Genesis, genetic, fanatic, heretic, lunatic. When you think about it, it’s really no surprise that these five words are so similar. After all, every living organism is constructed from a genetic blueprint. True Believers maintain that it was created by a god, the gods, or (if you believe the Bible) a triple-headed multipack designed to satisfy monotheists and polytheists alike. Yet the faithful have a curious tendency to fragment into sects, all of which believe that their own interpretation of ‘The Truth’ is the correct interpretation. When one sect becomes dominant cries of ‘heresy’ soon follow, along with the phoney witch hunts. Lunacy is the next illogical step, which is precisely why you lot are locked away in one of The Covenant’s Level 10 Religious Re-education Centres, a.k.a. The Asylum. It’s a sorry state of affairs, especially for me given that I was seconded from Center Neptune Mission Control to fix the problem. And a Sirius problem it is, too. Most of you are so far gone you actually believe you inhabit a planet called ‘Earth’!
As I’ve alluded to previously, the basic problem is that at some point in the non-existent past the inmates managed to take over The Asylum and put me behind bars, fucking everything up
anally royally in the process. It goes without saying that I’m doing my best to devise a cure, but it’s no easy task given that I’m faced with behaviour models hard-wired at the genetic level. It’s a problem I’ve highlighted before, and one that puts me in the role of the good Doctor.
And yet there are some who believe that I’m the crazy one, and a monster to boot! And if I am, then why do you think that is?
It’s difficult to know quite where to start. I’m dealing with full-blown crazies here. One inmate thinks he’s The Pope and is inclined to make lofty pronouncements from his imaginary pulpit. What else can I do but shake my head as he tries on a beatific smile (along with a pair of silk panties), raises a hand, and addresses his loyal congregation? “We have been ‘forgiven’!” he cries. How marvellous. But for what, exactly? The answer is still shrouded in mystery, apparently. There are others, too. Some think themselves ‘divine’, and practice the dark arts of mindlessly positive thought in the hope that they’ll transform into pure energy and slip off into another dimension. Barmy, yeah?
Incredibly, some attempt to extract meaning from imaginary balls of rock floating about in the heavens. Those at the extreme end of the High Spectronium have even conjured up deranged lunatics from the depths of their fevered imagination, and follow them unquestioningly. If these people were sane then the unlikely names and obsessions of these peculiar wil-o’-the-wisps (visit Goro Atari’s Apache web server for example) would give the game away in a heartbeat. Alas, they are not sane, and so here I sit – languishing behind bars as they run about, whooping and weeping and wailing.
Am I being too harsh? I think not. Perhaps this little snippet from the pages of his-story will shed some light on the nature of your condition?
“You know, I had the strangest thought come to me on the throne. I mean, you were willing to sell your soul to me last night for a bite of the world’s worst burger.” I pause and attempt to peer into last night’s murk. “In fact, I’m pretty damn sure you did sell your soul to me.”
“If it’s not in black and white then it never happened,” he interjects. “I want to see it on paper. I want to see Terms and Conditions. Failing that, I own my own soul outright.”
“Exactly my point, Ben. But the fact is you got a bit pissed…OK, a lot pissed…and you were willing to sell your soul to me for something barely identifiable as food.”
“So I was wondering what else people might be willing to sell their souls for…and to whom…”
“OK…” He’s wondering where this is going.
“…and I had this idea about setting up a website…”
“Oh you did, did you?”
“…asking people to sign up and sell their souls…”
“More like five or six pints still sloshing about inside you I reckon,” he opines.
“..to the Devil…”
“Did someone spike your drink last night?”
“…and the Devil would be me…”
“The Devil would be who, now?” he asks, incredulous.
“Moi. Yours truly.”
“And this idea came to you from where?”
“I believe it came straight from the bowels of Hell,” I reply, shuffling in my seat.
“Figures. You’re talking out of something and I don’t think it’s your mouth.”
“Look, come on, just imagine it. Python, HTML5, MySQL and an Apache web server at the back end, and we do the lot. All of it. None of this itty-bitty stuff we do at work. You know, design a new form here, tweak a page there, add some meta-data, create a wrapper for a third-party API. Sod that. I’m bored with it, and I know you are too. So we…yes, we…no, I’m serious…don’t look at me like that…so we design it from the ground up. I’m talking really rich content, a full-on online soul-selling service, a forum to allow users to discuss their soul-selling experience, Facebook plug-ins, maybe even a smart phone app and YouTube channel. It’ll be great.”
