Part One: A Fake's Progress

“Truth becomes fiction when the fiction's true;

Real becomes not-real where the unreal's real.”

Dream of the Red Chamber

“The first was like a lion, and it had the wings of an eagle. I watched until its wings were torn off and it was lifted from the ground so that it stood on two feet like a human being, and the mind of a human was given to it."  

(Daniel 7:4)

Chapter One: Three Lions

“In which we hear of a new arrival on the streets of London, learn of why it went largely unnoticed, and discover far more than could ever reasonably be expected about the hierarchy of lions."

“Hope is the thing with feathers”

Emily Dickinson

Regarding the Lack of Winged Lions in the Greater London Area

There are a great many statues of winged lions in London; far more than could be considered in any way representative of the number of authentic, living and breathing winged lions in residence at that time. Or any other time. Winged lions are not an indigenous species and have never been a notable member of the local fauna. Definitely not to any degree that might be considered even remotely proportionate to their architectural representation.

It was not simply that they were alien to the immediate environment, they were equally unfamiliar to any of the other potentially suitable geographical habitats in the known physical world, which by then was pretty much all of it. They were most notably absent from the sky, it was quickly established, which was where most with  a passing interest in such matters seemed to agree was the obvious place to start looking and, as a result a passing interest was all anyone was ever likely to have on the matter. Any cursory investigation swiftly revealed there to be absolutely no evidence of them anywhere in the collected zoological or historical archives and, had a tenacious investigator felt the need to search further,  a more detailed and considered analysis would have shown them to be entirely missing from the fossil record as well. As a result, no mention was ever made of their impressive airborne manoeuvrability and ability to perform a pinpoint landing with immaculate and breath-taking grace, or their capacity to sweep unsuspecting prey into the clouds, raining down blood on the frightened herd below as all manner of their hunting, mating and pruning habits failed to warrant a single footnote [1] in the collected annals of Natural History. Whole libraries could be emptied by the sheer wealth of information unobtainable on the subject, with shelf after shelf lacking any relevant educational resources or anecdotal accounts as huge volumes remained unwritten, leaving a crippling lack of any suitable reference material available to those with a penchant for the field and, limited only by such a comprehensive lack of any available subject matter, otherwise promising academic careers ground to a premature halt. Illustrious, lucrative and even award winning careers completely failed to take off every bit as effectively as the objects of their fascination and those with a natural proclivity for the subject found themselves faced with a referential brick wall.

Academic promise can be a cruel and thankless taskmaster, particularly with no task to master, and those whose most celebrated achievements in the field were destined never to transpire could instead, most often, be found with their eyes fixed quixotically on sculptures of cats, their unrealised talent slowly frittered on distraction as they often drank away their otherwise legendary contributions to the sum of human knowledge. Mesmerised by these monuments to misplaced muses and compelled by subconscious yearnings they could never hope to understand, they shared a single obsessive desire to be consumed by the searing flames of their passion and burn in the blazing furnaces of their fascination but, like Icarus with asbestos wings or moths to a low wattage eco-friendly economy lightbulb, they remained unscorched. Pilgrims with no possible progress, their pain was only heightened by a persistent proximity to these pale and insubstantial proxies for passing dreams as they continued their quests with no hope of resolve, the only sign of a relevant quarry being that from which these stone sentinels were carved.

Haunted by a peculiar melancholy they could never quite place, those who would naturally have excelled in the field became increasingly bitter. With their manifest destinies quite manifestly failing to manifest, they found themselves broken like the false promise of their Fate. Entire departments of non-prizewinning non-specialists dreamt dreams of dreams undreamt, lacking the one unique inspiration which could truly capture their souls, they were consumed by the constant nagging frustration of a sense that something was missing. Their whole lives were lived with something on the tip of their tongue they could never quite manage to place - a discontented ennui known only to those who have experienced a loss so great and so life-changing as to overshadow every moment of both their waking and sleeping lives yet, for some curious reason, can’t quite put their finger on what exactly it was.

Sometimes the unknown has a far greater influence than the known, although to quite what degree is pretty much anyone’s guess and, a product of what they were not, they found themselves defined by their lack of purpose. Endlessly subject to desperate yearnings they could never begin to understand, theirs was "the love that did not even know its own name" and associates, friends and partners from another life would cross paths time and again, never speaking or even recognising the curiously familiar faces that shared their solitude. Misery, it is said, loves company but theirs simply festered alone, and  never knowing kinship in their mutual discontent or gaining solace from their fellow sufferers, they were nevertheless drawn together to the sites of these statues gathered together in solitary droves. Lost in their individual suffering and the pointless perplexity of their pursuit, they congregated together unconsciously united by a common mutual exclusivity and obliviously to bonded in group solipsism.  It was an all-consuming emptiness that devoured them as effectively as might the most ravenous of flying cats and, as alienated as any Tudor nuclear physicist, Carthaginian film critic or Elizabethan electrician before them, they would drift through aimless lives of quiet desperation, isolated in their dissatisfaction and discontent without ever quite knowing why. Somewhere, though, deep in each of their souls they knew if only there were winged lions in the world it could have been a different and (barring the inevitable feeding frenzies as ferocious feral flocks feasted on the crowds below in a blur of fur, feathers and flesh) much happier place.

Had any casual observer been able to recognise their plight they would have probably agreed it was for the best. Destiny was fickle that way, they might have argued, and it was just one of those things. In lieu of any sudden and highly improbable advances in the field of genetic modification, there was not exactly a lot they could do about it and whilst ignorance might not be bliss, it was surely preferable to the full realisation of their loss. In the long run they were probably much better off knowing nothing about it. Evolution, it seemed, had simply never considered airborne felinity a particularly fruitful direction in which to branch out, and was now far too wrapped up in computers to give the prospect much thought. Consequently, since most with even a passing interest had generally lost it some paragraphs ago, the subject was considered best left alone and was largely forgotten. Which was unfortunate, since a less casual and considerably better informed observer might have noticed the world could have really used someone with at least a rudimentary knowledge about winged lions at that point.

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 [1] Except this one.

The Lions of St. Mark 

It should, of course, be stressed that questions regarding legitimate residential status were not specific to winged lions alone. Even those lions grounded by the existential vagaries of evolutionary process were no more native to the local terrain than their imaginary airborne counterparts. Indeed, the prospect of casually bumping into a free roaming member of the species whilst negotiating the journey to King’s Cross was one so rare it seldom if ever occurred to the average Londoner. Should such an eventuality ever take place, they would be far more likely to die of surprise than any damage caused by the lion.

The same could not be said for their likenesses, however, and statues of lions were so commonplace as to pass almost unnoticed, seen but unseen; silent cultural symbols, stalking the city’s subconscious with superlative if somewhat sedentary stealth. Although, as now extensively recorded, statues of winged lions are an altogether rarer species, they also exist in numbers entirely disproportionate to their area. On the whole, they tend to be conventional statues of winged lions. Winged lions of a common or garden variety such as you might expect to find were your common or garden situated amongst the plains or savannahs of deepest Africa. Assuming, of course, common or garden lions had wings. And were made of stone.

For the most part, they shared a common genealogy, an architectural heritage dating back to the Lion of St. Mark, but this was merely an apostolistic appropriation that masked their true origin. Although sanctified by association, theirs is an archaeological heritage stretching back to a far earlier time, long before Christ was even a twinkle in the All-seeing Eye. With majestic manes like golden rays, it was the embodiment of the sun god - the solar regent aloft on its throne, a symbol as old as symbolism itself. An ancient motif of royalty predating Solomon, the lion represented the sun at its peak, a reigned supreme above all of Creation. With a lineage tracing directly back to the Egyptian God of Light itself, they had been known the Behdety and suggested a power extending well beyond the range of any single solar deity. Stylised interpretations of the winged sun – they were representational Beings of Light, that served as custodians of cosmic illumination, with a transcended all material constraints. They were the chosen representatives of Horus as Horakhty - Lord of the two horizons. Winged lions were an established cultural reference point since long before the foundation of Uruk and the beginnings of known civilisation - symbols of strength and nobility, their wings signifying divine authority combined with absolute power that predated history itself .

Had they even a semblance of sentience they would undoubtedly have come to look down on the rest of the world from such celestial heights, evidencing levels of inherent superiority only a pedigree stretching back over centuries can provide; that, and having wings. It was their Age, a Lion Age, and they were a Lion Age lineage; untouchable predators championing unrealistic aspirations, there was no more appropriate metaphor for the City of London at that point in time and, soaring to heights other lions - architectural or not - could never even hope to aspire, they were firmly in touch with the zeitgeist if not with the ground. They depicted dreams of a regal destiny, one dignified by a duty, diligence and destiny. Theirs was the divine right of Kings. They would have surveyed their territory with a proprietorial gaze; an entitled sense of belonging if not natural, then symbolic, that perfectly complimented their presence as a fixture of the more elite neighbourhoods of the land. They were the architectural lion other architectural lions yearned to be. A breed apart, they were the apex predator of the semiotic[1] sphere; overachievers in the heraldic domain. A sense of superiority as they overcame the constraints of nature then Reality itself, ascended to the most majestic of mythological heights. They surveyed their territory with a proprietorial arrogance, an entitled sense belonging if not naturally, then symbolically. They were the pride that epitomised pride and, were it not for the fact that they were entirely ornamental, they would inevitably have risen to dominate the realm.

