The Fall of Brexitopolis
Reports reach the emperor in his Duckhouse at Drabizond
that Brexitopolis has fallen. Strange. He does not remember
reigning over such a city. Perhaps his great-great-grandfather,
the one who blinded everyone, won it from the Corbynensians –
granting they existed. He fumbles for his golden spectacles,
the ones no engineer can any longer grind the lenses for,
relics of a previous dynasty’s finest composer,
whose robo-nightingale songs were lost with the Imperial
Online Archive. He does not care for music, but still.
Drowsy, he peers at his eunuch’s corns. ‘Bear us to the Room
of the Peripli.’ ‘Sire, you are already here.’ ‘Then illume
charts of our despotates that we may prepare our generals –
this second Brummagem must be retaken.’ ‘My Emperor, I am
all your generals and your admirals, and, it would appear…’
upon the crackled saucer, an inverted postage stamp…
‘Never mind. We know what is written there.’