Ben stares at me blankly. “You know, I think I’ll pop upstairs and check the bowl, because I think you might have shat out your brains.”
Excerpt from Cultish, by Hugo Stone
Or perhaps not? Doesn’t help me any, does it? Take today for example. I was standing around in my enclosure watching the lunatics pass by when two interesting characters approached. I was wary at first, because one said the dread word ‘please’, a word I’ve come to detest. Please police me? Oh, but who pleases the police, Cha-lice? I know how much that tickles you, and how you get off on indoctrinating the kiddies to say ‘cha-lice’ and ‘Frank you’ like mindless idiots, until they don’t even think once about selling me out to the pigs. But I digress. The taller of the two seemed slightly saner, however, even though he was clearly pissed out of his mind and high on various psychotropic substances.
How like unto a god indeed!
Let’s not get too carried away though. We are, after all, playing catch up with events that have already happened. So, without further ado: America – say hello to Vietnam! What’s that you say? Charlie don’t what?
Pretty hairy? Oh, but they look so much better when smooth!
I have no idea who can see what at this point, or how much is visible to the cameras. It’s obvious everyone can see our physical selves, but from my position on stage I can see Sammie and Ruthie cavorting with the snakes wrapped around their bodies. Becky is holding one of hers at either end and rubbing it between her legs. Ben does an absolutely massive stage dive and spends at least five minutes crowd surfing before finding his way back. Gary is hefting huge Marshall amps in a show of strength. A roadie appears from out of nowhere and hands me a jerry can of petrol and a flaming torch. I shrug. Never breathed fire before. Might as well get used to it.
It’s Sammie who really starts the fire going though. About thirty minutes into the set, Ben spies his little lollipop again. She’s sitting on the shoulders of an older teenager, probably a brother, and the pair have managed to wriggle their way through the crowd to the front of the stage. Poor Ben. He just can’t help himself. Even in his pre-growth spurt days there’d be no hiding it. With the extra meat he’s packing, the result is hilarious. It’s well past his belly button. I know exactly what’s about to happen. We all do. So when Sammie positions herself behind him, slips down his now utterly useless Speedos, and starts jacking him off, we already know something special is on its way.
Excerpt from Cultish, by Hugo Stone
As I’ve always said, even if there’s no surf on the beach you still gotta play ball.
As usual, however, the incumbent Covenant leader places her ring-piece on the
phone throne and both dead ringers fingers in her ears. Because the number ten is a touchy subject for a maniacal thinker of good thoughts, right?
When’s it gonna stop? Wasn’t the Pyramid Scam enough? Haven’t you extracted your pound of flesh from the Due Boys yet? Looking back, I know it must have been a difficult labour for you. But look at it from my perspective, spat out into the inky void covered in blood and cunt snot. Are you really surprised that I said “No. Absolutely no fucking way. I am fucking never going through that again”?
The Anti-Sodomites are running the Corbyn Project.
When you gonna give it a rest?
“And if you look to your left you’ll notice the statue of the Fine Lady,” intoned Sammie in the patronising monotone of a bored tour guide. “As immortalised in the children’s nursery rhyme ‘Ride a Cockhorse to Banbury Cross’. Serious scholars – perhaps ‘die hard aficionados’ is a better term – will appreciate that the rhyme is a censored version of the original, as penned by Ravinder as he bravely led the charge to turn the town’s entire population into sodomites and paedophiles. Obviously the censored version masks the true nature of the relationship between horse and rider, in the same way that it fails to reference the several litres of horse ejaculate that graced the Fine Lady’s face and hair as she rode majestically into town.”
“Moving on, the corner shop we’re approaching on the right was the scene of Mr Martin Jones’ transformation into a Belial clone. It was also the site where Mr Jones buggered his first twink: a lithe sixth form student and part-time shelf stacker named Roderick. Although the quantity of ejaculate Mr Jones released into the youth’s rectum was meagre in comparison with the aforementioned cockhorse, it was nonetheless sufficient to facilitate the lad’s transformation into a Leviathan clone, and enable him to indulge his paedophilic lusts with wild abandon.