All of which would no doubt have proven very much to the chagrin of statues of less vertically dextrous lions assuming, of course, that they had one. They would have considered such an entitled sense of belonging entirely inappropriate and more than a tad presumptuous coming as it did from a species which did not even technically exist. They would undoubtedly have come to regard these mythological miscreants as unwanted interlopers – unnatural alien usurpers of their rightful position atop the symbolic hierarchy, and watched them with an evident disdain. It was almost inevitable they would come to resent these preening popinjays, pretenders to their crown who purloined their positions and stole their status without even having the common decency to exist. It was simply a matter of standards, they would have proclaimed, and lions had been the standard on English flags and standards for centuries with no plumage in sight.

Demoted from their destiny and bereft of their birthright, they would have resented their heritage being hijacked by what were little more than fictional upstarts with no place in the natural scheme. Lions had been a motif of English royalty since the Normans declared the country French. Henry II had placed three on the Royal Arms of London. whilst his son Richard I, the “Coeur de Lion” claimed a dubious synonymy with their hearts[2] A product of Africa, imported from France, they were a symbol as English as St. George himself and championed by patriots ever since, they came to represent England’s national and sporting identity. It was only natural they would respond to these perceived interlopers in a manner most befitting the attitude of the day, encapsulating the competitive spirit of the nation and reflecting the much celebrated sportsmanship and fair play so loudly championed across the breadth of the land. As carefully crafted cultural ambassadors, they would have reacted in a manner appropriate to the age, reflecting a charity, compassion, generosity and understanding that mirrored that of the city itself.

They would have blamed it on the immigrants.

There is a certain bitterness that comes from spending your days as a permanent perch, painted white by passing pigeons, especially when toppled from your own, and to statues of such self-righteously superior conceit, it would prove an indignation too far. It was inevitable they would come to feel slighted; suffering such relentless humiliation day after day only to be supplanted by similarly feathered fictions meant it was only natural they would develop an intense hatred for all avian life. They would have grown to despise such heretical hybrids simply for existing, which in fairness could be considered something of a moot point, but the fact that they bonded with birds was simply adding insult to injury. It was a question of honour, and to creatures of such  honour was everything. They were rightful regents of all they surveyed by simple historical precedent, although inherent mobility issues tended to restrict quite how much terrain this ultimately tended to cover. Instead, circumstance led them to focus on more parochial concerns, primarily those located on the pavement directly ahead of them. The most concerning of these was the increasing prevalence of winged lions, and inevitably they would come to view these mythological miscreants with apparent distaste, trespassers hijacking their heritage, metaphysical mongrels masquerading as if to the manner born.

Early legend claimed lions slept with their eyes open, and since few contemporary hunter gatherers fancied getting close enough to check, it stuck. It was not until the advent of binoculars, long range hunting rifles and the high-speed armoured jeep that the the myth was finally put to rest. Over centuries they came to be viewed as steadfast and diligent guardians, relentless in their vigil as they kept a protective watch over the land. They were gatekeepers. This was their appointed ceremonial role and they proved single-minded in their  dedication to the task, and whilst their complete inability to move may have proven something of a handicap to many of their more territorial ambitions, it was a positive boon when it came to staring at things.

In a century defined by surveillance,they embodied the spirit of the watch and they circled the inner sanctum of the City on constant guard against undesirable influences that sought uninvited entrance into their domain. Pupils of the deadliest optical arts, they cast stares from stone that could make even a basilisk blink, never breaking eye contact for a moment lions within the Greater London vicinity trained in unflinching ocular combat, as they threw looks designed not just to kill, but to maim, mutilate and cause entirely unnecessary pain along the way. They were the appointed protectorate and defenders of the realm and they dutifully attended their posts. Admittedly, it had never quite been specified what exactly they were protecting the realm from, or what exactly they were expected to do should said threat ever arrive, but with little else to occupy their time, they focused their attentions and their carefully honed gazes on the Lions of St. Mark.

For their own part, the Lions of St. Mark themselves would have found their wings predictably unruffled by such blatant condescension and paid such self-important posturing no mind.  Considering themselves above such sanctimonious affectations, their gaze would remain locked firmly on the clouds. Their position was sanctioned by God and the Church, not mere kings, and the squabblings of subordinates were not their concern. For these reasons, neither group paid much attention to the appearance of a further winged cat, arriving only three days after the 2015 General Election and within just twenty four hours of the result being announced. A new, altogether more striking addition to their number, evidencing a primal savagery more ruthless than anything its predecessors could muster.

Had they not been so distracted by mutual contempt, each species might have been equally shocked by this monumental new addition to their number. A suspicious Middle Eastern looking statue of distinctly reptilian descent, and one with a suspiciously serpentine tail. As respectively respected representatives of the establishment they might both have eyed it with joint mistrust, finding more in common than they would previously chose admit. Bonded by a shared snobbery and consumed by obsessive xenophobic contempt they may have even united through commonality of contempt and, in time, have finally overcome their petty difference finding an entirely different set of differences they could both hate instead. Forgetting issues of acceptable wingspan, they might have spent their days united in shared frustration at the fact evolution had also denied both the capability to write angry letters to the Daily Mail about foreign statues coming over here and taking their plinths.  Unfortunately, they were all facing in completely the wrong direction so it was never really an issue. Besides which, they were statues, so there was not really much they could do about it.

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[1] ‘Semiotics’ – the field of study dealing with symbolism and its meaning (now more commonly referred to as ‘Symbology’, due to author Dan Brown’s decision to skip research on the day he established his protagonist’s career).
[2] An alternative theory proposing the king had access to levels of organ replacement technology generally considered so improbable by historians throughout the ages as to have never even been publicly suggested. Recent upcoming revelations concerning historical access to future technologies, however, suggest that someday in the distant future this may have indeed have been more of a possibility than previously considered.

The She Guardian

Described by Culture 24 magazine, the "She Guardian has blade-sharp wings which rear menacingly behind her back, snarling jaws and ready claws. For Namdakov, though, the monumental sculpture next to Cumberland Gate is a powerfully defensive and deterrent guardian, inspired by the symbols of freedom, movement and eternity seen in the fine arts of Scythians and the peoples of Siberia". 

Described by its creator Dashi Namdakov, the ferocity of the sculpture demonstrated the monster’s ‘maternal protectiveness toward her young.’

Described by the prophet Daniel, it is the first beast of the Apocalypse, signifying the onset of Humanity's descent into Hell.

Overall, it seemed fair to say reaction was mixed.

By far the most common response was apathy, which was pursued with an almost entirely inappropriate fervour rivalled only by those pursuing active disinterest instead. Warranting barely a glance from most passers-by, it sat there masked by a camouflage of irrelevance and familiarity. Those who played an active and hands on role in the day to day events of the city scarcely gave it a second glance as they went about their business. There was after all little reason to pay it any mind, beyond acknowledging a quirky new addition to the locale. There was even less reason to attach any significance to the timing. As a result, it went largely unnoticed. Statues came and went, and beyond the brief acknowledgement of a new landmark by which to direct taxi drivers, most Londoners seemed far too distracted avoiding eye contact with each other to give it much thought.

It was not that they did not notice its arrival. It was hard not to. It was a bloody-great-winged-serpent-cat-creature, and on top of that it was a bloody-great-winged-serpent-cat-creature showing considerably more cleavage than is generally considered acceptable on a single body. For a couple of weeks traumatised children lay awake at night attempting to avoid fitful dreams as it wreaked havoc on their subconscious feeding habits, its metaphysical claws lacerating their psyches and leaving open gaping wounds which would never truly heal carved into their tender, timid souls proving nothing compared to the threat of its teats. After that, it pretty much blended in as part of the scenery. They were a society weaned on distraction, and even bloody-great-winged-serpent-cat-creatures brazenly flashing what could only be considered an obscenely generous surfeit of breasts at random passers-by was insufficient reason to hold their attention for long.

This statue was different though, as anyone with an interest in interdimensional metamorphic chimera and their mythological heritage, common cultural characteristics or even general social groupings would have instantly realised. Depending on their level of specialisation in the field, they would have been surprised and more than a little disturbed by the sudden arrival of such an entity at the Cumberland Gate end of Marble Arch. They might even have tried frantically to warn an unsuspecting public of the true cataclysmic nature of this legendary mythological beast, finally having a practical use for their subject beyond hanging around the winged lion section of museums desperately trying to pick up passing archaeology students.

Recognising the creature for what it truly was, they may well have grabbed random passers by in an attempt to explain the implications. This was no ordinary winged lion, they would have insisted to anyone who would listen and even more who would not. This was a more ancient and arcane mythical beast entirely. It was the wings, they would have insisted. You could always tell by the wings.

And when inevitably no-one asked them quite what is was about the wings that was so important, they told them anyway. They had no feathers.

Chapter Two: The Devil Rides Out

"In which we hear of a sudden departure and the curious arrival that prompted it"

"A conservative government is an organized hypocrisy."
Benjamin Disraeli

Indict as Inhuman

There is a long and well established history of curiously apposite Tory anagrams. For instance, rearrange Nigel Lawson (a prospect that has appealed to many) and you find that “We all sign on”, whilst juggling with Virginia Bottomley (a far less appealing thought) results in the revelation to nobody that, “I'm an evil Tory bigot”, and a skilful adjustment of Tony Blair MP  announces "I'm Tory Plan B". Of course, not all had a status worthy of anagrams to define their true nature and purpose. This was a privilege conferred only on the most significant of historical figures, others - of lesser import - such as Jeremy Hunt for instance, warranted little more than simple rhyming slang.

