Six months after I initially met Professor Richard Bane, at Oxford university, I constructed a rather sinister, rather devious plan and hoodwinked the majority of the people of the United Kingdom into a false belief, that they were all about to die: It was a lie, but I had my orders, and was expected to follow them.

We knew the goodwill of the people of the United Kingdom to be extensive, extending to the four corners of the world, with good deeds and generosity, whilst at home millions of asylum seekers and refugees had been welcomed to the very bosom of our towns - and cities. The British munificence from 1950 - 2000 seemed to know no boundaries, as wave after wave of immigrants swamped our country, with perhaps higher expectation than was available.

But that all changed in the late 1990s and precipitated towards outright hostility in the early part of this century, as white indigenous Britons began to feel alienated in their own land. People watched cities they were born in take on a whole new dimension, as immigrant faces started to outnumber the white population. And nothing could have suited the British Independence Party more, as they sought to capitalise on the fear local inhabitants felt; that fear which manifested in their day-to-day life, where the old and feeble feared to venture outside their own front doors, where they skuttled down the road and looked at their feet because they were too frightened to look in strangers' eyes. And suddenly, that friendly hospitality extended in the second half of the twentieth century turned into a silent hatred: a hatred that didn't speak its name, but one that always festered uneasily beneath the surface. And all it needed was a flashpoint, an excuse to summon it demon like from the grave and allow it to run rampant.

It was Bullit who ordered me to supply the flashpoint, and give Britain the excuse it needed to resolve all of its problems.

The Angel of Death insisted, with Field Marshal Bullit's consent, anyone of a non-indigenous British extraction, or white Arian descent should be first gheottoised, and then segregated into those that could work, and those that couldn't. And then those ethnic's that couldn't work were to be transported to Liverpool, and shipped cattle like across to Camp 51 on the Isle of Man for termination.

To do that, Professor Bane was expected to create a scare story that would frighten the indigenous population so much, no natural Briton would want any non-Briton to live within proximity to them. We gambled the British people's compassionate nature witnessed over the preceding years would not extend to the death of their own families, children and loved ones: and we were absolutely right, as our wicked policy grew pestilentially.

Professor Bane, contacted me one Wednesday afternoon, late in November 2007, and informed me he had devised a framework strategy that would panic the country, but he wanted clarification from me on how to proceed.

I asked him to supply the information to my office, as though writing a concerned warning letter to the Chief Scientific Officer himself. What I desperately needed was a document on headed notepaper, one that expressed grave reservations of what was about to happen, whom might be affected and a possible estimation of how many people might die, so I could leak the story via my department to the national newspapers. This is what Bane, against his earlier judgement wrote:

"Dear Sir. It has recently come to my attention, after years of protracted study, that certain people of a non-indigenous extraction may carry a highly contagious virus: (Ebola).
One must assume the route of this deadly disease has somehow, perhaps through lax security checks at our airports and docks, found its way into the United Kingdom carried by refugees. Further to this revelation, a diagnostic bears out concern, that the said virus has mutated -and produced an entirely unique, and devastating strain, that has the potential, if left unchecked to seek airborne transmission routes, and espouse with tuberculosis (TB) spores. More worrying than this is, my initial prognosis, suggests the host of the disease remains immune, whilst those in proximity may develop full blown symptoms of the said illness. And left unchecked, or not quarantined, this viral disease may have the potential to kill anywhere upto, and maybe beyond 60% of the indigenous population of the United Kingdom. I urge you to contact me, as a matter of grave importance, and seek the implementation of a contingency plan if this postulation is proven accurate." Yours concerned:
Professor Richard Bane, MA, PhD, BA.

Professor Bane's letter, only one in a series I would release over the next two days was a frightening insight into a plague about to be unleashed on the United Kingdom, and carried just enough, but not too much information to fuel the imagination of our fellow countrymen and women. I thought it best to polish the detail, and expand its content via live TV interviews, as I instinctively knew more people, those we wanted too panic watched television rather than read the papers: especially the broadsheets. It became indicative of a modern society to gather its information through sound bites and second hand rubbish. And I instinctively knew, if I released the story to The Sunday Times it would gain credibility in other newsrooms, and by Monday morning, every tabloid newspaper throughout the country carried the same false, and misleading headline, and claimed it to be accurate.

As those wildly exaggerated headlines, headlines like "Plague! Millions To Die!" hit the streets the following Monday, I lined Professor Bane up for a series of interviews: The BBC first, and then GMTV and Sky News.

Richard Bane travelled down to London from Oxford the previous night, and stayed at the Savoy, so he could taste, on my orders the extravagant lifestyle that awaited him provided he did as I instructed. I ventured over to his hotel late Sunday evening and briefed him fully on what we expected of him; after The Angel of Death briefed me Sunday afternoon. It was a chain of arse kicking that Sunday. Bullit had kicked Shaw's arse, he in turn kicked mine, and I followed suit and kicked Bane's. He was then expected to kick the country's.

I arrived at his fourth floor suite dressed in jeans, blue crew neck jumper and black leather, three quarter length jacket, knocked on the door and waited for him to open it. He was his usual arrogant self as he carefully expanded the door, as though I might be some unwelcomed guest, and then invited me in.