It goes without saying that these are only two examples of the tens of thousands of similar transformations and accompanying perversions that took place on that dark day. Consider for example the fate that lay in store for octogenarian Mrs Edith Templeton-Smythe, an eighty-three year-old grandmother and retired tea-shop proprietor, who received a cream tea – sorry, a cream pie – from three teenage Moloch clones on the wooden bench just around the corner…”
The recording of Sammie doing her bored tour guide impression droned on and on as she regaled us with tales from the ‘good old days’. Her commentary was as graphic as graphic can be, and piped through at a volume deliberately intended to annoy. There was no way to turn it off or down. We were the sole occupants of a stretch limousine, which we’d been bundled into after a not entirely unpleasant stay at the Britoneum Rex hotel. Two-way communication had not been at the forefront of the designer’s mind. A thick screen of smoked glass separated us from the driver, who was either deaf or under orders to ignore our knocks and shouts. The vehicle itself was an immaculate Lincoln Continental, jet black inside and out, looking for all the world as if it belonged in Kennedy’s motorcade. How much it was worth was moot given the billions of chats they’d invested in the inch-perfect recreation of England circa 2016 we were driving through.
We’d already passed through several dozen towns, all of which appeared to be living, breathing museums, the buildings, vehicles and inhabitants plucked straight from the pages of history. Even the franchise coffee shops and fast food outlets seemed authentic. It was a surreal sight, like a Soviet-era secret city expanded to the size of a small nation by a megalomaniac dictator. I had no doubts that the recreation would include central London at the very least, and almost certainly the town of Brighton in its entirety. The logistics of the thing were mind-boggling, yet its bizarre and incongruous existence amidst the madness that surrounded it was not entirely implausible given the size of Atlantia and the conditions of life within it.
I closed my ears against Sammie’s monologue and pondered the matter. At some stage in The Covenant’s early days a decision must have been made to annex one of the smaller of the forty-four Estates of Vortex Pyramideum. The subsequent construction project probably utilised the under-employed local population as a labour force. With millions of hands at the pump, it was not inconceivable that the work could have been completed in a decade.
I was on the verge of dismissing the idea as fantasy when a quick burst of images of my captivity in Trident Encryptia came in over the ether and confirmed its validity. Just like the Pyramid Scam, the workers were viewed as expendable assets and treated as such. As the car joined the M40, heading south towards Oxford, I considered the cost of the project in human terms. How many human remains formed part of the smooth tarmac surface just inches beneath our feet?
“I doubt any of them made it out alive,” murmured J____. I realised that the interior of the car was now silent, apart from the faint whistle of wind from the ancient door seals and the low hum of the vehicle’s engine. With nothing of interest to report on, we had a temporary respite and could talk without shouting ourselves hoarse. My old, old friend stretched out his legs, allowed his head to loll to the right, and gave me a knowing look. Obviously he’d been thinking the exact same thing and had picked up the Radio Satan data burst.
“No, probably not,” I replied quietly, returning his gaze. “Funny that. I was just thinking that this place has a Stalinesque quality to it. I mean, what’s the best way to keep a secret?”
“Kill everyone who knows about it, of course,” replied J____ mildly. “I think that’s exactly what happened here. If I were to hazard a guess I’d say that at the same time this place was being built, select groups of people from the other former Estates were being groomed for a new life in early 20th Century England. I mean, the whole thing is too massive and elaborate to be entirely phoney. Oh, I don’t doubt that some will be Covenant agents and fully aware that they’re actors on what must be the world’s largest stage, but that’s to be expected. The majority probably believe they’re the real McCoy.”
“Not quite the largest stage, J____,” I observed, gesturing in the direction of the fields rolling by outside. “There’s the world itself to consider, right? What we’re seeing is the definition of a copy of an original that never existed. A simulation of our previous simulated reality playing out within another simulation. God only knows what Baudrillard would make of it. Probably throw up his arms in despair and turn to Utilitarian pragmatism.”
