Sunday, April 20, 2008

Someone Else's Thought For The Day

Someone on an obscure forum had this thought:

Had a fun thought- if Monthy Python had been in charge at the (British) Admiralty, you might have seen BCs (battlecruisers) with names like Inadmissible, Inapplicable, Incontinent, Incurable, Indefinable, Indifferent and Wombat.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled reality.

Saturday, April 12, 2008


Chapter Five

January 2008

Susan Korrel barely paid attention to the flat screen televison set playing in the office of her patroness the junior Senator from New York.

Until someone said, “who’s that?”

Susan looked up to see the image of an old nemesis shaking hands with the acting British Prime Minister. The television set was showing the Fox News Channel’s coverage of President Bush’s arrival in the United Kingdom.

“That’s Tom Makepeace,” said Susan, “he was Urquhart’s foreign secretary.”

“No,” the other staffer said with a tone of annoyance, “who the guy shaking hands with him.”

“Doctor John Andrew March.” Said Susan with a discernable tone of anger. “Formerly of the Collage of Saint Anthony, presently the Republican Governor of Minnesota. He’s Urquhart’s nephew.”

It was at this point that Hillary Rodham, the junior Senator from New York, interjected herself into the conversation.

“You’re angry at him.” She said. “Why?”

Susan decided to answer the question with a more level tone of voice.

“He’s the only teacher I had in my entire life who ever gave me the grade of F.”

“What for?” Said Hillary.

“For speaking the truth.” Susan replied. “For standing up for the helpless and underprivileged. But as far as he was concerned I was only a robot who was parroting ‘Marxist trash’ and that I should pull my head out of my ass!”

Hillary was shocked.

“He actually said that?” She asked.

“Yes.” Said Susan. “He also told me that the only way that I could undo the fail grade was to write a paper comparing the platform of our party with that of the Nazi Party.”

Eyebrows went up and jaws dropped throughout the room.

“That,” said Susan, “tells us what he really thinks of our party and progressives in general.”

Another staff member spoke up.

“How could he have been elected Governor... of Minnesota?”

“The God-squad and the other fascist filth love him.” Said Susan. “And I’m certain that he’s started his own American branch of the Urquhart Machine.”

Hillary leaned back in her chair. She was firmly convinced that the late Francis Urquhart was the initiator of the chair of events that forced her husband into a New York state mental hospital and caused her to drop her married name in order to continue her quest for the American Presidency. Nothing short of her own death would stop her from obtaining her ultimate goal. She had hoped that she would use her power as President to bring down Urquhart and his regime. Taking down Urquhart’s American nephew would be almost as satisfying.

“So.” Said Hillary. “What else do we know about him?”

Another staff member, Emily Redmond, spoke up.

“He’s hosting the Republican National Convention in Saint Paul.” She said. “And there’s rumors that some of their candidates are thinking of asking him to take the VP slot on the ticket. We’re certain that he will meet with Senator McCain after he returns from London.”

Hillary smiled.

Crushing them in the upcoming general election would just be the start. There was so much more that could be done once the Justice Department was back under her control.

It was once said that revenge was a dish that best served cold. This was sensible advice but Hillary, being a proper Democrat, would insist on ignoring it to her peril.


Saturday, April 05, 2008

Quote of the Day

"Zhodani, you person with severe oedipal issues, do you speak it?"

-- Unknown Zhodani agent. 023-1107.


Friday, April 04, 2008


Chapter Four

June 1994

Corder was listening through a set of headphones to the private discussion that Francis and Elizabeth had in the late hours after the funeral of Tim Stamper. After all, the Urquhart’s private residence in London as well as the Prime Minister’s official residence at 10 Downing Street were fully wired for internal surveillance.

Elizabeth was gravely concerned that her nephew would reveal the contents of the Storin Tape.

“He’s one of us, Elizabeth.” Said Francis. “There’s no question that he would betray us. He practically confessed to the murder of his own father right there in the office.”

Francis then recounted the conversation verbatim.

“But can you really be certain?” She replied. “Can we really be safe?”

“He forced the issue out of concern for his own safety.” Said Francis. “Of course it wouldn’t hurt for us to be absolutely certain.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“There are after all,” said Francis, “no shortage of minor pests on that side of the Atlantic that could be disposed of. But we’ll have Corder look into that.”

Corder grunted when he heard that through his headphones. He would of course wait to formally summoned to receive his orders before he would begin to work on the problem.

Elizabeth continued the conversation.

“Is he really serious about becoming President?”

“Well, yes.” Said Francis. “He has the right family background and there’s no question that he has the will to do it.”

Francis decided at the moment to tell his side of the story.

“Twelve years ago. Right before his father died John and I had a rather interesting talk on the telephone. It appeared that our dear brother in law Richard had decided to embark on a political career of his own and had forbidden John to enlist in the
American Army, even going as far to promise to pull strings to prevent it from happening as it would make him look bad to the leaders and the other ranks in the DFL party.”

“DFL, Francis?” Said Elizabeth.