Perhaps the most pertinent of of these, however, is that of Iain Duncan Smith, a man so narcissistically driven he even included a second "I" in his name, defining not so much the "me" generation as the "mine". A quick reshuffling of these letters reveals a chilling and timely warning, not just to the British public, but to the planet as a whole: "Indict as Inhuman". To those few familiar with the arcane secrets of esoteric wordplay known as "magick spelling", it is a name that provides a warning, or even - some suggest - a cosmic plea that humanity ignores at its peril. Names, they claim, have power, and his family name was of paramount importance to Iain Duncan Smith. As was power. He was determined that his would echo through history, written into the core of English national psyche like letters in a stick of Blackpool rock.

This was his destiny. He was Iain Duncan Smith of the Clan Duncan Smith. He was the Lowlander, and - at least until the onset of cloning, anyway - there could be only one, a fact for which the remainder of the species was eternally grateful. He was proud of his Scottish heritage. Unfortunately Scotland was not, so he campaigned in Chingford instead. It was not just the family name which filled him with pride however. If anything he was even more proud of the nickname he had cherished since school. This, after all, was the title chosen by his peers. The name that represented his character and not simply his lineage. Duncan Smith thought back to those days often and fondly. His salad days. A time when everyone was clearly labeled and everyone knew their place. It was the first time he had truly known where he belonged. Each of them had a name that suited, and would shape them for future life. There was "Scrappy" and "Todger", "Ginger" and "Squishy", "Dasher" and "Prancer" and "Silly Mid-off". And then there was Smith himself. "Twat". It was a name he did his best to live up to. As they got older, entering the adult world and a wider public life, most of these names were forgotten or updated to suit the evolving identity of the recipient. He had even experimented with inventing his own in preparation for leadership - “The Quiet Man” - which the public had accepted easily enough since no-one really listened to a word he said, but then, rumours having been smuggled out of a hostile meeting as Works and Pensions Minister in convenient laundry basket for a time it looked like he might be “the wicker man”, so he decided to stick with Duncan Smith. Secretly, though, deep down inside, he would always treasure that first nomme-de-plume. The schoolboy soubriquet that signified his acceptance into the camaradarie of peerdom and, in his heart of hearts, he knew he would always be the evil, two-faced, lying little "Twat" he was as a child.

An opponent of the European Union from the outset, Smith had been a key party figure since the onslaught of Thatcherism - considered a party stalwart through dogged longevity, and the unfortunate voting habits of Chingford - but despite a two-year stint as Party leader had never truly tasted the power he so desperately craved. Following the Crash of Free-Market Capitalism caused by wholesale deregulation of the Free Market his opportunity finally arrived.

The vast majority had lost faith in the long term "New Labour", which seemed to start so well as it introduced a class free vision of society to those alienated by the financial elitism of Thatcherism. Unfortunately with America still devoutly neoliberal, it made little difference and the United States obsession of deregulating the rich enabled the inevitable. For a brief time, Tony Blair had become proxy world leader, with the American public trusting him more than Bush who had taken to claiming he was personally chosen by God. Unfortunately, it would later turn out the power had clearly gone to his head, and having kept his religious views to himself until leaving office, it appeared that he too considered himself chosen by God (God - Him/Her/Itself - it should be noted, remained silent on the subject). Thus, united in religious delusion that override all political divides, the Blair/Bush alliance found a mutual centre-ground that satisfied absolutely no-one at all.
.

David Cameron was a leader with vision. Distinctly myopic vision, it has to be said, but  vision all the same. Realising that contemporary approaches to running the country were not working he decided to try something old. With the failure of the Western economy primarily due to the fact that an entire generation of so-called experts had been indoctrinated into a pernicious and absurd ideological illusion, it was inevitable outcome was a fundamentally flawed system  What the country needed was to break free of this obsessive reliance on such flawed expertise, and Cameron was quick to identify the obvious route. He brought in in a bunch of unqualified amateurs instead. Thus he formed a cabinet of old college mates, members of the Bullingdon Club. Principal amongst these was Gideon.

Gideon ("George") Osborne or "The Chancer of the Exchequer" a man so dodgy he even lied about his first name, Gideon - a.k.a. George - Osborne was brought in as the Conservative Party's economic expert, representing the true extent of Right Wing Economic Expertise. With the economy in tatters due to the inevitable long term effects of banking deregulation, what was needed most was a radical new approach.

Having largely campaigned on the premise that, unlike the Tories, Labour policies would try to borrow their way out of debt, once in office he immediately attempted to borrow his way out of debt. The key difference being scale, as he not only borrowed more than even the most extravagant of left wing estimates, he has now borrowed more than the combined amount of an entire century of Labour spending. Whilst Labour had promised to use their borrowing in order to revitalise the economy from the ground up, he pursued a double pronged approach, and also imposed a regime of unnecessarily harsh curs on the poor and the vulnerable. Not knowing any personally, he was of the opinion that they did not really exist and were just an excuse to extract money from his personal cocaine fund. Rather than squander this money on a myth, he feels that it is far safer to place it safely in a bank and immediately put it in the care of his friends in the City. After all, they had lost so much money lately, they could clearly do with a bung.

Many found Gideon a peculiar choice for a chancellor, and words such as "insane", "stupid" and "catastrophically absurd" were bandied about. A 2.1 is, of course, a perfectly respectable degree, but for a Bullingdon Boy - someone who has had all the benefits of the most expensive education available, taught intensively in a system that is dedicated to the student in a manner completely beyond the reach of the average student - it is "a bit crap". Had he at least showed the requisite guile, ingenuity and instinct to simply buy himself a 1st like Cameron, then maybe then there would at least have been some evidence of economic competence. As it was, there was none. The fact that the degree is in Modern History has only added to the confusion of this choice the It is David's contention, however, that anyone who could a coke habit as unfeasibly expensive as Gideon's had to have a nose for money, as demonstrated by the unrivalled speed and precision he could roll a fifty pound note into a tube at the mention of the word "toot".

Ultimately, the deciding factor in his appointment as Chancellor was that he was David's friend, and after all - that's what really counts. As the Prime Minister fondly admits, "no-one else was ever likely to give the useless little arsehole a job, so I thought put him on guard with the money. After all, what harm could he do?"

Gideon has proven his many critics wrong however, and has become an iconic figure in Bullingdon history. His appetite for destruction is only matched in immensity by his quite remarkable capacity  to hemorrhage money.

Then there was the Gove. The Gove is a Universal meme, possibly fungal in orgin, that recurs in many forms throughout the entirety of time and space and every known variation of the Multiverse. Terence McKenna often spoke of encountering them during DMT experimentation, and every species produces Gove. Most civilised species tend to kill them at birth, but for some reason the Human Race tend to put them in positions of cultural significance.

It is believed that the Gove hail from from a distant planet somewhere in the twelfth dimension. A telepathically linked species with no formal language of their own they simply sit on the plains mournfully howling their own names. No-one knows whether they are simply trying to communicate with each other or united in a single pronouncement of their existence to the rest of Reality.

Whilst the whole species operates on the shared resources of a single braincell located in a distant dimension of a completely different reality, the Gove have evolved to be highly advanced mimics and can be put through a system of parrot fashion education, such as that found in English public schools and come out in a matter of months with all of the skills relevant to rise to the very top of society in whatever environment they arrive in.

Although their general lack of aesthetic appeal most often gives them the impression of being male, the Gove are an asexual hermaphrodite, sending their species off into the multiverse in the form of spores.

Previous Gove have visited the planet at key points throughout history, but since they seldom achieve anything of note they have remained largely unnoticed. Capable of rudimentary linguistic skills they can be taught basic language, but operate as a group mind so have no mind of their own. This makes them perfect for careers in religion or at the Daily Mail. The current Gove was known as Michael, and along with Cameron, Osborne and Smith himself found themselves in partnership with Liberal Democrat leader and ex-student Conservative Nick Clegg.  Unexpectedly positioned of King Maker for a hung Parliament,largely due to a huge protest vote against what was seen as a diluted version of Blairism being offered by New Labour by a disenfranchised Left, Clegg had promptly chosen to throw in his lot with the Tories instead, and much to everyone's surprise stabbed his new supporters in the back bringing Cameron to power and ensuring his own party would remain unelectable for generations to come. Thus began the age of the ConDem Nation.

During his tenure at the Department of Work and Pensions, Smith had instilled more fear into the nation and caused more domestic UK fatalities than both Gulf Wars combined, an approach which appealed to the old guard of the Right and kept him securely in office regardless of any independent investigation finding him unfit for work. By far the most prolific serial killer in British history, he would be the first to admit he owed much of his inspiration to the late Harold Shipman. Never one to play down his influences, he readily acknowledged everyone stood on the shoulders of giants, it was just unfortunate his own particular giant was horizontal and six feet under the ground. It had been the doctor's approach to cost effective surgery management that led him to realise he could inflict far more damage attacking the sick and disabled through medical assessments than he had ever hoped for in his short and indistinguished military career. Although a prodigious and prolific talent, even by Smith's subsequent standards, Shipman lacked the same clarity of vision though. If he had only thought to move into politics he would have been ripe for a cabinet posting and operated well beyond reach of the law. He could have had a field day directing ATOS, and they could have claimed at least one real GP amongst their ranks. Still, all things considered, even if he had been a surgeon he was unlikely to have stitched up the NHS anywhere near as effectively as Jeremy Hunt.