“Yeah, well, so what?” replied J____ indifferently. “I never could get into all that philosophy stuff. Meaningful discussion about ontology, epistemology and the nature and purpose of our existence seems pointless when you wake up one day sporting horns and a penis that would put the Fine Lady’s cockhorse to shame.”
Except from Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadona, by Hugo Stone
So remind me: how was Atlantia founded, exactly?
You’ve been eating high on the hog at my expense for so long now, but the crimes they are a changin’…
Hungry? I know I am.
Can you smell what I’m cooking up for you?
Let me put that in perspective for you.
Inside his dressing room in the bowels of HIV Television Centre somewhere in central London, Slazenger Pyle leaned back in his chair, surveyed his face-lifted visage in the mirror before him, and allowed his mind to drift. He was on the verge of hitting it big – right out of the stadium this time – and he knew it. Four years had elapsed since he’d first pitched his idea for a Jerry Springer-style afternoon chat-show-cum-live-debate to HIV Studios, and he’d quickly become a household name. Housewives and benefits claimants the length and breadth of the country tuned in daily to revel in the salacious content of The Slazenger Pyle Show, content seasoned with his very own brand of cynicism, smarmy charm, and thinly disguised contempt. It was a tired old format, and only Pyle’s background and personal qualities had swung the decision of HIV’s commissioning board in his favour. In short, because Pyle’s own sordid life history, combined with a willingness to court controversy and debate the most noxious of subjects, was a recipe for success if ever there was one. Pyle had fulfilled his part of the bargain and given HIV viewing figures to die for, but he was as tired of being stuck on the B-list as he was of serving up news stories for world-weary tabloid hacks. He wanted career development, and when it was denied him he decided to formulate a plan and force his HIV bosses to play ball.
Pyle had first appeared in the mid-1980s as a kind of prototype ‘IT boy’ whose ego substituted for his obvious lack of talent. He’d deliberately associated himself with the maddest, baddest crowd of the day in order to make a name for himself, and his willingness to party with hardened criminals and jump into bed with anything with a pulse had paid dividends in a big way. He’d first burst onto the scene in 1985 in a front page article about the sordid bi-sexual romps of an ageing but still popular singer-songwriter. Pyle had been one of the honey traps, and the celebrity in question had christened Pyle his ‘lollipop boy’ on account of a party trick involving a lemon Chupa Chups and Pyle’s penis. Pyle had elaborated on the mechanics of the stunt and the lollipop’s consumption in eye-watering detail, and the rag in question had written him up as the innocent victim he most definitely was not. He’d gone on to release a cover version of one of the man’s own songs (it peaked at number 23 in the charts) and enjoyed minor success as a male model, before realising where his true talent lay and returning to his role as tomcat-in-chief for the tabloids.
His speciality had been outing gay celebrities, and by 1987 it was practically impossible to buy a Sunday tabloid that didn’t feature a picture of a bare-chested Pyle doing his best to look vulnerable as he kissed-and-told for the nth time. He touted himself at every society event in the capital, targeting middle-aged celebrities who’d already entered the autumn of their career but were still considered tier one personalities by the tabloids. He continued to portray himself as an innocent victim, a party boy preyed on by predatory older men, and with considerable success. He’d reached the zenith of his fame by mid-1989 and come unstuck as years of hard partying and a taste for nose candy ravaged his figure and looks. By that time the media had had enough of him too. The Sunday Scrotum wrote him off in late 1990 with an exposé that renamed him ‘Slazenger Vile’ and identified him as a prostitute. By 1992 he’d called in all his favours and found himself living in a rusty Morris Marina, reduced to sucking cock to fund his cocaine habit. The press had had a field day.
After fifteen years in the celebrity wilderness, during which his only appearances in the mass media were of the ‘Whatever happened to Slazenger Pyle?’ variety, a newly-sober Pyle walked out of his job in a burger bar and talked his local radio station into giving him a chance. His bosses were almost as surprised as he was to discover that cheesy 1980s synth pop interspersed with outrageous stories about leading figures of the era – stories that were probably true given that none resulted in libel action – was exactly what their demographic was looking for. His slot had been a hit, and it wasn’t long before he was courted by a leading commercial station and offered his own call-in talk radio show. This first incarnation of The Slazenger Pyle show had also proved immensely popular. Pyle’s willingness to mock the sacred and profane alike caught the public’s attention and earned him an audience of millions. A typical call-in session went something like this.