“Democratic Farmer Labor Party of Minnesota.” Said Francis. “John says its every bit as bad as it sounds.”

Francis continued the story.

“I offered to use my influence as a junior whip to enroll John in my old regiment and he politely declined. He said that the last American President who served under the Crown was George Washington and that he didn’t believe that enlisting in the Scots
Guards was a really viable option for him.“

“Of course not.” Said Elizabeth.

Francis had to continue.

“I was aware of Richard’s bad habits but I couldn’t directly suggest that John put poison in his father’s cocaine over the telephone. So I asked John if he could find a tin of a particular kind of rat poison. He said that he would look into it. Three
days later Richard March was found dead in his office and a week later a slightly used tin of rat poison arrived at our Southampton manor by a parcel service.”

“What did you do with the rat poison?” Said Elizabeth.

“I used it on Roger O’Neill. Elizabeth.”

For Corder, the first task after receiving his orders from the Prime Minister was to perform a background check on John Andrew March. He was appalled to discover that the British security services had virtually nothing on the Prime Minister’s nephew apart from a note that John was keeping company at Oxford with Marlene Landless, an undergraduate student and the heiress of the Landless Media empire. Corder wrote a note to himself to also do a background check on Miss Landless.

There was a quick and dirty way of obtaining information on John March. Corder placed a call to the American Embassy in London. Two hours later Corder bought a pint for the FBI’s Diplomatic Liaison to the United Kingdom in a public house in Whitechapel.

The black haired Liaison Agent came straight to the point.

“So Corder,” he said, “what do you want?”

Corder thought that question was a bit abrupt but decided to play it nice.

“The P.M. wants to do a favor for his nephew, John Andrew March, he wants to arrange for someone to set up an endowed chair for John at an American university. We just need to know if there are any problems that we need to be aware of.”

“You need to see his FBI file?” Said the Liaison Agent.

“Yes.” Said Corder.

“Well, apart from being illegal,” said the Liaison Agent, “it might be a bit difficult.”

“Really?” Said Corder.

“F. U. is close to the top of the Hilary’s personal shit list.”

“I thought Bill was supposed to be in charge?” Said Corder.

“He’s the public face of the administration. He gets to make the speeches and sign the bills.” Said the Liaison Agent. ”Hillary is in charge of everything else. Nothing happens in the White House without her permission. Except of course, the trouser failures.”

“That’s hard to believe.” Said Corder.

“Believe it.” Said the Liaison Agent. “If Hillary could find a way to take down F. U., like through that nephew of his, she’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

“I’ll certainly pass on your warning.” Corder said.

“Pass this on too,” said the Liaison Agent as he leaned closer to Corder, “Hillary has made no secret of her desire to take the top job in her own right. If F. U. ever decides that she needs to be taken out, don’t piss around with the indirect approach, do it directly, a wood stake straight through the heart.”

“Right.” Corder replied.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008


Chapter Three

January 2008

John's private moment of introspection was interrupted by his own Chief of Staff.

Allen Keller was a bespeckled, overweight and balding former solder who had recently refused to celebrate his own forty-seventh birthday. Even though he wore a suit and tie as his daily uniform he often gave the impression that he would be more comfortable in old camouflage trousers and a tee shirt.

As the Governor's Chief of Staff Al Keller kept a small office in the basement of the Minnesota State Capitol building. Over the course of the last year it had become known as the Dungeon. And woe betide the staff member who was summoned to it. When one of the local socialist newspapers started to call him the Dungeonmaster he simply shrugged and admitted that he still owned a complete set of rule books for the First Edition of Advanced Dungeons and Dragons.

Al had two small bottles of chocolate milk with him. He handed one down to John and sat down in the adjoining seat.

"Here," Al said, "this should help you sleep."

Al opened his bottle and started chugging it down.

"You know," said John, "there are flight attendants on Air Force One."

"Some of the best in the world." Al replied. "But none of them are up to their eyebrows in your plot to dominate the world."

"I only want to be President." Said John.

Al Keller chose this moment to preach to his pope.

"The United States of America is the dominant nation on this planet. For example, nothing moves on the surface on our oceans without the permission of the United States Navy. And you know, I would like it to stay that way."

"I'm sure Senator McCain would love to hear that when I meet with him." Said John.

"Go ahead," said Al "use it."

"Thank you." John said.

Al finished his bottle of chocolate milk.

"Do you think Corder will be there?" Al had to ask.

"Of course." said John. "He and Aunt Elizabeth are practically inseparable now."

Al softly grunted. He always had the quiet suspicion that Corder wouldn't mind putting one round into Al's head in the old Soviet style.

There was a commotion at the front of the cabin, Al leaned over into the aisle to look.

"It's Dubya" Said Al, referring to President Bush. "Why the Hell does he have to come back here now?"

"He's just being a good Christian gentleman." Said John as he stood up to chat with the President.

"That," Al replied, "is a big part of our problem."

In Al Keller's view the people who led the Republican Party were simply too nice.