It was a matter not of personal, but of National pride. After all, who wanted Johnny Foreigner killing our boys when the English could do it so much better themselves? It was a stance that held a strong appeal to most of the UKIP crowd (who were generally always on the lookout for someone else to hate in case they suddenly achieved their ultimate long term goal and anyone not born in Kent was kicked out) and he was the great hope in stemming the recent exodus of old school xenophobes to their ranks. It was all just politics in the end though, which was appropriate enough considering the job, and largely a case of balancing different interests. He found his real potential stifled by Europe, its unwanted external powers investigating every ungrateful complaint from those he was trying to help. There was always someone determined to moan. It was the same whichever side of the House you sat, the left wing had their protest groups campaigning for Human Rights, and the Right had their hate groups, fighting to take them away. Of course, he had not risen through the ranks and file without a method of dealing with this. Just tell anyone unaffected what they wanted to hear and you could get away with murder, Smith was living proof of that. In a truly honest system, any genuine "War on Terror" would have involved carpet bombing Conservative Headquarters as a first strike, but honesty and Establishment policy had long since parted ways. It was Smith's mission to ensure the twain would ne'er meet again. He was chief cartographer of the new Deceptocracy, diligently establishing the lie of the land - redefining the boundaries and ensuring no borders could be crossed as he delineated a new landscape of "Truth".

In retrospect, were he honest, a quality was not generally regarded as his defining characteristic, he had to admit the military had never really suited him.  He had come to abhor the pointless waste that inevitably accompanied modern warfare. Restrictions placed by the Geneva Convention meant they were not hitting anything like the targets he had hoped for, regardless of high-precision markmanship and cavalier disregard for quite who they shot. And targets were everything to Smith. The Convention had ultimately defined his overall attitude to the European question. His mind was made up on the matter - it had to go. Their policies were entirely at odds with his own view of justice, but looked at the right way, he had come to see everything as a prospective weapon and they were definitely a double edged sword. Policies killed as effectively as bullets. he realised, and had far greater potential range. The pen was even mightier than the sword though, and wielding his he could cause more devastation with a single signature than a hundred cutting edge drones. Additionally, his victims could not fight back – especially with changes in legal aid pricing justice out of their reach. So he had moved from the army to politics and a far greater headcount, satisfying his bloodlust with a purge of the poor.  It was like shooting dead fish in an empty barrel at point blank range. With Trident.  The usual bleeding hearts on the Left inevitably objected, of course, but it was basic economic common sense - the necessary price of redistributing tax back to those who had generally spent most of their lives avoiding having to pay it. To his thinking this was the essence of what democracy was about. Everyone was entitled to a slice of the pie. As long as they were not hungry, of course. Who would trust pie with the hungry? That would just be stupid. It required a tough decisions like these, and he was never one to shirk tough decisions, even when no tough decisions were needed. At least that was the theory, if Europe had not kept consistently overturning them.

Some felt calling him a murderer was a bit strong, of course, but - in fairness - no-one who had the faintest idea what they were talking about. Certainly not Smith himself. He was proud of his record. After all, he would ask, "How better to win a war against poverty than by killing off all of the poor?" No-one ever really answered him, which he took as tacit agreement. He found that a lot of people agreed with what he had to say in this way. It was simple, straightforward pragmatism, and he was a pragmatic man.  He was also ideological, however, and politics was not just a career, it was his vocation. One day, he might tread the traditional path from politician to international Arms dealer taken by so many before him but for now, there was still plenty of damage to be done in government. Besides, inflicting pain from a distance brought him little satisfaction compared to seeing the damage first-hand. It lacked that personal touch he had come to enjoy.

It was the hypocrisy he had come to love most, though. It was like having two entirely different realities - one for each "I" in his name. Taking six months off work because Betsy had cancer yet demanding others in more advanced stages of the disease themselves be declared fit for work or claiming he knew what it was like on the breadline himself, having spent some seven months unnecessarily claiming dole whilst flat sharing with his prospective millionairess wife. It was not about the money, of course. There was a principle involved. Not much of a principle, he was the first to admit but then, he was a Tory and they took what they could get - it was enough, however, to give keep him motivated in the face of discontent. After all, it was their credo.  No good Conservative would pay the amount of tax he had to without making damned sure he got every penny of it back. He counted his time as a dole scrounger as research keeping him in touch with the servant classes.  It also informed his certainty everyone on the dole was a fraud. After all it was what he had done, and his own were the standards he judged by. As far as he was concerned, if the unemployed could not be bothered marrying into money like he had, that was their own look out. With a Janus-like duplicity, he proved himself the one true Buddha of Bullshit, a prophet of pernicious intent and messiah of malicious misinformation. Lifting hypocrisy to a whole new transcendental level, he had raised the bar for the whole Party, and they were a Party who liked a good bar. Especially at subsidised prices. The pinnacle of his disingenuous campaign of deceit came with his resignation letter, though. It was his masterpiece. A magnum opus of mammoth misdirection, publicly painting him the hero of those he had menaced, and a defender of the dead on his watch. Designed to do maximum damage to the the "in" campaign, during the build up to European Referendum.   

The Department of Wilful Persecution

Smith gazed around the office one last time as he slowly cleared his desk, smiling fondly at the piles of rejected appeals which had brought the whole department so much laughter over the years. Chuckling to himself at the tear-stained letters of those who naively hoped writing to him personally about their tragedies would result in anything other than entertainment value as he read them out to a hysterical Priti Patel.  He closed the desk drawer one last time and sighed contentedly. Priti on the outside, a simmering cauldron of vitriol, venom and hatred on the inside, he thought. He would miss her spiteful contempt. Happy days, but now he finally had his cherished Universal Credit system in place, all he had to do was stop the bloody continent from declaring it inhumane. It had been an expenditure that had almost crippled the country at a time of supposed austerity, costing far more than the pittance it saved, but it was worth it. The potential for misery was priceless. This had been his legacy, his gift of suffering to future generations. The ultimate streamling of government sanctions - providing a means by which to remove all separate avenues of support in a single decisive stroke; packaging them as one basic payment, and ensuring a solitary glitch or sanction could remove every available benefit at once. Now all that remained was to protect it for the bureaucracy of Europe.

It was time to join Boris Johnson and the Brexit campaign and to finally wreak revenge on the system that so consistently got in his way. As far as he was concerned, Europe was another country (geography was never his strong point), and if there was one thing history had taught him it was how to treat other countries. Smith was declaring a personal war and finally confronting his true political nemesis. All 740 odd million of them. This whole Human Rights business had gone on too long and was getting well beyond a joke. The timing of his resignation had been a clear opening shot at Gideon, who had sided with Cameron in a bid to stay in. Although needing no further justification than that, it had been on Boris' account, a means of sycophantically demonstrating his loyalty and providing a firm foundation for future postings, whilst simultaneously helping remove a key obstacle for the Johnson campaign. One thing that could always be said of Smith was that he was streadfastly loyal to anyone who followed his exact views to the letter. Not that Osborne had ever been that much of an obstacle to begin with. When it really came down to it,  Gideon did not really count - normally this would be a disadvantage in a chancellor, but since all that was required was the wholesale distribution of public services to a handful of backbenchers, precision with figures was hardly a pressing concern. The general working principle was just take what you can get. He had to admit, Gideon had a remarkable flair for the job. The man was a veritable artist of artifice, showing a flair for deception that almost rivalled Smith's own. For instance, claiming it was time to stop bashing the bankers when no-one had even managed to land a passing blow - which had a curiously pleasing irony, he felt, since passing blow was essentially how they kept him in line, with Gideon's propensity for powdered pick-me-ups was not to be sniffed at, even by the secret "nostrilati" who ensured that he followed their line. There was a gleeful delight that he could not help but admire, and no-one loved seeing him "lay an Osbo on them" with his budgetary bludgeon more than Smith himself. It was hard not to respect the sheer delight in the man's eyes as he delivered every cut with such thrust, chopping lines of income like they were the neatly-spread lines on his mirror  It took a special kind of Columbian enhanced audacity to loudly proclaim economic recovery whilst inequality scaled record heights and the debt spiralled out of control. To constantly blame the global economic collapse on the last government, whilst ignoring the fact both parties had been following exactly the same economic principles since Nineteen Seventy-nine. Then, to criticise the previous government for borrowing whilst accumulating more public debt than every previous Labour government combined was spectacular. Any genuine recovery taking place involved extracting the few remaining public funds which corporate business did not yet possess.

Ultimately though, Gideon was just a fall guy. A patsy for when it all fell apart. This had been his prescribed destiny from the outset and what Cameron had groomed him for right from the start. They knew this government would be unpopular, only gaining office because most of the country was split on how to get rid of them, and now they needed now some cocaine-fuelled sociopath on whom they could dump all the blame. Although Smith's resignation had been designed to sabotage his chances, he was never really a contender for the top job. His role was to take the rap for the rest of them when the excrement finally connected with the ventilation apparatus, and Smith had a sudden need to save face, so it suited him to ensure it was now. Suddenly, with no warning, he had the temerity to publicly accuse Osborne of taking the PIP. An exercise in shock and awe that took the whole country by surprise. Abandoning his hard earned legacy as Angel of Death, he had asserted his innocence with a sincerity normally only witnessed at Neuremberg or the Hague. With a completely straight face, he protested the changes were a step too far.