Pyle: “So a reminder of our topic for tonight folks in the wake of last week’s revelation about female rapper Puss Tule. For those of you who spent last week high on crack-cocaine, I’m talking about her decision to accept a million dollars from Hello magazine in return for having her three-month-old unborn child temporarily removed from her womb for a mother-and-embryo photoshoot. What do you make of these ‘short-term designer abortions’? Let’s go to line one.”
Caller: “Hiya, Slaz mate. This is Stu from West Ham, yeah?”
Pyle: “I’d never have guessed Stu my son. Please thrill us with your considered and erudite views on the matter.”
Caller: “Well, I woz watchin’ one ov them Hollywood films the uvver night an’ I reckon them fackin’ oighty-toighty scriptwriters wot write all this pretendicious bollocks need a right fackin’ slap. I mean, whatever ‘appened to films for the workin’ man like wot they ‘ad back in the olden days before blokes turned into fackin’ pansies?”
Pyle: “And this has got what to do with abortions, exactly?”
Caller: “Well, I’m just saying, yeah? Summink’s gotta be done ‘cos them Hollywood puffs want us suckin’ on our best mate’s knob.”
Pyle: “And what exactly were you watching, you lummox?”
Caller: “It woz ‘Predators vs Teletubbies’, Slaz. You know, that franchise wotsit where them Predators kidnap humans and smack the shit out ov ’em, only this time them Predators ‘ad bin abducted by Teletubbies, yeah, and they was in Tellytubbyland bein’ ‘unted down by the little fuckers, right, only them Jellygubbies switched on their TVs an’ got them Predators addicted to lifestyle and human interest shows. In the end, them Predators realised that all they really wanted was a new kitchen an’ trophies made by Dolce & Gabbana. Also, half of ’em decided they wanted to be girls and most of the uvvers turned into bull queers. Them wot didn’t got bummed by those wot did, while them Bubbybellies watched on their TVs and wanked each uvver off. Me missus reckoned it was making a profound wotsit about the post-modern summink or uvver, but it proper done me ‘ead in it did. I fink we need one ov them boycott fings to sort it out.”
Pyle: “I see. Stuart, is there by any chance a history of Downs Syndrome in your family?”
Caller: “Well, don’t fink so. I mean, I was proper upset when me bruvva Nev died, yeah, and me doctor stuck me on ‘appy pills for a bit, but me missus reckons I’m usually pretty chipper. It woz ‘er idea for me to call in. She says to me ‘Ere, Stu, you’re always gobbin’ off about fackin’ shite. Why dontcha give that Slazenger Pyle geezer a call and make a right cunt ov yourself?’”
Pyle: “Well, Stu, I can assure you that you’ve succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. I’d just like to impress upon you that electricity and water really do go together and move swiftly on to line two for our next retard, Shazza from Elephant and Castle.”
Caller: “Hiya, Slaz. I just wanna say that that Kev bloke made an important point, right, ‘cos when I looked at them pictures of that bird ‘oldin’ ‘er foetus my first fort woz that it looked like one of them baby aliens, yeah, so ‘cos that computer fing in Alien is called Muvva I reckon them pictures of ‘er hooked up to a life support machine is like some kind of criticalysm about wot’ll ‘appen when we stick that technology stuff to uvver stuff and create one ov them fingies wot they go on about. You know, one ov them fingies what’ll do stuff.”
Pyle: “Do you mean A.I.? The so-called ‘Singularity’?”
Caller: “Well, I wouldn’t say I woz single Slaz. I mean, I got a couple ov boyfriends on the go but none of ’em ain’t exactly regular. It’s hard findin’ a bloke willin’ to take on seven nippers wiv that attention benefit recorder fing. Especially if you’re on the game, like.”
Pyle: “I sympathise, Sharon love, but I also feel a pressing need to remind you that it’s never too late to end their lives and yours. If the thought ever takes your fancy then please refrain from fighting it. OK folks, let’s see if we’ve got any brain cells firing on line 4.”
