All Cabinet meetings are unpleasant; but every one is unpleasant in its own way.
“How right this is,” mused Morton Megaraparthenon, as he graciously strode into the chamber.
“Evening luvvies,” with all the faux-casuality he could muster. “Do all let’s sit down now. We’re all serious chaps, now aren’t we then, hm?”
Harriet Rojas glared at him.
“Chaps?!”
“Ah, yes,” Morton murmured dismissively. “Not another microaggression by any chance?”
Harriet placed her hands on her hips and pouted.
“Microaggressions may be ‘micro,’ by name, but they are always, always, always ‘macro’ by nature!” she shrieked.
Slyly pausing for effect, the Prime Patriarch raised his glass of water to his lips.
“Hm. Totes!”
Harriet’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.
The Trade Secretary guffawed, rocking backwards and forwards on his chair.
“Excuse me, Prime Minister,” Harriet practically screamed. “Are you going to permit this privileged old white man to laugh at me?”
Affecting a solemn gravitas of disapproval (this was always his favorite game! His past ‘Adult Cinema’ history had served him well), Morton spurted out a couple of volleys for a typical divide and rule gesture of domination.
“Calm down, luvvie. Pray don’t get your pretty little head all of a tizz,” he lovingly murmured.
Turning to face the Trade Secretary, he said, “Now, you miserable old bugger! Pray don’t lower the tone with this idle guffawing. Is this the Cabinet of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, or an Eton schoolyard brawl?”
The Trade Secretary spat on his handkerchief and let fall the filthy rag of his shame, and of his gobbings.
“Haven’t you got a bum or two to be filling up, instead of filling up our time with your toxic spewings and salty vitriol?”
The entire room exploded in laughter; with the exception of Harriet Rojas.
“Hm, I don’t know, darling!” laughed Morton, permitting himself a sarcastic chuckle or two. “Anyone in mind? Or dare I ask?”
This cabinet really was out of control. From day one, the relentless immaturity and insolence had been matched only by their shameless cupidity and greed; and of course, most of all, their self-seeking egotistical brutality.
It was impossible to govern such herd of blithering imbeciles, Morton thought. How can one govern a country when the dozen-plus most trusted people in the land are all morally bankrupt kiddy-fiddlers, fools, and frauds?
“With the greatest of respect, Prime Minister, that is most inappropriate!” Harriet thundered. “Have you any idea how much the LGBT community are suffering when you permit such things like this to be said in your presence?”
Morton furrowed his eyebrows.
“Oh well, dear me!” he sarcastically retorted. “We are precious now, aren’t we! Well, one could be forgiven for thinking you were the only person offended by such talk. Word to the wise, darling: the dogs may bark, but the caravan moves on!”
Harriet wagged her finger in fury.
“Was that by any chance an anthropocentric comment?!”
The whole room erupted into laughter once again.
“You trig, hun? Well, dear God!” Morton snarked, with a catty swish of his jacket. “Did you all transform into an idle, ungovernable mob of Gadarene swine when my back was turned?”
The Trade Secretary’s husky, superficially genial voice managed to splatter out:
“Well, well, well, Prime Minister, rather your back was turned than mine, eh? Har har har!”
By now, the laughter was deafening.
“Har! Har! Har! Har! Har!”
Harriet ran out of the room, cursing and swearing at the top of her voice.
The laughter continued.
Morton waited for it to abide.
It didn’t.
He eventually stood up.
No difference.
“That’s quite enough!” he barked.
The laughter stopped.
A most ungraceful and ungracious comment.
The Trade Secretary grunted.
An occasional cough was heard.
“Now, listen carefully. We all know why we’re here, don’t we?”
They all yawned.
Not one person showed the slightest sign of interest.
“You are all aware that the Cairo Sacred Testament Against All Ungodly Crimes Against Nature is being widely circulated. It is rumored that countries that do not sign the petition may face formal sanctions at governmental level, as well as informal sanction at non-state levels. Just to remind everyone, the wellbeing of our citizens, including but not limited to our LGBT citizens, is not to be sacrificed at the altar of political expediency. Not even for the sake of trade.”
The Trade Secretary laughed.
Morton shifted imperceptibly on his feet.
“Can’t say I find this matter particularly amusing.”
The Trade Secretary stood up, gestured wildly, and bawled
“Let them eat windmills!”
The entire room erupted into laughter.
Morton struggled to master himself.
“It’s not a laughing matter. Sit down, young man, and let’s hear the rest of… of… of…”
The Trade Secretary swaggered and bobbed, utterly overcome with mirth. “Forty years old, ‘e is, and this young urchin wants to tell me, to tell me, the Trade, the Trade, the Trade Secretary… Har, har, har, har, har, har…”
Morton tried one last time to reason with them.
“I am aware the oil-rich nations are getting too big for their boots. But we shall manage. Shan’t complain about our medium term prospects. No pain, no gain, eh? Now, it is well established that renewable energy represents a truly excellent…”
Several cabinet ministers stood up in rebellion.