Letting Gideon take so much of the credit for what he himself had accomplished was a high price, of course. He hated to play down his accomplishments this way, but at least Gideon had earned the contempt and after working so hard to establish his reputation, Smith was glad it would go to a deserving home. It was not like the Chancellor needed any help in this department, of course, but he considered it one last act of charity before he gave up the post. Smith was a firm believer in charity. Charity signified the ongoing need for more help than was available within the system, and was therefore generally a sign he was doing his job properly - it was just the ridiculous sentimentality surrounding the whole donation aspect of it that made him balk. It made no sense to him. Charitable donations were a perfectly worthwhile tax deduction scheme in order to safeguard wealth in their own right as far as he was concerned, they did not need all this bleeding heart liberal propaganda about the poor and the needy attached. After all, if its recepients were successfully helped then there would be no more recipients left, and therefore no need of charities to help. Where was the logic of that? They would be putting themselves out of a job, and adding even more to the unemployment statistics he spent so much time twisting. If it wasn't for the tax breaks, he would have banned the whole thing years ago. but it was his duty to keep them employed. And anyway, if charities collapsed, what was going to take the place of public services? They were vital to the government plan, and needed protecting from themselves.  And after all, he reminded himself, he was about to kill the man's political aspirations if things went well, so the least he could do was provide him a footnote in history. As far as he was concerned, Osborne was welcome to the headcount. He helped earn it.

But, like Shipman, Gideon had no real vision - probably a side-effect of the coke. He did not know when to stop. Another side effect of the coke. He had pushed things too far. Every successful slave owner knew the importance of food and shelter to maintaining good stock. They were not just meaningless statistics, after all, they were potential commodities. They had to keep at least some of them alive for a workforce until they could automate them out of their jobs. Eventually they might even want to let some of them breed. It was basic husbandry. Even Smith recognised the practicalities involved. Most importantly, though, who would they have to look down otherwise? The man sucked money from public funding like it was powder from a prostitute's thigh. Not that anyone paid much attention it seemed, if they did then the entire cabinet would have been safely locked up in Broadmoor years ago.

Although the entire country breathed a sigh of relief when he declared his departure, Smith wasn't going anywhere. He had already proven he had no intention of simply vanishing to count his quite literally "ill-gotten" gains like previous party leaders such as John Major and William Hague before him. Most Tory politicians just saw the job as a means of ingratiating themselves to big business, just another button in the corporate elevator, but he loved the suffering too much. It was simply a tactical manouevre. The leadership campaign was just beginning and the European referendum was where the battle really began. It was time to take a side, and he was making his own perfectly clear.

"Smith wasn't going anywhere. He had already proven he had no intention of simply vanishing to count his quite literally "ill-gotten" gains like previous party leaders such as John Major and William Hague before him"

The main problem had been that no-one in the Party had really expected a second term, it was a fluke they had managed a first (a claim some considered curiously in keeping with their leader's academic career). The strategy had been the usual one, fuck up the country's economy, then leave office just in time to blame the following administration for the mess. A second term left them "hoist on their own petard" - and this was a fully armed, state-of-the-art thermonuclear petard - the fallout would last decades. They were completely unprepared to try to deal with it themselves, and on top of that it seemed Cameron had lost his way entirely without Lib-dems to stand in his way. Initially in a state of "Condemnation" it had been too easy, simply wait for their cohorts to deliver a policy and do the exact opposite. He had grown lax, and now completely lost his way. Thatcher had declared Britain a nation of shopkeepers, under Blair they had become a nation of shelfstackers, and the next step was a nation of shoplifters. It was a natural linear progression to Smith, who was a conviction politician, and impatiently awaiting the rise in convictions. How else were they expected to deal with the housing crisis? It was all moving too slow, and the prison labour forces he had anticipated to cut workfare had yet to come into their own. Still, whilst others had lost their heads, at least Smith and Osborne knew what they were doing. Both had their eyes fixed firmly on the prize and still followed the money. Cameron's problem was he was out of touch - not only with with the realities of every day life, which everyone acknowledged, but also with just how deeply the divisive dogma of the Imperialist Right truly ran. He spent so much time on holiday, mixing with foreigners, he had forgotten the full jingoistic xenophobia at the party's central core. He was a new breed, after all - a child of the yuppie conquest of the eighties - he had no time for anything but financial prejudice, judging a fellow by the colour of their banknotes not their skin. To many, his one redeeming feature that he was not racist, unfortunately redemption was not really of any interest to most of his tribe. To a degree Smith could sympathise, he hated everyone equally too. The ship was sinking though, and it was time to leave, but not without scuttling a few lifeboats along the way.

To his supporters and anyone who relied on tabloid journalism to tell them their views, Smith was a miracle worker, providing jobs like Christ distributed seafood sandwiches, and making the lame walk again whether they could manage it or not. Unfortunately, with only written testament to support his miraculous claims, concrete proof was similarly scarce. The claim that he had forced more of the ill and disabled into work than there was work available was his proudest accomplishment and had been the jewel in the Tory crown for the last six years. Quite where anyone thought he was magically conjuring these jobs from was conveniently left to the somewhat lacklustre imaginings of a tabloid readership weaned on decades of corporate pap. The rise of Amazon, e-bay and internet banking had decimated the high street, social networking had wreaked havoc on the postal service, and the onset of 3d printing threatened the future of industrial production. They had cut the public sector to shreds and the naively optimistics argument that private interests would somehow decide to focus on job creation over profits was as ridiculous as it had always been. Eventually, once they had extracted all of their personal worth the only commodity remaining would be the poor themselves. It was necessary to keep at least a selection alive in case the demand was enough to justify they breed.

Of course, his sadistic hatred of the poor was not simply a personal fetish, it was a necessary character trait for any aspiring Conservative minister. It was a natural reaction to the fact that they had to work in order to maintain the degree of luxury to which they were naturally entitled. It was not even that they really needed that second yacht, but it was the principle that mattered. Dying in poverty through starvation and hypothermia was clearly a lifestyle choice, and all the ungrateful bastards did was complain, showing no empathy whatsoever with the fact little Tristram could not afford his third skiing holiday that Summer or Jemima could not afford to buy Bali for the kids. They were completely out of touch with the harsh realities of having to compete for status against an increasingly affluent elite. If the poor wanted to spend their time just starving and dying young they were more than happy to lend them a hand, but the least they could have the decency not to complain about it all the time. There were the aspirational classes and the expirational classes, and it was better if each knew their place.

Those who did complain were inevitably accused of "the politics of envy", and if this meant they envied those who had enough to eat and a roof over their head then there was some truth to the accusation, but the assumption that everyone was motivated by greed smacked of judging by their own standards again, not of those they accused. Most of poor did not care that much about money, which was often how they found themselves poor in the first place, it was just a means to an end. Which was where Smith found some agreement, although the end he envisioned was their's. The real "politics of envy" were more often practiced by those who resented trading their time for a pittance, and to feel better about it felt others should give up their own just to eat. They needed someone to work for nothing to just to feel they had made a good deal. Generally, they painted the unemployed as spending their days enjoying luxuries beyond their own reach. . They spent their lives yearning for free time instead - demanding others work harder than themselves for nothing, simply to bolster their own decidedly suspect superiority. The rich tended to view their wealth as evidence of a meritocracy, however - particularly those who inherited it. In fact, time was the only truly precious commodity, with "status" ultimately judged by who got paid more money for less effort, and personal worth demonstrated by time available on the golf course. It was the time poor, not the cash poor who were the real perpetrators of envy. Having traded their time for money it was only fitting others should give up their own to subside. Otherwise how could they gloat they had got a good deal? The unemployed were clearly having such an cushy time of it, quite frankly, it was a wonder they did not just quit themselves. They did not care whether what work that was forced on the poor, the sick and the disabled, just as long as they felt they made more for doing less in order to boost their overinflated sense of self worth.

Smith was of the traditional Tory attitude that everyone on social security was a fraudster, despite clear figures demonstrating dole fraud was virtually non-existent - almost impossible in a system already so tightly run that even the catatonic were forced to find work. Redefining unemployment in the same way that they had redefined child poverty and fuel poverty appealed to was the same self-serving logic that insisted those who could not even afford to heat their homes over winter were somehow living a life of luxury on £8, 000 a year, yet they themselves were unable to live on £60,000 without seeking alternative sources of income. It posed a tactical problem, since if they sold off most of the public sector, then snatched away the security they had paid for  it begged the question of exactly what taxes were now for. A sudden lack of justification for their initial £60,000 meant exclusive reliance on such alternative incomes, further increasing the lack of available employment and leaving them to fit in running the country during lunch. Of course, it meant only those with wealth enough not to work also had the opportunity to rule and whilst arguably this meant little difference,  at the moment it was a well paid hobby - what was the point of a plutocracy if they had to pay for it themselves? They were better off forking out the tax. But then Conservative logic was suspect at the best of times, with intensive and carefully contrived cognitive dissonance a trait necessary for most of their policies to make sense even to themselves. The most ludicrous example was that of a “Compassionate Conservative”, a label as oxymoronic as the concept of the "Christian Right". The very need for such a term clearly demonstrated there was no such creature, and never could be. They were mutually incompatible terms. The housing crisis was a perfect example. Had they really wished to address the issue of available addresses the obvious starting point would have been a rent cap, of course, since the majority of each claim went directly back to the same private pockets that complained of paying too much tax. However, since the majority of those dictating policy were the same property owners that were responsible for this cost, they they themselves were the end recipients of all of this tax - so they focused on the insignificant amount that was allocated for food and heating instead. It was far more appealing to their voter base to blame the tenants for the cost of their homes. Consequently, homelessness spiralled out of control, as it always did under Conservative governments, which was another bonus when distorting the figures – since the more on the streets the greater the savings could be claimed, and each destitute waif and stray was a convenient plus.

