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Friday, 18 March 2016



                            EXCERPT G from GRAND SCHEMES ON QINSATORIX

                                                by Thomas Hoskyns Leonard
Draft and slightly abridged version

 Further brouhaha ensued, only for Dame Prothesa Greenleaf to march in, bang the table with her ceremonial mallet, and call the meeting to order. While she was still ticking everybody off, Prince Caleb ran in with a six-pack and threw himself, reeking of beer, onto the green satin sofa.
“Perhaps I could remind everybody,” continued Dame Prothesa, “that the purpose of this afternoon's session is to brainstorm ways in which we might improve our efforts to eugenicize the populations of the Three Planets. It is important that we do not repeat the mistakes of the early twenty-first century when the plebeians on Planet Earth were not sufficiently suppressed and compressed. They were thereby, in AD 2125, left in a fit enough state to be able to successfully rebel against the oligarchs who were diligently controlling them. This morning, we carefully scrutinized the literature concerning twentieth century Eugenics and mind control techniques, in the hope that this might indicate some ways forward for the future. I would therefore now like to call for suggestions. Who would like to get the ball rolling?”

“Hee haw, hee haw,” exclaimed Prince Caleb,****** *** *****. “My balls are certainly rolling. The efforts by Dr. Ewen Cameron at McGill University during the John F. Kennedy Era were at the cutting edge of the twentieth century Eugenics movement on Planet Earth, and we should now accelerate them to an intense level. All plebeian children of above average intelligence should be incarcerated in orphanages, boarding schools and fake mental hospitals. Our kinky KK Ultra experts and shrinkotherapists will thus be enabled to restrain the silly kiddies in iron masks, constrictive straightjackets, and sensory-deprivatory spacesuits, shock their frontal lobes with neutro-magnetic waves, and pump them full of some nasty biochemical or other. The zombies who survive
 should be sent to grovel and fester in our uranium mines. After this initial experimentation, we can pay similar attention to adult members of the more invidious of the Apollo tribes, and to all free thinking humans and Icarians on this planet.”
“A capital idea!” exclaimed Dr. Voluptia Monsanto-Vesuvius. “By then all of our populations will be completely chemicalised, for example by our forthcoming fluxomoronium Biochem trail which works even better than the vaccinations. We have a special antidote for the high and mighty, of course.”
“I guess that I have something more subtle in mind,” said Prince Hamlet, with a sly grin. “Our Missionaries of Salvation offer help and salvation to our itinerants in their hundreds of hostels around Trystonia. I'm sure that the nuns could be persuaded to poison the poor wretches' meagre supplies of rice. Their bodies could be then dumped into people carriers and taken away for incineration.”
“Didn't the Missionaries of India do something like that during the twentieth century?” asked Dame Prothesa?”
“Did they really?” replied Hamlet, with a smirk. “I guess that most good ideas are not that original. Somebody else will have thought of it first.”
“Or claim to have thought of it first,” said Dame Prothesa, “like that vile Bayesian statistician Loxius Foxius.”
“I find all of this a touch over-complicated,” said Admiral Sporus McSporran, rubbing Prince Adam's thigh with slightly impolite incongruity. “Why don't we haul all of our sick, elderly and disabled out of their homes, hospitals and nursing ranches, and throw them into the backs of trucks and then down the Jabber the Mutt quarry? I'm sure that Jabber would be glad to swallow them whole.”
“I'm about to ***!” shrieked Caleb, and when he did so, albeit in his usual princely style, everybody looked at him in disgust.
“This begs the issue,” said Prince Hamlet, craftily tilting his head, “as to how we are to speedily euthanasize the populations of the Planets Earth and Remus and force the nefarious Sagittarian and Rockwellian oligarchs into abject submission.”
“What ideas do you have stuck up your sleeves, ****** ******?” asked McSporran, while almost completely lost in the throws of giving Prince Adam an all-embracing cringe-cuddle.
“I have indeed sketched out a possible strategy,” replied Hamlet, opening his red notebook. “My worthy brother-in-law could accompany Spunk Spitfire on an invasion of Britain, ostensibly to protect the dippy proles on behalf of his mother their titular Queen Empress. Once he has installed himself as King Emperor he can instigate a reign of terror across their entire empire, and bring whatever remains of its populations to their cringing knees.”
“Way to go!” declared Prince Caleb, ****** *** *** *** *** *****
“A capital idea!” exclaimed McSporran. “Our uronuclear-powered superzip tanks will be able to successfully negotiate the Wittgenstein Wormhole. We will need to use our ancient hedgehog transposition devices, of course, one at each corner of the super-strip. We have a bundle of them stored away in our warehouse in Drumkok.”
“Unfortunately, our battle cruisers are too large for the wormhole,” Hamlet dryly replied.
“However, while the Imperial Army is away, you and I could lead the battle fleet in an attack on the Planet Remus and run havoc around that God-forsaken planet from the air.”
The admiral gave Hamlet a big slobbery kiss.
“We will be comrades-in-arms, my dear fellow,” declared McSporran, “and when we've killed off those cookie monsters we will return in triumph to this beloved City of the Lanterns of ours to the acclaim of the much adoring bourgeoisie and whichever seething proles deign to honour us.”
“I didn't know that Remus came into the equation, Hamlet,” blurted Prince Adam, looking quite puzzled.
“Just be quiet, diddums,” replied Hamlet, giving Adam a naughty caress.
“I'm about to flower!” exclaimed Adam, and when he flashed his orchadeus everybody, apart from Agrippina, peered at him in envy.
“I think that you're all positively disgusting,” yelped Agrippina. “No Drac-hound would ever stoop to your level.”
“I'll roast your eyeballs in conc. nitric, you half torn Schweinhund!” howled Dr. Voluptia Monsanto-Vesuvius, with an ugly grimace.
“Sure you will, darling,” growled Agrippina, bounding across the room
Whoopsie daisy! thought Voluptia. Maybe I should give her some of my cat meat.
To Voluptia's excruciatingly painful shock and surprise, Agrippina leapt at her throat and dug in her fangs. The first of the fifteen Grand Oligarchs to die emitted a blood and enzyme curdling
 yowl out of Hades as her flesh was torn to shreds, down as far as her navel.
I'll get that dog, agonised Voluptia, as she floated upwards on her favourite biochem trail towards the Crimson Cube of Heaven where her brain would be meticulously dissected by the Archangels Raphael and Sandalphon without the benefit of laughing gas.
“There's Eugenics for you,” Agrippina proudly declared.  

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