The silent earthquake hit the South-East of England in the middle of the night, its epicentre located in the St. Mary’s area of Swanley in Kent.
Damage from the event though was confined solely to the system of corrupt and cosy consensus politics that afflicted the ivory towers of Sevenoaks District Council.
The polished marble walls of the towers of the local council buildings were seen to rock and shake as news of the local election result came in.
As the streets literally convulsed with joy, cracks could be seen shivering their way through the shining façade of the council buildings, revealing the black stains of canker and rot that had eaten into the very fabric of the buildings over the many decades of betrayal that had misfallen them.
Amidst the wreckage of the council building the mournful wails of the distraught council tax funded sybarites and simpering catemites of the establishment councillors could be heard rising to the misty moon, as a wolf howl lifts upon the rising wind.
Through the night they ran these functionaries of the Servile State, beating at their plump breasts and pulling at their hair, fearful of the evil that had managed to penetrate their vile, perverse temple dedicated to the pursuit of their sordid pleasures.
They feared that the eyes of the people would now see them amidst their shadow realms and discover all the myriad petty, perverse, little crimes they had committed since their masters had taken control of the council.
The councillors had most to fear. These were the bloodsuckers, the vampires of the public purse, a class of parasites whose entire existence was predicated upon exploiting the people themselves. Masters of the sybarites and catemites, the councillors of the establishment parties demanded that the people serve them, rather than they serve the people. They resided in perpetual darkness and twilight, night crawlers, always seeking the shadows where none may see their sins and perversions.
For these denizens of the darkness it were as if the sun has begun to shine at night in place of the moon.
Its light scorched their skin and blistered their sticky clawed fingers, whose fingernails black as cemetary spiders, constant skittered and scuttled ever seeking coin.
Now all their scams, plans, tricks and lies could now no longer be hidden away and denied.
Into the council chamber loped the BNP wolf, and see how they cringe and growl these dogs before it.
They are repelled by the intruder these night breed, just as ugliness is repelled by beauty.
They fear the light these creatures of the establishment, for its presence frightens them and sickens them, as in its glorious illumination their inherent ugliness is revealed in all its debased entirety.
The bells of churches now rang out across slumbering England, as frenzied pederasts in frocks pull at pendulous bell ropes and with frantic peals seek to warn their fellow criminals who hide like them behind the cross and the cloth.
The armies of paedophiles and sinners stir in their sleep, then rise screaming from their dreams to find their nightmares had become real.
They knew that the levelling of the land had begun.
Those creatures that had adorned themselves with the trappings of sanctity and power in order to molest purity, innocence and youth now felt fear, for they knew that soon they would be hanging as fruits of liberty from lamp posts in their city, town and village streets, where ravens will gather in raucous congregations to feast upon their bones.
As a subterranean serpent rumbling deep within the land, the earthquake slithered swiftly towards the city of London.
Onwards the groaning earth moved, even unto the Palace of Westminster itself.
A peregrine falcon perched upon its roof could be seen at midnight gorging on the heart of a freshly slaughtered rat, its blood and entrails dripping down the battlements and staining the rock red.
From the balconies of the House Of Lords a host of fat pigeons suddenly fell dead from their roosts, their feathers drifting on the wind in frantic flurries. They had choked on the poisonous contents of their bulbous crops.
Nearby in Buckingham Palace a dreaming Queen awoke from her sleep and reached forth once more to reclaim her surrendered crown and sceptre.
Friday, 20 February 2009
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
Good item, Lee
Prompts me to ask, when will we see the next installments of the novel?
The dreaming Queen will hopefully be HM QE1, even if she has to be embodied in HM QE2.
The BNP is in a position now to finish of the twerps in UKIP who in 15 years have achieved nothing apart from line the pockets of their MEPs. The Labour vote will implode in June and I think in England the BNP vote will be on average despite all the medias best efforts about ten percent.
I love it you Mad Sod!
Better than buying in to the Tory Marxist crap anyway.
Post a Comment