“Raise the pace,” says Malmot and the technician nods.
“Reedon Gifford!” Davenport growls. “Whilst Gifford’s end was terrible and extremely regrettable – let us make no bones about that – his part in our nation’s decline extends far beyond the explosive tangerine he rammed up his rectum. Like so many right-wingers before him, he galvanised support by uniting the populace in a shared hatred. He planted the seeds of endemic, institutionalised xenophobia. It was a crop that his successors harvested and saw our complete and total ostracism from the European Union.”
Murmurs of support from the audience.
“See,” says Malmot, “all good lefty stuff.”
“We were thrown a lifeline,” Davenport continues. “Unfortunately, the test of our loyalty to the common European cause, to assist with the economic rehabilitation of Hungary, was something of a poisoned chalice. It is a regrettable fact that a country’s most marketable export may not be to everyone’s taste. And, whilst I abhor the exploitation of women, whilst I wholly support the rights of the individual to practice faiths with doctrines of a more stringent nature, I suspect that we would have been best served steering away from the moral high ground and extending a helping hand to our Hungarian pornographer friends. We’re all born naked, after all. If by ensuring the job security of people who choose to remain naked, we can keep bread on the table and food in our children’s mouths, isn’t that a good thing?”
This doesn’t please the politically correct factions, but Davenport ploughs on. As much as a dead man can be said to plough, that is.
“And so we found ourselves in a situation that even meaningless sexual intercourse couldn’t save. And then, of course, came The Great Separation – with starvation and war as an afterthought.”
“I like it!” Malmot enthuses to the shamefaced Speechwriter.
“Our children grow up – and I use the term loosely – malnourished and physically and intellectually stunted. Poor nutrition claims increasing lives year on year – more so this decade than the last two put together. This is intolerable.”
Somebody claps. Half-heartedly.
“It is a government’s duty to provide for the electorate,” says Davenport, to which Malmot shakes his head.
“Hah! Well, no, it’s the public’s duty to work for the furtherance of the State.”
“It’s our role to provide solutions to problems that the general public are ill-equipped to deal with,” says Davenport. “But, to provide a solution, we must find it first. And to do that, we must be prepared to think the unthinkable and turn it into an unthinkable reality. Because politics is not a popularity contest. Because it’s the bitter pill and not the sugar bullet that cures the illness!
“Now, I hope I’ve impressed upon you the severity of our predicament. We’ve no more options open; no lifelines left. It’s time we took that bitter pill. It’s time we take our medicine!
“Now, contrary to speculation and misinformation the solution is not donkey meat. No matter what the government may think, there simply isn’t enough! Extincting a species is a short-term fix that leaves us more desperate than before. The donkey is our last untainted resource. It must be nurtured and protected. Anything we harvest from it must be replenishable. Yes, ‘replenishable’ is the key word here!”
What’s that phrase? The one about the silence at the centre of the storm? Well, Davenport’s sitting in it.
“Milk…” he says, which is enough for the vegans, who start the first big push for the stage. Little do they know…
“Yes, milk is replenishable,” Davenport continues, “it contains calcium and it’s very good for you. But we’re also going to need protein, and a ready source of protein is… is Semen!”
Malmot collapses into hysterical laughter and Speechwriter was right to damn me for a devil because I’m deriving yet more enjoyment. The sight of an auditorium of furious little fuckwits, fuming over our malicious concoction – it fills me with something that could be joy.
But heads crack, limbs snap and hysteria breaks loose. Bricks batter brains, bats break backs. Folk lose their footings and ribcages explode under tumbling bodies; breath lost is never regained. The auditorium becomes a Martian world: a sea of writhing limbs; a sky solid with putrefying fruit.
But nothing stops the sloganeers. Oestrogen Proactive parade with banners daubed with tadpoles and ‘We’ve Swallowed Enough!’ and the chant rings out:
An order goes out and Davenport rolls to the rear of the stage, sheltering from vegetables and the smaller, more metallic forms of objection exploding left, right and centre.
“Okay,” Malmot tells the technician. “Let’s get ridiculous.”
“The semen,” starts Davenport, “can be removed in the same manner as the milk. With, er, specialised machinery. This will, of course, mean jobs for experienced farm workers and we intend to keep productivity high with a series of experimental initiatives.”
“Donkey Porn!” comes a cry from the audience. “No to the exploitation of female donkeys!” cries a red-haired woman I seem to recognise.
‘Donkey Rape! Coming to a Town Near You!’ reads a slogan on an ethnic print poncho held by her male companion; and they rally the crowd with increasingly ludicrous accusations.
“I think you know those two,” says Malmot with a smile. “Oh, the joy of Agitation! I learned everything I know from Oswald Mosley.”
“I said nothing about animal pornography!” Davenport pleads. “With an ever-growing livestock population and the inevitable improvements in milking techniques, we intend to have two billion gallons by the year…”
And then the real carnage starts.
“Wind it up,” Malmot gestures and a snatch squad retrieve Davenport from the stage. “Arm yourselves,” he barks. “We’re leaving!”
But he doesn’t say which direction we’re leaving in. Every path’s choked with blunt-object-wielding maniacs – and I include the police in that definition. They’re kind enough to carve us an exit route – through the flying fists and grimacing faces – but they release the leopards before we’ve a chance to use it.
And then it’s every man for himself. And I’m charging down some staircase or other, fast as my legs will carry me. And then I run into Calamine – about a week and a half late by my reckoning. And we don’t stop to greet each other; we just run.
“What happened to ‘tomorrow’?” I pant, remembering our meeting at my house.
He holds up the bloody wound where his little fingernail used to be. I notice he’s running with a limp.
“Staff Appraisal,” he tells me. “A little test of my loyalty.”
“Did you pass?”
“With flying colours. I’ve friends in high places and a twin brother I despise immensely.”
“That’s great,” I say, ear cocked for thundering footsteps, scraping claws and violent screaming. “Now I suggest we run faster.”
And we’re travelling downwards at such a speed that I swear my ears are popping. And we’re out of the fire escape and hiding behind a roof support in the freight area, the blood punching the backs of my eyeballs. My lungs are bursting and my sharp breaths slice through the silence and echo the length of the loading bay. I pull my shirt over my mouth to deaden the noise, but I sound like a steam engine and the world knows it.