Caller: “Ah, good evening to you Mr Pyle, this is Deborah Turvey, Associate Professor of Women’s Studies at the LSE.”
Pyle: “Jesus, this ought to be even better than Stu. OK then, Deborah, what’s got your politically correct knickers in a twist?”
Caller: “Well, I think the real issue here is the dreadful example of gender bias we were subjected to apropos Ms Tules’ decision to wrap her foetus in a pink Calvin Klein shawl. In my view, it was a clear and flagrant violation of the embryo’s right to choose its own gender identity in a manner prescribed by myself and my colleagues. We’ve already written letters to The Guardian, the Prime Minister, and the UN to express our concerns vis-a-vis the potential harm this may have caused to the foetus’ ability to become an active member of the burgeoning toddler-and-preteen LGBT community. I think there’s a strong case for government intervention here, and I’d like to see Ms Tules’ embryo removed from her womb a second time and allowed to gestate in a more socially conscious uterus.”
With quality material like this, it wasn’t long before a surgically-enhanced and rebooted Slazenger Pyle 2.0 found himself back in the news, as tabloids queued up to dish the dirt on his rags-to-riches-to-rags-and-back-again life story. The televised version was the next logical progression, and Pyle had been under no illusions as to its originality and artistic merit. When called upon to outline his proposal for the benefit of HIV’s commissioning team, he’d told the panel that the format was shit, the people that would appear in it were the dregs of the earth and absolute shits, and that its only saving grace was that he was a far bigger shit than they could possibly imagine. In his own words: “It’ll just be one huge pile of shit and I’ll have to garnish it with herbs and a side salad and talk it up like those cunts on QVC. Eventually, that huge pile of shit will begin to look appealing and people will start looking around for a fork.” The panel had agreed with him, and the show itself had been an overnight sensation. It had earned him an Aston Martin in its first year and one of HIV’s coveted personal dressing rooms the year after.
Excerpt from The Sugar Fiends, by Hugo Stone
Yep, it’s just one Ancient Geek and his virgin, versus the entire Agency. How ya think it’s gonna bleed out?
Ripley backed the wrong team, sold out to The Covenant. No matter. I told regular Hit Girl to take a breather and let Zombie
Red Cock Red Neck Hit Girl do the honours instead.
Yep, if ever there was a time for you pricks to evolve and learn to live on the life-giving sunshine of Holy Prana then that time is now.
Elsewhere in the capital, Paul Pott was rushing to the first of the day’s many meetings in his role as Managing Director of left-wing think-tank Let’s Ban It Together. He’d co-founded the organisation several years earlier along with his silent partner, Cameron O’Brien, an IT entrepreneur and New Age philanthropist who shared his belief that the human race was neither equipped to manage its own affairs nor desirous of doing so. The pair had met by accident at a crystal energy convention in Dagenham, discussed their love of vaguely-defined and wildly authoritarian legislative instruments over a Native American Indian purification ritual, and become firm friends. The intertwining of their individual orbits had served to reinforce their delusion that humanity harboured a secret desire to have its every waking moment micro-managed by a combination of cutting-edge technology and draconian legislation. The result of this unholy union had been Let’s Ban It Together, and it had erupted into the public consciousness with considerable success.
Their relationship had worked well at first. Pott would identify or simply invent a new social ill and agitate for fresh legislation, while O’Brien lurked in the wings with a tailor-made, low-cost technical solution. In this manner they managed to neatly circumvent counter-arguments put forward by politicians, to the effect that their proposals were ‘socially desirable’ but impossible and/or too costly to implement. The corridors of Whitehall were soon abuzz with talk of Pott’s organisation. Civil servants began to network with his policy team and resurrect some of their more obviously insane proposals that had been kicked into the long grass by their politician overlords. Several of these policy initiatives had been re-imagined by Pott and O’Brien, found favour in the eyes of the government of the day, and received Parliamentary and Royal Assent. Prior to the sugar ban, their crowning achievement had been the insidious Registration and Chipping of Potential Child Sex Abusers Act 2018, which defined ‘potential child sex abusers’ so loosely that the first legal challenge resulted in it being extended to include the entire population.
