excellent and ruthless shots. Pete was watching Fiona with a new level of admiration and not a little fear.

"I just got the Chancellor of the Exchequer," bragged Johnno.

"Well, I got the Foreign Secretary," yelled Sticky, "little toad that he is."

"He only counts as half," joked Dave.

Bill staggered into the chamber, blood running from an open chest wound.

"You alright Bill?" asked Esmé, pausing in the middle of a re-load.

Bill slumped down in one of the seats and grinned, "I got the bloody leader of the opposition." Then he slumped forward, his last breath rattling in his throat.

Dave and Sticky bowed their heads for a moment, Johnno put his hand on Bill's shoulder and then they all moved off.

∞

Alb and Gerry had reunited with Mags, Lenny, Dora and Cynthia.

"What now?" asked Cynthia, her hair askew and eyes wild.

Gerry's face was filthy, his smile stretched from ear to ear and his eyes were wild, "Who cares? Never expected to get this far."

"Where are the others? Where's Wilf's lot?" asked Alb.

Gerry shrugged; he'd been with Alb all the time so he knew what Alb knew.

"Mort had a stroke," said Lenny "and I saw Frank and Jonesey get it near the entrance."

"What about Val?" asked Alb.

Everyone shrugged, no one had seen Val or Ken or any of that team.

"And Vera, Esmé?" Dora looked like she might cry; the excitement giving way to despair.

"I say we go down shooting," said Cynthia, brandishing her weapon like she'd been born to it.

"Like Butch and Sundance," said Gerry, smiling at Alb.

"Why don't we just escape?" asked Mags, not altogether ready to meet her maker.

"We're through, Mags," said Alb, "these old bones won't get much further."

"But there's a war still to fight," said Mags.

"That's right," said Lenny, "there'll be others to replace these scumbags, someone will have to tackle them."

"There's no way out," said Alb, "I can't face prison."

"See if there are any more left," Mags said, authority personified, "then gather back here in ten minutes."

"You know a way out?" Alb's voice was high, thick with renewed hope.

"Of course," she said, smiling gently, "I know everything."


Arun

The book 'Helter Skelter' by Arun D Ellis

Descent 10

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

As a result, he'd had the maternal telephone lecture about falling asleep in front of the PC or with a book in his lap not being the same as getting a proper night's sleep. When she'd threatened a visit if he didn't promise to be more sensible he'd complied with alacrity and got himself to bed at a decent hour. That he'd needed the help of a few shots to achieve release from a busy brain was neither here nor there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Kubizek?" said Louis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you loved the power?"

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

"For the betterment of whom, precisely?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Why am I wearing pyjamas?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"£5.60 mate," said the ice cream man.

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

"Of course, Charlie Chaplin."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanted to conquer the world."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So?"

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

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

Cheers

Arun

The book 'Insurrection' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below

The Preacher had been sitting in the centre of the stage, eyes closed whilst the theatre had slowly filled. He had yet to move from that position; the audience was getting a little restless. Just as Barry was considering an unprecedented appearance on stage to nudge his man into action, the Preacher sighed, got to his feet and began, "Today I speak on a thorny subject, one that most of you will take issue with, not because you disagree but because you think you should." He walked slowly along the front of the stage, "We are continuously being bombarded by politicians, by the media and by the church with the notion that we live in a multicultural society."

He stopped and looked out at his audience, realising with a start of surprise that some in the front rows were familiar to him, he shrugged the thought away as distracting and continued, "We are told that the 21st century is dominated by the global economy and so multiculturalism is the future, but when I look back in history and search for successful examples of multiculturalism, I find none. What I find are civil wars such as took place in Nigeria in the late 60s; result: starvation and dislocation and its bedfellow, rampant criminality. When I look in today’s world for successful examples of multi-culturalism, I find none. I find intolerance and indifference, racism and hatred, callous rape and vicious murder and the underlying villain of the piece, abject poverty."

He took a breath, then "How does this affect us in the UK? We are told that this is Britain, we will not succumb to the weaknesses of the human condition; we won't go that way. That somehow as a race we are so advanced we can flourish in a social structure that no other society in history has ever survived."

He allowed them to digest his words for a few moments then, "What are the drivers of that complacency? Arrogance? Blatant stupidity? Criminal greed?"

He moved to the centre of the stage, "Look at the Balkans - racial hatred, look at Africa - tribal hatred, look at America - racial and cultural hatred. To say nothing of what happens when you toss religion into the mix." He paused, "If we look back into our own history we see that the country was divided up into kingdoms of different ethnicity, Vikings, Saxons, Danes, Picts and Celts and the land was constantly torn asunder by wars." He paused, "It was only when the Saxons emerged triumphant that we began to form a kingdom."

