by Thomas Hoskyns Leonard
Excerpt (D) DRAFT VERSION
“I call for discussion of the princess's covertly proposed
revisions,” announced Trithagoras. “Who'd like to get the ball
rolling?”
There was a deathly hush for fully thirty seconds. Prince
Adam was beginning to nod off when a middle aged Icarian rose to his
feet. He was wearing the sack-cloths of a monk and an arch wizard's
pointed silver hat.
“I
am sure that Das Deutsch-Schweizerisch
banking
consortium, the Aspenbergians
of Stockholm,
and the Christian
Sagittarians
of Amsterdam will much appreciate the proposed
amendments
to clauses six and seven,” declared Father
Revi
Savvatan. “However, a
couple of the
other cliques who think they control Planet Earth may well prefer
further amendments to clause five, since it leaves us free to
interfere willy nilly in their wars in Europe and their genocide in
Australasia. I gather
that the Ottoman
Knights of Ankara would wish to be consulted, and also the Grand Old
Federal Reservists of Philadelphia. It is of course unlikely that the
Oxonian and Frutonian Wadhamites will give a damn. They're too stuck
up for their own good.”
As the hereditary Interstellar leader of 'Baalites of the
Cosmos', Father Savvatan was a highly influential Icarian Phoenician
who was much respected for his wisdom, and sometimes mistaken for a
manifestation of Baal, the God of Light and Fertility himself. He was
descended from the Phoenician Princess Avigail, the very first leader
of his organisation, who transposed, with a hundred lusty followers,
from Babylon to Qinsatorix during the sixth century BC, married into
the Icarian nobility, and spawned twelve interspecies children.
At least the trumped-up joker didn't pull the God-forsaken
Finno-Ugrian pedos of Budapest out of the hat, mused Prince Adam.
They're a figment of the imagination of a pair of highly xenophobic
self-published authors from Uganda. An interstellar Finno-Ugrian
conspiracy? That's so Zilchgeist. I'm sure it's confined to Uganda.
“I totally concur with the learned father,” said a
wafer-thin Icarian lady with two long hard loaves for breasts who
Prince Adam was unable, for the moment, to identify by name, maybe
because of a mental block.
“It is we, the Grand Oligarchs of Trivoli, who play Punch
and Judy with the populations of the Three Planets,” responded
Princess Natasha, looking down her nose. “The assorted splinter
groups on Earth should take a hike.”
“Nevertheless,” drawled Trithagoras, rolling his feline
eyes. “We could placate our Turkish and American colleagues by
inserting the words 'after due consultation with all interested
parties' immediately after
'interstellar military operations'. Would that further modification
to clause five be acceptable to the esteemed members of this
Council?”
When Field Marshall Spunk Spitfire stood up, Prince Adam was
impressed by the golden buttons glistening on his bright red uniform,
and the twenty or so medals dangling from his chest. Hailing from
Swindon, England, he was the commander-in-chief of the Imperial
Military Forces on Qinsatorix and most of his officers were either
British settlers or mercenaries from Planer Earth. Now in his late
thirties, he cut a similarly stoic appearance to the pugnacious
twenty-second century American war hero General Elmer Dwightius
Eisenhower.
Spitfire's much fêted
father, who was also called Spunk like his father before him, had
served as the commander-in-chief of the British Colonial Forces on
Qinsatorix between 2397 and 2395, only to die ignominiously while
trying to usurp the Imperial throne. Spunk the Third was eulogised
for his frequently quoted philosophy, 'A small amount of spunk is
worth lots of pity'. Unlike his evil father, he was much liked by the
monarchy.
“I find the Lord Trithagoras's suggestion to be eminently
acceptable,” said Spunk Spitfire the Third. “Perchance I could
note in passing that it as ever incumbent on all of us to move in
synchonicity with our military-industrial complex. The M.I. complexes
on Remus and Earth have long since been too big for their boots,
particularly after the biochemical engineers lit up the skies. But on
Qinsatorix we act in unison with Grössen
Pharma, our increasingly non-Hypocratic medical profession, the
financial high flyers, and our wonderfully totalitarian bureaucracy.”
Prince Adam was prone to blurting out highly embarrassing
and apparently nonsensical remarks during other people's sane
conversation, frequently without realising afterwards what he'd
actually said, and this was regarded as one of the key diagnostic
symptoms of his highly desperate brain condition. He now surpassed
even himself.
“Totalitarianism causes loneliness and isolation,” he
blurted. “May the lonely Kafkaesque peasant Pilor stick a red-hot
dildo up your droopy backside.”
“What!!” howled Spitfire, turning beetroot.
“And may the Quixotic proles don their visors and tilt at
windmills till Kafka's Castle turns to dust,” spieled the prince,
again off the top of his head.
Spitfire recovered his composure.
“Inciting revolution are you, young man?” he asked.
“Even princelings can be put into orbit chained to the backs of
piping hot space rockets.”
Prince Adam recovered his senses. He knew all about
Gravity's Rainbow, and didn't want to go there.
“Derr--,” he replied.
“Please don't blurt out any more of your stupid
nonsense, Adam,” demanded Princess Natasha. “You know that you
don't like being jagged in public. We have four syringes of
flupentixol at the ready, and one dose could be enough to paralyse
you waist downwards and put you on crutches.”
Adam's legs turned to jelly. He didn't want to be injected
in his left D-spot with that toxic psych med.
“Yes, Natasha,” he replied, with his tongue firmly
wedged in his cheek. “I'm sorry, Natasha.”
“To return to the business at hand,” said Trithagoras,
with a hint of a frown, “I wholeheartedly concur with Field Marshal
Spitfire's advice concerning the M.I. complex, though I don't think
that we need to make any more additions in this respect to clause 5.
Are there any further comments regarding the Princess Natasha's
proposed amendments?”
Following a variety of insightful questions from several
further Grand Oligarchs, the revised version of their creed was
covertly approved by fourteen votes to zero, with Prince Adam
abstaining out of spite.
“And now it is time for lunch,” declared Trithagoras,
preening his whiskers.
Prince Hamlet was delighted when his domineering wife released him
from his lead as they were ascending the elevator to the ground
floor, and he promptly bounded into the Lotus Room where he dived
into the delicious wild life buffet. However, after he'd demolished a
roasted ape-gnome and an octoplum, the hyperactive Prince Adam of
Eden sidled up to him with two sugared preying mantises.
“Why don't you chum me to the Emperor Fleance's Amazing
Maze?” said Adam. “We could chew the rag together.”
Hamlet devoured one of the mantises like a bear attacking a
fish.
“Sure, laddie,” he replied. “You're like a real brother
to me.”
As
they headed through the Glen of the Craving
Ravens,
Hamlet remembered his Remusian
sweetheart
Princess Leah of
Fólkvangr
who'd
died so tragically in the
Amalienborg Palace, impaled
with a steel
spike from ear to ear while the giant hounds chewed
at
her paws.
That was
shortly before he was thrown into the
Snakes and Ladders Dungeon
in Helsinger
at the behest of his psychotic
stepfather
the bull-faced
King
of Denmark.
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