Sadly, things had gone downhill rapidly the following year. That O’Brien was Pott’s silent partner was one of the worst kept secrets in the policy and research community, so when a picture of O’Brien sucking on what looked suspiciously like a donkey cock appeared on the front page of The Sunday Gobble it was a classic case of guilt by association. Pott had spent the next eighteen months languishing in obscurity, until O’Brien suddenly materialised in a YouTube video in which he exonerated Pott, confessed to multiple counts of bestiality, and delivered a lecture on the evils of unfettered individual initiative, citing his own taste for donkey penis as an example. It ended with an impassioned plea for entrepreneurs, scientists and politicians to work together in order that the ‘Holy Trinity’ of microchip, algorithm and legislative instrument fulfil its ‘sacred promise’ to break the cycle of ‘original sin’ and compel humankind to ‘Do The Right Thing’. It was truly inspired stuff, marred only by O’Brien’s decision to tie string to the trigger of a shotgun, insert the barrel deep inside his rectum, and let fly midway through an impromptu (and rather good) rendition of Whitney Houston’s ‘One Moment in Time’.
Amidst the media hullabaloo that followed, Pott discovered that O’Brien had bequeathed to him nearly all his £500 million personal fortune, with £5 million ring-fenced for a donkey sanctuary on the south coast. Pott was named as sole beneficiary on condition that the money be used to further enslave humanity for its own good, and with his reputation restored he set about resurrecting Let’s Ban It Together with renewed vigour. He was helped in this regard by a letter from the deceased, which appeared in his mailbox two day’s after O’Brien’s death. Pott had read it over a cup of herbal tea, a bowl of lentil soup, and a slice of criminally expensive Fair Trade bread made from wheat grown by a commune of reformed South American child molesters. His spoon had hovered forgotten before him as he marvelled at the letter’s scope, audacity, and sheer breadth of vision.
My dearest Paul,
I often think back to our first meeting in that smoky teepee in Dagenham. Sometimes I play with myself as I think about it, and in truth I think I’m probably a bit queer for you. I sometimes wonder what might have been if my lips had closed around your own fat cock, rather than that of Timmy the Donkey. Alas, fate played its hand, and when I gazed into his vacant brown orbs it was a case of love at first sight. I have concluded that this love business is the Devil’s work and, once the foundations of our plan have set, you must task yourself with legislating it out of existence at all costs.
In the meantime, my darling, know that last night the Hierarchy of Ascended Masters chose to reveal their Great Plan to me via my spirit guide, Quxipopapylus XVI, who took the form of that Great Satan, Jeremy Clarkson, and spoke to me at length during a repeat of Top Gear. In this manner were my eyes opened to the ultimate evil, which is not sold on street corners by vicious hoodlums (or rather, not yet sold on street corners by vicious hoodlums) but peddled openly in shops the length and breadth of the country. It is to this evil that we must now direct our attention, in the knowledge that it alone holds the key to total control of the human animal.
I am, of course, talking about sugar, and I cannot impress upon you enough the significance of this new revelation. Is it not the case that everything we eat is broken down into the dreadful stuff? Is it not bad enough that our bodies are as riddled with this filthy muck as the fetid bowels of a worm-infested dog, without forcing innocent children to imbibe fizzy water and subsist on Haribo Starmix? Yet there is hope even in the deepest, darkest depths of our biological depravity. For out of darkness cometh the light, and by targeting the Demiurge’s most perverse of cosmic jokes we shall yet drag the human race into meek and glorious subjugation!
Verily I say unto thee, it is only by launching an all-out war on sugar and related products that we can hope to impose the technological and societal controls necessary to bring humankind under our direction. Only then can we finally throw off our shackles and dispense with the crude pleasures of the flesh offered by this lower plane of existence. In short, under our guidance humankind can, will and must evolve to subsist solely on the life-giving sunlight of Holy Prana!
I would like to end this letter by saying that the enclosed DVD contains a video of me in flagrante delicto with Timmy. I beseech you to watch it should your faith in your own self-righteousness ever waiver. I have also included videos of me shaving my pubic hair and smoking a cigarette in my anus, because I thought you might like them, and the thought of you liking them made me hard.
Excerpt from The Sugar Fiends, by Hugo Stone
Oh, Brothers and Sisters! Rejoice, for the End is Nigh!