Morton gasped in horror.
…
They were all against him.
Worse still, one last person reluctantly rose to his feet.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer, of all things!
Morton could not believe what he was seeing.
“They’re… They’re talking about recriminalizing…”
Morton’s voice dried up completely.
The Trade Minister picked up the remote.
All of a sudden, the projector screen burst into light.
“It is a most irregular matter,” the King droned, “To take up such a matter as the Cairo Sacred Testament Against All Ungodly Crimes Against Nature, without going through Parliament first. However, given the serious energy shortages in our country, and the myriad powerful and well-funded Zionist lobbies, restive Celtic provinces, and ruthless, anarchistic, unpatriotic trade union militants and parties of self-styled labour…”
Morton sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face.
He only caught occasional snatches of the Monarch’s words.
Unwise deviations of the previous century…
The base and rank ingratitude of the self-styled ‘homosexual community…’
Constitutional inability to requite the inestimable generosity and benevolence of our kingdom with due respect and gratitude…
As has been stated in the Testament, the law shall be carried out with ruthless impartiality. And there shall be no retroactive limitations whatsoever on the punishment of past abominable transgressions against nature and the divinely ordained sexual order…
The Archbishop of Canterbury agrees wholeheartedly (as befits his role) that we, as steadfast and faithful People of the Book, ought not to forbid that which is good, nor ought we ever once to permit such enormities as exude the rotten stench of an unmistakable and grievous evil…
Should someone be the very Prime Minister or King himself, he should not consider himself immune from accountability for his unspeakable transgressions and iniquities against Divine Justice…
Justice shall not be bought or sold. To none shall we deny Justice. And if Sodomy be a crime against Humanity, we know that these things are worthy of death, as also are those who approve of the same. And Humanity shall not be cruelly deprived of her Justice, nor shall Society be left oppressed and afflicted, a bereft and abandoned widow, with no-one to plead her cause against those who commit High Treason against the Greater Good, and against Him Alone.
Eventually, the broadcast ended. Morton raised his head.
There was only one person left.
The Trade Secretary.
“Did you enjoy that?”
Morton said nothing.
What could he possibly have said?
“We’re going to clean up this country,” the Trade Secretary whispered.
“And we’re going to start at the very top.”
Morton fell to his knees, imploring the heavens for mercy.
The Trade Secretary spat and sauntered out.
He idly gestured to the police who were just coming up.
The first execution of the Cairo Testament was to be a prime scalp.
Morton struggled to his feet, wide-eyed with terror.
His only thought was, “Thank God there is no-one I…”
All of a sudden, he shrieked, his face going so pale, the officers thought he was going to die there and then.
A little child stood in front of him.
Only seven years old
“Why are they doing this, Daddy?” she wept.
It was little Magdalene.
“Tell her,” the officer spat.
“Tell her, mate! Tell him you are a Sodomite, a pervert, a filthy gay-arse faggot, and you are going to be beheaded tomorrow.”
Magdalene’s red eyes brimmed over with tears once again.
“He’s not!” she wept. “He’s Daddy. He’s the best man in all the world!”
Morton covered his face with his hands, weeping in the most concentrated, pure and unadulterated despair imaginable.
“They don’t mean it Daddy, do they?” she cried, stretching out a loving hand.
Morton dropped his hands, horror-struck.
What could he possibly say to that?
“They aren’t really going to kill you, Daddy?” she wept, her lips quivering.
“You haven’t done anything. You’re the best Daddy in all the world!”
Morton tried to stand and fell flat on his back, quivering in agony.
“I will tell them,” cried Magdalene, tenderly caressing him. “I will tell them you are the best Daddy in all the world, and you haven’t done anything wrong. If only I can explain to them, they will understand.”
A ruthless blow from one of the officers felled Magdalene to the ground.
Shrieking with horror and remorse, Morton drew a knife.
His trembling fingers prepared to heartless-lovingly draw the blade across his daughter’s neck; even that was preferable to what was coming!
But over-eager to catch the most savory of scalps, one of the officers fired his modified tazer.
Both father and daughter were convulsed with several thousand volts of electricity.
Sadly, this was the best possible thing that could possibly have happened to either of them.
Although, little did the officers know that on account of the VIP pedophile rings and numerous factional struggles among the elites…
Several top metropolitan policemen were soon to hang as well.
Alongside the loathsome Trade Secretary, whose hypocritical connivings had seduced the weak and decadent Monarch of the land into signing the Cairo Testament.
***
Marcus Charleston Bubble was so amused and excited to hear it all from Benito Scarlett Muskogee (in the latter’s usual inimitable manner), he didn’t get a single moment of sleep that night.
Saul Friedman, on the other hand, practically drank himself to death.
And even Adolph Adams and Deborah Willow, for once, were barely any better.