With apologies to Blown Periphery and EoL

UnknownPuffin, Going Postal

Piers Ponsondby was startled from his daydreaming by the sharp rapping on his office door.  Shuffling papers across his desk to give the impression of industry, he closed his web browser, puffed out his pigeon chest and took a deep breath.

“Enter” he barked in his most commanding tone.

“Aah, Mr Gammon.  Come in”.  Adjusting his thick rimmed spectacles he peered over his desk with a well practised sneer.  The media training day at the BBC had stood him in good stead.

“Portius Gammon”.  The fresh faced man strode into the room and offered his hand in greeting, shoulders back and a gentle smile on his face.  Ponsondby looked down at the proffered hand and fixed Gammon with what he hoped was his best steely gaze.

“Sit down Gammon”.  Pausing only to admire his perfectly buffed nails, shined to perfection by Mistress Vicki after the last session in the Leadenhall Market dojo of correction.  She was expensive but the after care was second to none.  His mind drifted briefly to the previous ten minutes when he had been strapped to the punishment bench, Mistress Vicki whipping his freshly shaved scrotum using green nettles with her customary enthusiasm and vigour.

Rousing from his reverie he uncrossed his legs and leant forward.

“So, Gammon.  You know why you’re here” he said menacingly, jabbing his finger in accusation.  “Tell me about this ‘Pitchforks and Guillotines’ movement you have started”.

Ponsondby leaned back in his chair and tilted his head slightly sideways, his face twisted in Sneer Number Three.  He’d practiced it regularly in the mirror each morning since his training course, and it was just right he felt.  Eyebrows slightly raised, lips pursed, head tilted just so in order to look down his bony, angular nose.

“Well,” began Portius.  “It really started long before the Brexit vote of 2016.  It just seemed that the politicians would say one thing in the run up to elections and then disregard their commitments once in power”.

Straightening in his seat, he continued “didn’t the Labour government promise a referendum on the EU Constitution and then signed it anyway?  The court ruled that a manifesto commitment wasn’t legally enforce- “

“Ah ah ah” chided Ponsondby “that was something else.  Brown signed the Lisbon Treaty, not the EU Constitution.  Two completely separate things, but of course, dear boy, the difference is beyond your limited intellect”.

Portius adjusted his amiable smile just in time; “So the author, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, was wrong when he said that it was essentially the same document?”

“Absolutely” said Ponsondby, shuffling in his seat.  The partly healed nettle stings were starting to chafe a little.

“And then the Tory government promised to reduce net migration to the tens of thousands and over six years of Teresa May being at the Home Office, saw the numbers rise and in the hundreds of thousands?”

“Of course!” said the discomfited Ponsondby “business simply required the headcount in order to carry on running smoothly.  Clearly macroeconomics are not your strongpoint”.

Portius took a deep breath and sighed.  “And rolling forward to now, skipping over the endless litany of lies and half truths our political class and with that I am looking at you, Mr Ponsondby have blagged over the years, we decided we’d had enough”.

“None of you are listening unless there is an election coming up and even then you lie to cover your real purpose.  I sometimes wonder what that billionaire Gary Steoros has on you and your kind”.  Portius raised one of his eyebrows delicately and was pleased to see Ponsondby flush slightly.

“Boys, was it, or cash?  Or maybe both.  No matter”.  With a wave of his arm, Portius resumed.

Ponsondby exhaled imperceptibly.  There was no way that this commoner in front of him truly knew what went on in the depths of Mistress Vicki’s other rooms in Soho, surely?  A prickle of sweat furrowed his brow.

“We tried.  We tried voting independents, we tried voting UKIP and at every turn there was an establishment stitch up.  Even when you broke the law, the judiciary and the papers covered it up for you.  When you remove the democratic means of change people start looking at other options”.

Getting into his flow now, Portius stood up and began pacing slowly and deliberately.

“We voted leave.  In the largest participation of any election, we voted leave.  Not even the Establishment sacrificing one of their own could sway the outcome, and God only knows how many ballot boxes went missing for a few hours and how many postal votes were duplicated, and–“.

“Sacrificed?”  snorted Ponsondby, transitioning into Sneer Number Four.  “Good grief what could you mean?  No one was sacrificed”

“You know” came the answer. “Jo, uhm, Jo who.  Sexpest husband”.

