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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