By far the majority of those on the streets found themselves there as the result chronic clinical depression, and so it was here that he focused his aim. Smith applied a surgical precision, isolating them and cutting them away from the body of society as effectively as he cut their support. They were an easy target and if any protested, their complaints were easily dismissed. After all, they were insane – and if not, had no grounds for appeal. Forced through target led assessments with no visible symptoms, it was their word against their interrogators, and should they protest at suffering persecution, it was easy to claim it was nothing complex - the whole mental illness thing was just in their heads.

The Prince of Lies

 

For six years now, he had overseen the most sustained and deliberate persecution of its citizens the culture had known, mercilessly overseeing the most sustained and brutal regime of parliamentary cruelty in living memory. He could honestly say that due to the active encouragement of ATOS, the sick were openly dying to get back to work. Contemptuously dismissing their protests and pleas, he had conducted his purge of the weakest and most vulnerable in society with an unflinching pride, malice and enthusiasm that made him the most justifiably hated figure in modern British politics. Persecuting the mentally ill had long been a popular Conservative Party sport, of course, since their high priestess proclaimed “Care in the Community” (or “throw the nutter to the gutter tax” as it had commonly been known), closing down mental health units and leaving the patients to fend for themselves as it removed their support, and Smith was a traditionalist at heart. Not that he had everything his own way. His original proposal to hunt them down like foxes in order to win favour with the Countryside Alliance had been rejected out of hand. Not enough of a challenge for the hounds it seemed, but working them to death pleased him too. 

Ultimately, he was happy in his work. Despite shuffle after cabinet reshuffle, and regular attempts to remove him from the post, he had steadfastly resisted, his unprecedented refusal leading some to suggest an Edgar J. Hoover-like omnipotence and prompting rumours he was in possession of the Brittan documents or some similar method of control. Then suddenly and without warning, just as the entire country had resigned itself to the fact he was there for the duration, he himself resigned and promptly was not.

Then, only a single week after claiming that seventy-five percent of those sanctioned had written effusive letters thanking him for removing their income and forcing them to rely on foodbanks, he was gone. Quite why, if this was the level of his popular success, was never explained, lest it failed to ring true. He could only imagine the bulging postbags, when Universal Credit took their housing benefit as well and they cheered him from their homes on the streets. Citing conscientious objection over the very principles that had defined his own relentless culling of the weak and the needy. Still, a week was apparently a long time in politics - for the majority of the cabinet it lasted three days, at least - and most of their pledges had been reversed in a day, so at least it was par for the course. Giving Gideon full credit was his most magnificently malign masterstroke yet, a refreshing, if Machiavellian change from just giving it to banks. The real rift was over positions on Europe. The opportunity to rebrand himself a saviour was added an additional twisted irony he could not resist. One last parting shot at his victims delivered with his trademark sanctimonious sneer as he sauntered smugly out of the door. With any luck it added enough insult to injury to enrage a least few of the buggers into strokes as a final goodbye.

It was an epiphany. And not his first. There had been his "Epiphany at Easterhouse" when he had first encountered true poverty, or his epiphany whilst on a grief tourism stint at Auschwitz when he read the words "Arbeit Mach Frei" (Work will set you free) and realised what he wanted to do about it. At the death camp he had looked into the abyss and the abyss had looked back into him. They both liked what they saw. It was an inspiration, and he was awestruck by the sheer efficiency of the whole affair. Others might have questioned the term, mistakenly considered them to be simply "passing thoughts", or even "random ideas", but to him their rarity gave them momentous import. And, after all, as the foremost Catholic politician in the Party, he should know an epiphany when he had one.

It was this position within the church that had prompted Boris to approach him some months earlier with a personal and secret request. The ex-Mayor of London, would-be Prime Minister and potential world dictator in waiting had sought him out some weeks earlier, asking about his contacts in the Vatican. Smith had never been a particularly religious type, feeling all the peace, love and forgiveness at odds with his own views on discipline. He was more a traditional Old Testament guy, although he did like the end  of the Book - when they nailed that self-righteous bastard hippy to a cross. For a time he had considered similar tactics as a warning outside jobcentres. He had kept up with contacts in the Church largely finding many of a similar opinion, regarding the New Testament as essentially a cautionary tale. Akin to the wicker man, the protaganist was a perfect sacrifice to appease a righteous and firmhanded Conservative God. It was an allegory for all time - go around preaching this socialist nonsense and we'll nail you to a fucking cross. No messing about. To his mind, the book started well enough - he particularly liked the whole forced march to fill in a census idea - but it tended to drag in the middle  and would be far better condensed to "some lefty scrounger was born in a stable, then they quite rightly crucified him as a tribute to keep Jehova happy". Point made. And maybe a few more beheadings and a chariot race. Succinct and to the point, with none of the inane love they neighbour nonsense that had confused the plebs so much. He had even submitted a revised draft version to Gove, who had been considering updating the Bible now he had his name attached to the project, but Gove had his own plans of his own.   

Boris had asked to call on his Vatican contacts and secure an ancient artifact they possessed, and only to eager to ingratiate himself with what he hoped would be the winning team, he had gladly complied. Both were already united in a desire to leave Europe, pairing them as natural allies, if taking Osborne out of the equation had already been enough to secure him a place in any future cabinet, providing the book would secure his next department a blank cheque. The plan had been sitting at the back of his mind, idling away for some time now and biding its time with  After months of waiting, the parcel had finally arrived, accompanied by a letter confirming success.

Opening the parcel to confirm the items were there, he parted the velvet wrapping inside and carefully took out the contents. As the letter stated, they consisted of what appeared to be a smoked glass crystal ball, and a large, archaic looking leather bound tome. He glanced at the crystal ball for a moment, shaking it slightly to no real effect,  before putting it to one side and delving further into the box to retrieve the book. He had no idea why Boris had felt it so important to gain what appeared to be a perfectly non-descript and considerably oversized paperweight, but for some reason he had insisted it was vital to the future of his career. The book, however, was different. He recognised it straight away from the letter on its cover. Most Conservative MP's had at one time or another given serious thought to a contract with Satan, and he was no different. It was elementary business sense. As it turned out their souls had already been bought as a job lot and were automatically transferred on Party membership. His own studies in the area allowed him to identify the volume on sight.

Gove could keep the Good Book, he decided. This one was was even better.

It was the mythical Liber M of the alchemists (See Appendix 2). The legendary esoteric Ars Magna, definitive source of all occult knowledge and fabled container of the unholy anagrammaton. Some claimed it to be the first book. Some claimed it to be the last. Some claimed both and refused to be drawn into an explanation. Legend stated it told the entire story of Human existence within in its pages, from beginning to end. One thing his life in politics had taught him was that "information was power" and the power of the information in that particular text was beyond measure from all he had read. Respect was an unfamiliar emotion to Smith, but he realised it was possibly the sensation he now felt. The mythology surrounding the book claimed that wherever it was opened was the right place to start, and parting the tome somewhere in the middle he was astounded to discover the words were in modern English. As he sat back and began to read, he finally saw the next step to take.

It was time for the old soldier to make a tactical withdrawal, he told himself, as he read the words before him in increasing shock. Of course, the idea that he would even stray far from power was one even he could not successfully sell. The resignation was long term strategy, before he was inevitably hung out to dry.  Simply walk out on the back off some half conceived point of principle, then come back by public demand. The epiphanies just kept on coming. With Boris still awaiting his assistance, he had been true to his word, making all the right sounds and insisting from the outset he should never have left. As discussed, the setup was in place from the beginning, with plans laid to magnanimously invite him back in. In the meantime, it only remained to take some time sitting on his laurels, and churn out interviews asserting he was humane. He had first got the idea from Farage, and been considering it now for sometime. It was not the first time he had strategically stepped back from the limelight, of course, and lately he had been considering taking time off to write another book. "The Devil's Tune" had already caused a generation of literary reviewers to regret their choice of career, but he could not help think it fell short of the potential television could provide. It was another step to achieving his immortality, and ensuring a place in posterity for the name Duncan Smith as he planned. He pictured himself the voice of the zeitgeist. After all, it was a world he helped shape. Each historical era manifest its subconscious preoccupations through Art. The Greeks had their marbles (despite claims of the opposite by the IMF, and demonstrable proof of it by the British museum), the Renaissance had produced Da Vinci and Shakespeare, whilst Industrialisation provided Blake and Dickens in turn. The twenty first century's dominant culture consisted largely of the zombie apocalypse and Reality television. Only a couple of epiphanies ago, he had a revelation - why not combine the two? He was bound to find a taker on Channel 5 - "The Working Dead" - with no need of additional budgetary considerations, hidden cameras already installed in medical assessment centres could provide a whole new stream of income and footage, exploiting his previous political endeavours with the definitive in poverty porn.  As he read further into the grimoire before him, such trivial ambitions seemed more distant with every word, and as he immersed himself in the text, suddenly his destiny seemed clear.

Chapter Three: The Selfish Djinn

“In which we learn what sort of Devil the Devil on Two Sticks was, and how Iain Duncan Smith first became acquainted with him”

"That is extraordinary! said Don Cleophas; what have you done to deserve so much hatred or scorn? I crossed him in one of his projects, replied Asmodeus. There was a chair vacant in a certain Academy, which he had designed for a friend of his, a professor of necromancy; but which I had destined for a particular friend of my own. The magician set to work with one of the most potent talismans of the Cabala; but I knew better than that: I had placed my man in the service of the prime minister; whose word is worth a dozen talismans, with the Academicians, any day."

