EXCERPT (E) of THE GRAND OLIGARCHS OF QINSATORIX by Thomas Hoskyns Leonard
Preliminary Draft Version
Yuri
Minkowitz was the President of Grössen
Pharma, a pharmaceutical conglomerate based about
fifty miles away
in
Garten Parmisch-Kirchen,
a nouveau riche
city on the River Dneiper.
While
ethnically Russo-German, he was born in the ancient seaport of
Constanţa
on
the far eastern tip of Trystonia.
He
was dressed in a long silver tunic and sported a furry, creamy-white
beard,
two large gold earrings, and an ivory nosepiece.
“Misdiagnosis
is the key to the entire business,” he declared, somewhat
egocentrically.
“If the shrinkotherapists
continue to convince twenty-five percent of our proletariat that
they're off their stupid rockers, then we'll be able to continue
pumping all sorts of poisonous garbage into their heads and knocking
every ounce of creativity out of them. To cap that, Grössen
Pharma's vaccination programs are culling over ten percent of the
babies born on this planet, and maiming another fifteen percent for
life. Way to go, way to go, Grössen
Pharma's the way to go!”
A
pox on his house,
agonized Trithagoras.
“Excuse
me, Dr. Minkowitz,” he
interrupted,
“but we are discussing how we should refine and improve our current
performances, and
how we should instruct Milos Muffles on these issues.
Do you have any suggestions which
might be of relevance to these
endeavours?”
“How
should I know?” yelped Minkowitz, getting into a flap. “Maybe you
should go back in history and consider what the
Machiavellian
British
statisticians
initiated
during the early twentieth century.
Galton,
Pearson and Fisher stuck it up everybody's arses! During
the following
hundred years or so, the
covert
agencies on Planet Earth really
socked it to the plebs and proles and it looked as if they would be
zombified and enslaved until eternity.”
“Until
the Leith
Something
for Everybody
movement of 2125
brought about a succession of grass roots democracies
around
Planet Earth,”
Trithagoras dryly replied. “The
movement
was devised and organised
by a group of psychiatric survivors, poets,
and head banging anarchists centred
in the impoverished
northern
outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland.”
“The
wonderfully
barbaric assassination in 2129
of their paranoid
schizophrenic leader
Julius Statisticus
Scotius
only served to inspire them further,”
added
General Spunk Spitfire, with a snort and a grimace.
“They
impaled that tosser with a pike and hung him by his bollocks from the
Forth Road Bridge,” chortled Prince Caleb.
Dr.
Siren Liebershrink
adjusted her artificial nose.
“The
Lord Trithagoras addresses a key issue,”
she responded. “We need to put down the plebeians
so ruthlessly
that they will never again rise like phoenixes from the ashes. It is
however unclear to me how we can
do this while maintaining enough productivity from
the shit-wallowing,
zombified slaves
to support the lifestyles of the super-wealthy with
appropriate lavishness.”
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