It is September the Nineteenth, Twenty-Fourteen, and all of the politicians of the United Kingdom of Great Britain are gathered at Westminster Parliament.
The newly knighted Prime Minister, Sir David Cameron, sits atop a jewel encrusted throne placed in the center of the room, gazing down at the guilty party before him. Soaked in his own sweat, Scotland’s First Minister Alex Salmond has put on yet more weight in the past few months, and now sports a pallid complexion beyond standard northern levels, bringing his appearance closer still to that of the Churchhill Dog.
Alex, says Sir. David, you have been convicted of the crime of treason for plotting to destroy the United Kingdom. Every word Sir David speaks is enunciated with a crisp Etonian edge that bounces off all four walls, echoing throughout the silence. For this you will be sentenced to death, he goes on. How do you plead?
As usual, Salmond stutters, fumbles, and falters his way through his answer, although he does manage to give one, a miracle in itself.
N-n-not p-proven, are the two words that emerge from his slime coated lips. He begins to laugh slowly, quietly, but now his head is tilting up with his eyes bulging further than ever before so that he resembles a slug. He puts his right hand into his left sleeve, and removes from it a large red button visible to the entire room. He presses the button, and a whirring off in the distance can be heard faintly. Nick Clegg, skulking behind Sir. David while holding hands with Ed Milliband, lets his lower lip tremble. Nigel Farage raises his brow. Ed only tightens his grip on Nick’s hand.
The mechanical wheezing that can now be heard only grows louder, and Nicola Sturgeon begins to cackle. Suddenly, the door to the chamber collapses, and two oversized figures duck into the room.
The first of them is recognisable by his helmet, from which a neon eye on his left side glows. In his right hand is held a Frenchman cleaving axe, and a sharpened pike is attached to his back. In his left hand he holds a fully automatic machine gun.
The other is visibly held together by a series of staples across the width and breadth of his frame, having been reconstructed from his four parts. He holds a claymore with which the blade is a faint line of red in the dim glow, and the sword hums audibly.
Behind them stands a bard who pets a robotic mouse anxiously, and another who is constructed from aliminium biscuit tins, having died penniless.
The figures proceed into the room. Sir David, ever noble, is visibly shaken by the mechanical monstrosities that now enroach upon them.
Did you ever think, sneers Salmond, that you controlled all of the media? THe internet is a series of tubes you can not comprehend. Technology grows larger every day. In cyberspace, nobody can hear you scream.
The figure who looks unlike his Australian actor now rushes down Sir. David, and in our heroes defence J.K Rowling jumps from the crowds, only to be smothered by an ashmatic Glasgwegian painter.
The Scots stand victorious. The combined might of the UK is no match for their fury: Sir. David’s head is smashed against a rock, Clegg is dragged outside and left to the whims of his vulgar constituents where he is badly beaten before being tarred and feathered, Ed Milliband (ever handsome) is sentenced to twenty years hard old labour, and Nigel Farage is placed upon a bus surrounded by riff-raff speaking in foreign tongues which he cannot understand.
Meanwhile, Salmond emerges from Westminister with Nicola Sturgeon upon his arm, followed by the Cyber Nationalists. From a shadowy corner an individual with sneering eyes and dirty blonde hair emerges, and shakes hands with Salmond. They both smile, before Putin gasps, and points to the sky. Over them, the ghost of a bearded Jew can be seen. They both squeal with delight, as the earth quakes and a fissure appears several miles south of the town of Jedburgh. England begins to sink into the ocean as Salmond is escorted through the space time continuum to shake hands with St. Andrew.