The Devil on Two Sticks (Le Diable Boiteux)
Alain-René Lesage (1707)

Solomon and the Shamir

 

"Asmodeus (orig. Ashm’dai) is cambion," the book informed Smith as he pondered what seemed not simply a peculiarly modern turn of phrase, but a  contradictory contortion of linguistics itself; it had a contemporary tone he found disturbingly at odds with the apparent age of the page before him, blending  present and past in a disconcertingly incongruent way. It could have been written yesterday, he thought, or even tomorrow. He frowned and shook his head slightly at this completely irrational thought, feeling as if it was not his own. It was as if that last consideration had popped into his mind from somewhere else.   "A hybrid entity," it continued, "part human, part demon -  born of an unnatural coupling between King David, never the most picky of Kings when it came to his concubines, and the succubus demon Agrat bat Mahlat, making him not only an illegitimate member of the Royal line, but also a distant cousin of Joseph, Mary and Jesus.  They tended to avoid mentioning this too much in public.

"Described by 16th century Dutch demonologist Johann Weyer as a banker at the baccarat table in Hell, this infernal prince is overseer of earthly gambling houses,  slot machines, national lottery syndicates and the stock market. Patron of bankers and other irresponsible wastrels that gamble away entire fortunes before simply stealing further stakes from the unsecured pockets of the poor in games rigged all the way to the top. He was the champion of all pointless parasites serving no practical purpose beyond that of greedily sucking the lifeblood from their fellow man - which essentially covered the investment banking community, rightwing parliamentarians and anyone working for ATOS, Capita and Maximus.  It was bountiful territory, and victims in fruitful supply, with members of all groups almost by definition bereft  of anything resembling a functioning human soul. Beyond such mundane concerns, however, he had a greater purpose, and an equally impressive title to match. He was the Destroyer - chief herald of Choronzon (high demon of entropy, chaos and "all-round cosmic clusterfuck"). As such, his duties were wider than those of a standard demon. Most demons were in truth merely personifications of internal impulses - anthropomorphic representations of the negative traits of the human condition and psychological metaphors for maladjusted minds. Whilst angels were the forces of nature, demons were the vices of Man.  As representative of the forces of Destruction themselves, and an active agent in the relentless travail of Time's eternal transition, Asmodeus operates outside the constraints of the mortal psyche, allowing him an independence of movement generally unknown to mythological beings. He is a fundamental cosmological archetype, dating back to a tradition distantly preceding that of the tribe of Abraham and key to the cycle of cosmic transformation that initiates change. 

"Of both human and demonic blood, Asmodeus has the rare privilege to wander both mystical and mortal realms at will. As a result, his activities have drawn far more attention than those of most hell-bound demons, with legends concerning his various nefarious activities widespread in both.

Smith stopped reading for a time. He was at a complete loss to see anything of particular use to either Boris' or, indeed, his own ambitions in these ancient tales of mythical biblical celebrities, drunken demons and specialist stonemasonry tools. The book was clearly a recent forgery, he decided. Everything about it seemed to scream fake, and the anachronistic references were a clear giveaway.

He could not help feel a sense of anticlimax. So much for a book of destiny. The legends claimed this mystical volume was somehow unique to each reader, relating information specific to them alone, with each consultation a bespoke biographical breakdown were clearly nonsense, he quickly concluded. It had not even got the right century. Just another piece of metaphysical mumbo jumbo, he decided, vaguely embarrasssed he had even entertained the thought it could be more. Superstitious gibberish designed for the distraction of fools, he concluded. He was, however, intrigued by this shamir thing. He had never really paid much attention in Church anyway, but had never heard mention of it from the pulpit. All this nonsense about shrouds and cups they were continually trying to track down, and no-one was interested what sounded the greatest energy source in ecclesiastical lore? No wonder they couldn't fill the pews lately, they clearly had no sense of priorities. Now here was a spiritual quest he could see the point of, with a tangible and profitable reward. If the Lord was the ultimate power, then this seemed a reasonable place to start seeking him. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps this was what Boris was really seeking. After all, anything that could slice through matter with that level of efficiency was bound to be of use to the government, if only as a mythological mascot but if its powers were genuine, he found himself thinking, then it was one hell of a lot better than watercannons. Now that was how you did cuts.

Still, there was something about the story he could not pin down. Reading it, he could not shake off an entirely unfamiliar sensation, something he had never experienced before that he could only describe as like an unsettling inversion of deja-vu - the feeling of suddenly remembering something that had not actually happened before. As the story unfolded, it was not as if he were visualising the scene, but somehow remembering it. It slowly occurred to him that this must be what was known as imagination, and made a mental note to use it in his next novel. But there was something more than that. It was all entirely new to him, but he felt an overwhelming familiarity with each sentence, as if he had heard it all before somewhere.

Original concept drawing for De Plancy’s Asmodeus,
until it was eventually adapted by superluminal historical
revisionists in order to prevent “spoilers”

Just as he was about to abandon his browsing, he turned the page to find his eyes instantly alight upon an illustration that not only changed his view entirely, but  shook him to his already decidedly unsteady core. The title at the top of the page was an anagram of his name "Indict as Inhuman". He recognised it immediately, having deciphered the anagram of his own name long ago whilst obsessing over cyphers and anagrams that could protect departmental documents and figures from the prying eyes of official inquiries. His entire reality shifted as he stared in horror at this single paradigm changing image, and suddenly he realised every thought he had until now was completely wrong. The book was indeed what legend claimed. The evidence before his eyes confirmed it in a manner beyond all possible doubt. The picture claimed to be the original first draft depiction of Asmodeus by Louis Le Breton from Colin De Plancy's "Dictionnaire Infernal". The demon had three heads, one of which was clearly Smith's own.

---

The Horns of a Dilemma

More than a little shaken by this entirely unwarranted assault on his already beleaguered sensibilities, Smith simply stared blankly back at the page for a time. His mind still reeling from the sight of a demon which appeared to have negotiated equal usage rights regarding his facial features, he proceeded to let it reel a moment or two longer just to be on the safe side. Once satisfied he had regained what he mistakenly considered a reasonable degree of balance, he proceeded to cautiously address this additional and quite unexpected challenge to his established assumptions regarding reality and quite how it was expected to behave. Not like this, he was certain, unless he was as out of touch with it as his critics usually claimed. 

 

He paused to take stock of other elements in the picture. Examining it in detail, he was most struck by the creature his facially abundant doppelganger seemed to be riding.  All his instincts told him this was the cause of the inexplicable déjà vu like sensation he  could still not manage to shake off.  As he gazed at the picture he became increasingly transfixed by it. Although he could not explain why, it struck him as easily the most fascinating feature, far more than having two additional heads and chicken legs, which would usually prove the more conventional choice. Apart from its presence in an ancient magickal grimoire, there was nothing particularly mysterious about the sight of his face, other than its location. He saw it every day and knew it like the back of his hand or, more appropriately, like his face.  

There was something about the supernatural steed however that was familiar in a distinctly unfamiliar way. There was something hauntingly familiar about it.Something specific that called out to him with a distant urgency, to indistinct to  important something he could not readily pin down, and the more he tried to strain towards it the more it taunted him, dancing at a tantalisingly distance just beyond his reach. Quite what it was about the strange avian feline that provoked this nagging sensation he could not immediately identify, however. There was something strikingly familiar about this strange beast he could not quite pin down, so much so that the additional physical traits of his own image seemed mere secondary details by comparison. 

If the estimated age of the volume was even close to accurate, he realised, then it probably had a strong claim to prior ownership too, predating his own by a matter of centuries if not millennia. Demonic possession was one thing, he told himself, but demonic repossession suggested a whole host of additional problems, most notably potential eviction orders and the prospect of bailiffs waltzing off with the various bits of a personality he had managed to accumulate over the years. Eventually his finely honed military instincts kicked in however, and his faculties regrouped. Hesitant to commit to any premature and no doubt ill-considered excursions into what was now clearly identified as enemy territory, they commenced a tentative tactical reconnaissance before recommending an optimal strategic response of desertion.

The situation brought a certain literalism to the expression “in your face” with which he was less than entirely comfortable and, once he finally got over himself or at least over the image of himself staring confrontationally back up from the page, he made a concerted effort to regain some much needed perspective. Unfortunately, perspective had long been in short supply and this sudden increase in demand made it all the more elusive a find, so instead he settled for intuition, which told him in a firm and no-nonsense manner that things like this did not happen. It was the stuff of fantasy and delusion and he should pull himself together. When he finally regained as much composure as seemed likely under the circumstances, he made a valiant attempt to assess the situation objectively. There had to be a more reasonable explanation for what he was looking at than a Satanic text which seemed intent on identifing him as a crowned Prince of Hell, he told himself. After all, It was the kind of thing you would know about, surely. There was more to this than met the eye, he suspected, however overwhelming the current view might already be.