“Cox” said Ponsondby condescendingly.

“Ah so that’s what Steoros has on you then.  Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t.  But the Establishment milked that for all it was worth.  And since then we’ve had sell out after sell out by this lying government”.

By now Portius had ceased pacing and drew himself up to his full commanding height.

“It started as a bit of a joke just after the referendum result came in and that coward LTC Dave quit despite promising to trigger Article 50 the day the vote was announced.  We were in the pub and someone said ‘well they’d better deliver a full Brexit or it’ll be pitchforks and guillotines time’ and we all had a laugh”.

“We’re not laughing now though, are we Mr Ponsondby?”  Portius’s easy gait had stiffened and become more rigid as he moved on the balls of his feet like a boxer.

“At every stage the Establishment has sought to deny the democratic decision.  We have no time to run another General Election, and even if we did, your lot would stitch it up like you always do.  How is that Thanet court case coming along?  Adjourned again I would bet”.

“Unlike the violent left, we’re a bunch of reasonable people.  Respectable even, we have jobs and run businesses.  But we had to let our feelings be known in a way that couldn’t be ignored.  We organised rotas to green card each MP, visit them in the House of Parliament and tell them to get on with what they promised to do.  We recorded the conversations and published them every time that MP said something to the press, to highlight what they were saying in public and what they said in private.

You’d have thought they might have got the hint by then, but no, to a man and woman they still played the Janus.  One thing to our faces, another to the press.  God knows what they’ve been telling Brussels.  Eventuallly you got sick of it and you passed an act removing the Green Card rights.”

Portius sat down again and Ponsondby’s Sneer dropped from his face.  The man sat grinning at him was not physically imposing, but had a menace that was now unmistakable.

“So next we set up the shungroups.  Every single MP that has voted against Brexit or been a proven liar gets shunned.  A bit like being declared Outlaw in times gone by?”  Portius smiled again “you do remember your English history lessons, right?” he enquired.

“Obviously, we’re not going to go around killing people because that would be wrong.  But our followers can just refuse to serve you in bars, restaurants and anywhere else you go to get your sordid pleasures”.  Portius mimed a spanking motion and was gratified to see the sweat now running from Ponsondby’s face.  “Supermarkets, clothes shops, why, the list is endless.  When you’re shunned, about the only person that’ll have time for you is your own mother.  Provided you haven’t sold her by now, of course.” The grin was now replaced with a fleeting grimace like a sudden burst of thunder.

“What really made the difference though was Teatime Tuesday.  Every Tuesday night at 7:30pm, we’d switch all our kettles, electric heaters on and so on for five minutes.  That was what overloaded all the substations and blew out the generators.  They just couldn’t keep up with demand, and little wonder for all the forward planning you useless virtue signallers put into our energy needs as a nation.  Who was that weasel that created that Act of Parliament, was it the weird Miliband or the other one?”

“Ed Miliband” choked Ponsondby.

“Was that the bacon sandwich bloke or the banana boy?  No matter, it was a crap decision by all in the house.  From all parties, you all voted for it.  So we decided to weaponise it against you because it’s the only language your kind are hearing.”

“What now?” asked Ponsondby, attempting Sneer Number Six and failing.  Instead it looked like he was trying not to vomit, sweat freely running down his brow.

“Well, that’s up to you” said Portius.  “But we’re only getting started.  All legitimate and above board, we offer no violence to anyone nor damage to property.  That’s not our way”.

“But we’re going to hold your feet to the fire until your lot start doing what you promise to”.

He reached into his jacket pocket and quickly thumbed a number on his phone.  “Edg – Edgar” he corrected himself.  “Can you come in now?”

Almost instantly the office door opened and closed silently.  A smartly dressed man who simply radiated threat stepped in.  Walking with military precision, he walked to the desk and put out a miniature of Bell’s whisky and a revolver with just one round in it.

Portius followed him out of the office.  “It’s up to you what you do next Prime Minister.  But we grow ever more impatient”.

The door had barely closed behind them when they both heard the gunshot ring out.


Outside on the lawn, the Fraterculan Jack was hoisted up the flagpole and the two men snapped off a sharp salute before going their separate ways.

© UnknownPuffin 2018

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