"What about William the Conqueror?" shouted a man from the front row.

"Of course," the Preacher flashed a rare smile, "We can't forget the Normans and their place in all this,"

He moved back to the front of the stage. "Consider...it was only when we had one culture, one religion, one language, one centre of political leadership that we finally became a strong and homogeneous peoples with but one aim, to be British."

There were several murmurings of disapproval but he ignored them, "But now we have a multicultural society and we are told it is good to have diversity. But I ask you, do we also not have an increase in opportunist crime? A divided language? Increased threats from home grown terrorists? A crumbling education system? Decline of our faith?"

He placed his hands together and breathed deeply, "I'd like to relate a personal experience of mine, from the work place, when many years ago I worked on a particular team. We worked under extreme conditions and brought in most of the money. We had a culture, a work ethic, an unwritten rule that everyone would stay until the last item was processed. We all pulled together to achieve the common objective so naturally we thought we were the best." He sighed, "In order to cut costs the management decided to run the section close to the bone, even though there was serious risk of loss. Not unexpectedly, we made an expensive error. In response they restructured the department, brought in new people from other teams."

He moved back to his chair and took a quick sip of water, "These new staff members came from teams where they had a more singular culture, where each person would get a bundle of folders and work through until the end of the day and then go home, no matter what. That was their work ethic," he returned to the front of the hall, "and the thing is, our unwritten rule was exactly that. It wasn't enforceable, it was just our culture, so when we got near the end of a time critical task all the new people went home and the only ones who remained to complete the tasks were those who had been on the original section. Although we were the 'indigenous' people we were unable to influence the new people into adopting our culture, our philosophy."

He waited for what he was saying to sink in, "Instead, the new people, arriving in such numbers, were able to impose their culture on the team. That was the end of our team culture, our team ethic." He started to move around the stage a bit quicker now, talking excitedly, "Now if that can happen in business just think what effect it can have on a society. We wouldn't know how deep that corrosion had gone until there was a crisis."

He was getting into it now, "Today!" he shouted, "we live in a time of supposed economic wealth, Britain still has an NHS, still has a state paid education system, still has a strong welfare system although all of the above have actually been crippled at their foundations by a lack of government funding, crippled to the extent that some time in the near future they will collapse."

He dashed to the side of the stage and dragged on a large globe, "Here is the industrial west," he was pointing to Europe, "and here is the impoverished third world," he added, "only it is no longer the case. The rich and the corporations have been allowed to invest heavily in the third world."

He tossed the globe aside, "This means that now, in the west, we are a service based economy and the third world has a manufacturing based economy. But it matters not to the rich. They get their divs from their investments in the new economic powerhouses south of the Equator."

He raised his hands skywards, "But it affects us, it will affect you and your children and your grandchildren because a service based economy cannot support the state or social programmes such as the NHS, education or welfare and the prime examples of that can be seen in history. The west was wealthy because it had a manufacturing base and the third world was poor because it was service based. Now that's all been flipped on its head. That's where the rich investors, where the Corporate Directors are driving the future."

He paused, then continued, "So what does that mean? And what's it to do with multiculturalism? Simple, our society is now rotten underneath and it is waiting for an event to implode it. That event will be unparalleled poverty. Once economies in the west collapse, which they will because there are now too many of us, once our social structures crumble beyond repair we will turn on our neighbours, we will allow our resentments and hatreds to rise to the surface, we will take to the streets and, as has happened in all other countries in such times, we will fall upon outsiders to our society."

He moved to the edge of the stage, "When once you decried the BNP or the EDL, saw UKIP as espousing old fashioned beliefs, yet soon they will appear as your only hope, just as all radical nationalistic groups have appeared to desperate peoples in the past. It's no good deluding ourselves into believing that somehow we are going to be better than those people. People are people and we all react the same, whether we like it or not. Thus when our economy finally collapses and we become a poor nation we will look around for those to blame or for those we can expel and it will lead to our own holocaust, that is where multiculturalism always leads", he dropped his voice to a near whisper, "and only fools delude themselves otherwise."

Cheers and hope you have a good week.

Arun

The new release 'Wise Eyed Open' by Arun D Ellis

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 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; made so deliberately by 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."

Cheers

Arun

amazon.co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Corpalism-II...

amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Corpalism-III-...

The book 'Corpalism' by Arun D Ellis

extract below

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

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

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

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

“No,” said Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

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

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

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”
The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

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

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

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

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

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

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

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

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

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

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

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

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

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

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

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


Cheers

Arun