In the meantime he slumped back heavily into his chair, closing both the book then his eyes in defeat and, whilst there was no particular need to close his mind as well - this being its natural default state - he ensured it was also securely barred and bolted before retreating furtively inside to take stock. For its own part his mind had been firmly made up on most matters long ago and he rarely found much need to consult it of late, so making the most of a captive audience it decided this would be an opportune moment to give him a piece of itself which, despite having little enough going spare, it duly dispensed under the somewhat dubious description of wisdom. Whilst his mind had long tended not to get involved in everyday events as a matter of policy needs must, and making the most of a captive audience it proceeded to inform him that this was all just superstitious nonsense and that he should pull himself together. He was being ridiculous and should snap out of it it explained to him slowly, as if talking to a child. It was all clearly just a co-incidence. Either that or someone was taking the piss. There were no other reasonable explanations it pointed out adding bluntly that at least the latter would be in keeping with his life experience so far, and reminding him quite why he kept it so tightly shut in the first place. Pleased to have a more reasonable explanation than personal satanic messages from aeons gone by, he found his intuition naturally favoured this as the most reasonable solution and decided he could even see the funny side for a change, shaking his head in disbelief at how easily he had been taken in.

It suddenly seemed painfully obvious. The whole package was simply a highly elaborate "fuck you" from the Vatican, he decided. This new Pope was a traditionalist and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. The whole Bible was full of illusions and pranks, after all - stealing bodies from tombs, switching water for wine, the old baby from a virgin trick. He had even used a variation on their "make the cripple walk" trick as the foundation for his own ideological crusade. Whether they wanted to or not. It was exactly the kind of thing the religion used to get up to in the old days, he concluded, when they still knew how to pull in a crowd. Maybe Francis was just getting back to basics, trying to put some of the mystery back.

It was far superior to all this "image-of-the-Holy-Mother-on-of-toast" and bleeding statues stuff they had been doing so much of lately. If so, he was impressed by the effort they had gone to, feeling they should focus on this kind of thing more often, rather than all that bleeding statue stuff they normally got up to. In fact, it was a bit too good, it struck him and the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. It was way too convincing for them. If this was a joke, it was executed with a level of sophistication well beyond that he had come to expect from God. From what he had seen, this was an entirely different league - worthy of Derren Brown himself. Maybe it was Boris after all, he mused, flip-flopping between options like Andy Burnham in a leadership challenge. A scheme like that took time and "BJ" had plenty to spare having finished his tenure as mayor, after all.

Either way, reality started to make some kind of sense again, or at least more sense than most of the other possible scenarios suggested by his pictorial representation in an ancient magickal grimoire, and considering the implications, he was willing to take any alternative that worked. Then, it occurred to him there was a further possibility he had often resisted exploring. He might be going insane. This must be what paranoia was like, he realised. He had always assumed a natural immunity to the state given the fact that most people genuinely did hate him, but what he knew of the symptoms seemed to fit. He had just never expected the sensation to be so lavishly illustrated.

Relieved to have a variety of solutions which did not immediately suggest demonic identity theft as the ultimate explanation, he finally felt secure enough to open his eyes and examine the book again for further clues. It was a move met with instant regret. If first impressions counted, then second did applied calculus with ambitions bordering on an almost algebraic intent and, whilst out of sight had not exactly been out of mind in full view the thing seemed not simply real again, but more real than reality strictly required. It was as if existence itself was simply a backdrop designed to bring out its lettering, like some casually chosen off the peg fashion accessory, picked largely to compliment its sleeve. It seemed not to simply sit on the desktop before him, but that the desk itself (along with the floor, the walls and all that surrounded it) were simply ephemeral illusions clinging to its presence in order to sustain their own existence. Had he believed in such things he might even have claimed it had an aura, but such ideas were best dismissed alongside those of genuine magickal grimoires and and demonic line drawings he felt. Superstitious claptrap, and he was having no truck with any of it. The thing was clearly a fake, its reputation causing his imagination to run away not just with itself,  clearly elated by the opportunity to finally prove he had one. 

The continual twists in logic that made up his everyday routine were taking their toll, he suspected, and he was starting to lose track of what reality was altogether. It had been a taxing few months in more ways than one, and he was clearly starting to lose his grip. Maybe this was a sign he should just take some time off, he thought. Step back from the fray a bit. There were plenty of other frays awaiting his attention After all, It was the perfect opportunity and he had already been considering a break for some time. His legacy was finally about to be unveiled and Universal Credit rolled out across the nation. He wanted to be well out of the way when the flak began to fly. Consequently, there was only one question that was truly important right now. Should he stay or should he go?

He glanced down at the book. It was as if the words themselves exerted a form of gravity, pulling his eyes to the appropriate section of the page.

"You should go," it told him.

He promptly closed it again.

Of More Than One Mind

This imagination business certainly had something of a kick to it, he decided, making a mental note to try using it in his next novel. Feeling it best accompanied by a whisky chaser, he rose to pour himself one from the cabinet's cabinet in the corner of the office, avoiding even indirect eye contact with the tome for the moment. He swilled the spirit around his mouth for a time, then swallowed with a shiver that almost but not entirely failed to shake off the sensation of dread he had felt whilst reading  

Finally, he decided simply to pack the relics away back in the box and deliver them to Boris as if unopened. If it was a message from the Vatican, let him work it out for himself and if not, If Boris was in on it as well, then acting oblivious seemed the most practical response. Make him think all the time and effort involved had been wasted. He should just ignore it and pretend not to have seen the wretched thing, the same way he did with appeals Inaction was definitely his best course of action, just like it was with appeals and deathcount statistics. Savouring the taste of the drink a while longer, he let the spirit restore his own, before returning to the desk and picking up the ancient volume once again.

Whoever was responsible, he concluded, further examination would no doubt reveal the hand of its author. Readjusting his somewhat skewed sensibilities, he returned to the volume, opening it randomly in the middle. If the picture was a trick, there was no way to ensure he would find it first timeand ensure their efforts did not go to waste. There was probably a duplicate of it printed on every other page awaiting his opening glance,  . Flipping through the pages proved this theory wrong, however. There was no sign of a repeat picture, just random text and illustrations bearing no real no immediately apparent relation to text was entirely random, no sign of any picture anywhere.

"It was just random stuff, no sign of any picture anywhere" it said.

It was co-incidence then, he told himself, deciding he had just been paranoid about being paranoid. There was no way that anyone could have rigged There was no other feasible explanation remaining. The picture in the book just happened to bear a resemblance to him. A strikingly accurate resemblance, admittedly, but that was all. After all, there were only so many visual representations of faces throughout the ages, it was almost inevitable at least one of them would bear a passing resemblance to his own.He returned tis eyes to the text.

More co-incidence, albeit with a slightly postmodern edge. It had to be: multiple co-incidence that just happened to deal with the subject of co-incidence itself. There could not be anything more co-incidental, he realised, suddenly going cold at the Too much so to be entirely co-incidental. . It was peculiar that there were so many, but this could be put down to co-incidence too. The same applied to the picture, he decided. After all there were only so many possible combinations of lines available to an artist, and it was inevitable that ast some point they would appear to resemble his face.

It  served him well enough as an all-purpose excuse in the past, and was always a handy get-out in most situations. He had used it for years as an excuse to avoid discussing the quite disturbing deathrates that accompanied his social engineering exploits. Citing co-incidence, he could excuse any correspondences between deathcounts and policy. All that time manipulating figures for the Department of Work and Pensions had clearly given his unconscious a taste for the fantastic. There were only so many possible combinations of features, so it was inevitable that at least one representation of a human face was bound to bear  resemblance to his own at some point during the accumulated history of art. It just happened to be this one. The surprise had simply enhanced the superstitious stories that related to the text. 

It was as if the book was aware of this thoughts, he thought, and was immediately terrified by the prospect. There was a curious intimacy to this literary interaction, and as he read further he could not help feel the book was also reading him. As if there were some telepathic link. Once more he paused to clear his head. He was being ridiculous. One thing of which he was certain was that this had nothing to do with him. Or if it did, then he could not see it for this world or any other. He had not been sleeping properly due to this whole Europe thing. It was as if he had some telepathic link to the text, he thought, which corresponded with what he had considered the more fantastical of the many claims he had encountered regarding its importance in alchemical circles.

It felt like the book had just interacted with him. However unreasonable the thought, he could not help think it. It was as if he had developed some telepathic link.

He turned the page, and continued to read.

He was filled with uncertainty again. There was something about even contact with the ancient tome he found unnerving. He could not help wondering what exactly it was about the winged lion he found so familiar. It nagged away at him. Never a fan of indexes, or anything requiring genuine research rather than bluffing, he had appreciatively got the hang of how Opening it randomly in the middle, it informed him:

"The winged lion serpent is a creature of Choronzon. A being of transition, existing between seperate forms. Whilst the most apparent of these forms are the trinity of  creatures that make up its name, it is always worth remembering the winged lion is also a shed."

Discovering a creature fresh from the Apocalyptic visions of the Bible also provided convenient storage for gardening implements was a step too far.

He slammed the volume shut with a start. It was settled. This was the genuine article. Smith took another break and another stiff drink to settle his churning stomach, then stumbled drunkenly towards the exit.

Further examination revealed that in the back of the book was a receipt. He was sure it had not been there earlier, yet as he flicked through the pages one more time, it slid out and floated to the ground. A glance at the agreement showed he would negotiate what seemed a pleasantly enticing deal. It was definitely his signature. Scanning through the pages, fear dwindled to trepidation until it transformed into satisfaction. It was dated that same day, but five hours hours from now. Something between now and then would persuade him.

The contract in question appeared to be some kind of rental agreement primarily referring to Soul ownership Rights

by way of a process referred to as Organ Accumulation.

“You had it backdated to when you first received the signed contract so that we might have a little chat before you sign,” said a voice in his head.