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'Don't all look so hard at me like that,' said Derek. 'It wasn't my fault. You only gave me one page.'

'Rubbish,' said Mr Speedy. 'Rubbish.' He had his little briefcase laptop jobbie with him and he opened it up with hands that were all a-trembhng now. 'He did have it,' said Mr Speedy to Mr Shadow, as he tapped at the keyboard pads. 'I printed out both pages, see, I'll do it now.' And he pressed a little button.

Derek peered. 'So,' said he. 'What's supposed to happen?'

'It's printing out,' said Mr Speedy.

'It isn't,' said Derek. 'It isn't doing anything.'

'Well it should be doing something.' Mr Shadow snatched the little briefcase laptop jobbie from the trembling hands of Mr Speedy and began to shake it all about.

'Don't do that,' said Mr Speedy, trying to snatch it back. 'You'll break it. That's delicate equipment, that. The Mute Corp 3000 series.'

'That's a 3000?' said Mr Pokey, slinging in his three-pennyworth. 'You should have been issued with a 4000 model by now. Didn't you get an email from head office?'

'A female from head office?' the Prime Minister called down. 'Is she nice? Would she like to go in one of my shoes?'

'Just a slight technical difficulty,' Mr Speedy called up.

'Slight?' said Mr Shadow. 'Slight?'

A smirk broke out on Derek's face.

'Get that smirk off your face,' Mr Shadow told Derek. 'You're in real trouble now.'

'Me?' said Derek. 'It's not my fault. It's all the fault of your stupid Mute Corp computer.'

'How dare you cuss the company name.' Mr Pokey gave Derek a shove.

'Don't shove me,' said Derek, shoving back.

Mr Pokey bumped into Mr Shadow, knocking the briefcase laptop Mute Corp 3000 series computer jobbie from his hands.

'You've broken it,' cried Mr Speedy. 'You've broken my…'

'It was already broken,' said Mr Shadow, shoving Mr Speedy.

'Don't shove me,' said Mr Speedy, shoving back.

'What's all this shoving about?' the Prime Minister called down. 'Is it part of the entertainment? Will there be any dancing girls?'

'He likes the ladies, doesn't he?' said Derek, getting a really big smirk on the go.

'Mind what you say about de Prime Minister, Babylon,' said the PM's chauffeur, giving Derek a shove.

'He's got bare naked ladies in his shoes,' said Derek, shoving back. 'The Prime Minister's a pervert.'

'I heard that!' shouted the Prime Minister. 'Arrest that man, Winston. He's obviously a subversive, you can tell by his footwear.'

Winston tried to draw out his pistol, but with all the pushing and shoving going on around the Cadillac, this wasn't easy. And, 'All get away from me car,' shouted Winston, as Mr Speedy shoved Mr Shadow against it and Mr Pokey fell over the bonnet and landed all in a heap. 'Yo scratch de paintwork, I kick yo ass.'

'Don't loaf about down there, Winston,' called the PM. 'Place that man under arrest. Place them all under arrest. They're spoiling my day out.'

'Ah shut up!' shouted Derek, shoving upon a Prime Ministerial shoe. A bare naked lady waved from within and then made a rather fearful face. The Prime Minister staggered backwards, trying to regain his balance, his arms flapped and he did that comedic-tightrope-mime kind of thing that always drew a standing ovation from the patrons of the Tomorrowman Tavern. Even from the ones that remained sitting down. Or at least they used to, back in the 1970s in the golden era of comedic-tightrope-mime acts.

And then amid all the pushing and shoving and Winston finally drawing out his pistol, the Prime Minister fell. Slowly and gracefully backwards from on high onto the electrified fence.

'Electric,' said Old Vic, holding up a battery. 'One wire goes in this end and the other wire goes in this end and both the other ends of the wires go into the explosives. Or was it the other way round?'

The charabanc was bumping over speed bumps in the heart of London now.

'There's not many people about,' Old Pete observed. 'And hardly any traffic. I wonder where everyone's gone?'

'Gone to Suburbia World,' said Old Vic.

'Wouldn't we have passed them on the way?'

'Perhaps we did,' said Old Vic. 'My eyesight's not what it was. Not since some Boche guard poked me in the eye with a bayonet. Where are we now? Is it Margate?'

'No, it's the West End. And there's the Mute Corp building.'

'Cor, big innit?' said Old Vic, looking in the wrong direction.

Things were happening now in Brentford and coming from all directions. Guards were leaping from watch-towers as showers of sparks and electrical arcs shot all around and about them. Ticket sellers were fleeing their booths, two of which were already on fire.

The PM's entourage was spilling from limousines, screaming and shouting and carrying on like a lot of raving loonies.

Winston was firing wildly into the air as guards and ticket sellers and Mute Corp employees pushed and shoved and kicked and punched and fought around the Cadillac.

Mr Doveston, barnet ablaze, danced and howled upon the electrified fence.

Derek backed slowly away, then turned to make his escape.

And then he saw them, the people of Brentford. Still a few hundred of them left. They were marching up from the High Street, where they'd all cashed in their Mute Corp shares. And they were chanting and yes, even on a joyous sunny day such as this, they all carried flaming torches. The way that angry village mobs always do on such occasions. It's a tradition. Or an old charter. Or something.

Derek heard the chanting as its sound came to him, borne upon a balmy Brentford breeze. 'Out demons out!' it went. 'Out demons out!'

'Are we intending to get the employees out of the building before we blow it up?' asked Old Vic.

'I suppose it's only sporting,' said Old Pete. 'Any volunteers to go into the reception area and push the fire-alarm button?'

Martial Brentonians raised their hands, many of which held big stout sticks. A bearded tattooed poet who had recently escaped from a police cell said, 'I'll go in and do it. I'm the daddy now.'

A large gloved hand fell upon the poet's shoulder. The poet turned his head to find a big man looking down at him through the eyeholes of a knitted ski mask. This was a very big man. Big chest. Big shoulders. Big all over the place.

'Thou shalt not go,' said the big man.

The bearded tattooed poet looked up at the very big man. 'Sure,' he said. 'You go. You're the daddy now.'

The big man pushed his way between the seated warriors of Brentford and stood in the open charabanc door, his ski-masked head touching the roof and his shoulders filling the exit. 'I shalt press the fire-alarm button. When thou seest the folk flee the building, set thy charges and destroy this evil cradling.'