The minute I entered the large apartment, I saw Bane accustomed himself to the good life. He was dressed in a dark blue bathrobe, had ordered himself Champagne with fresh oysters and a huge bowl of succulent strawberries.

"Are they treating you well, Richard?" I asked, facetious, as my eyes pointed at a silver tray of treats, laid out like small treasures on a glass coffee table, that punctuated deep blue leather settees and inlaid, polished French Louis the 14th furntiure and Persian rugs.

"If I'm to be associated with your nasty politics, Colonel, I might as well at least savour the revolutionary pleasures that go with them. Champagne?" He offered, and lifted and gestured with the bottle.

"Thank you," I replied, and seated myself. I took a long glass of frothing wine from him, and said. "I take it you read The Sunday Times this morning?"

"Rather derogatory headline, I thought." Complained Bane as he relaxed opposite me, his hairy legs exploding from beneath his bathrobe as he raised a glass of bubbly to his lips. "`Ebola outbreak to kill millions'," he quoted.

"Have they tried contacting you yet?" I inquired.

"Oxford informed me swarms of journalists arrived there; its a good job we encamped here I suppose." He muttered, took a strawberry and induced it whole. And for someone who purported a conscience, he certainly knew how to appease it in the most opulent way. (He was like a duck taking to water.)

As Bane comforted himself with the high-Iife, I extracted a bunch of freshly cut keys from my jacket pocket, viewed them briefly, and then threw them over to him in one swift movement. "They're for your new apartments, the address is on the label. I've also arranged for your children, three daughters isn't it?"

"Fifteen, thirteen and twelve," he interjected, as though proud.

"For them to go backstage at the `rock for the environment` extravaganza next month. I've also managed to pull a few strings, and got them an invite to the new Disney premiere..." I continued.

"They'll appreciate it, Colonel."

"You're not having any second thoughts, any attack of the guilts or any other problems coming to terms with the revolutionary council's plans are you? Because if you are, Richard, you'd better tell me now before it's too late."

"And be shot!"

"I apologise for the threat. But it's not my decision." I said sympathetic.

I could easily appreciate what Richard Bane felt inside as I felt it myself once the project commenced. And It wasn't a feeling I'd wish on anyone, let alone a decent person, as Professor Bane appeared to be under his arrogance. But like myself he soon acclimatised to his surroundings, and I knew, within a few months he wouldn't want to lose them either. I also sent him a whore up on my way out. And despite his protestations about accusations of paedophilia, I made it a very young one. It was just in case he changed his mind concerning our plan. She used a video camera in her bag to film him, and I planned to blackmail him later; if it became necessary. It didn't. Bane, did as instructed.

"There's also a letter of authority there from George Shaw's office, that permits you to take, from any gallery or museum, the equivalent of 30 million pounds of national treasures and icons to furnish your new apartments: they'll want a receipt so don't try and sell anything." I warned.

"I may be a lot of things, but I'm no thief." He said, as he snatched the letter.

"It's only a warning," I replied.

We had already seen a couple of the revolutionary council, with money in their pockets, go to the dogs. Power corrupted them instantly. They enjoyed the casinos and ran up huge bills to cover the cost of their gambling, got out of their depth, and then sold a few valuable paintings to pay back their debt. Geogre Shaw found out and had them both decapitated by the sword.

I emptied what was in my glass, stood automatically, and suggested Bane get an early night, go through his answers once again, and make sure they corresponded with the questions he prepared the previous week, the ones I had already despatched to the BBC's breakfast newsroom. I didn't need any aggravation at that decisive time, as our methodology was naturally well advanced; it had accelerated vastly too far to stop it, or call a halt to the proposal, and my head was quite literally on the chopping block. If Bane had messed-up, both he and I could have faced the unthinkable.

I returned to Bane's hotel at 5am the next morning, in my official limousine, escorted by my driver, and two large bodyguards from Shaw's Secretariat division. I ordered the desk clerk to phone-up, and waited nervously in the lobby for Bane's arrival. And the longer he took, the more apprehensive I became. After ten minutes anxious delay, I was just about to send my henchmen to his room, to see what kept him, when the elevator door rolled back and there he stood, arrogantally straightening his bow tie.

"How do I look, Colonel?" He asked, prosaic, and stepped from the lift. What did I care how he looked. We were on our way to the BBC for Christsakes, a TV station whose presenters had all the dress sense of shop window dummies.

"You look fine!" I blurted, and dragged him by the arm to our waiting vehicle which was parked directly outside the foyer.

"Get in!" I insisted, as I opened the door and offered him a gentle shove. He looked genuinely disturbed as the car burst away, powered off into the London traffic and switched on its blue lights and sirens. Secretariat vehicles were allowed free access to all roads, including bus and taxi lanes.

"It's only six-fifteen, Colonel, there's no urgency." He complained.

No urgency! what was he, a media consultant, a television producer; of course not; he was a jumped-up two bit university academic with an enormous ego, who considered himself so important. And maybe for that next week he was, but that soon changed. He didn't comprehend the revolution, how it could giveth; how it could taketh away.

"You'll need make-up, a brief word with the producer and maybe a few words with Sarah Jones, or John Mckey, the BBC's early morning presenters." I reasoned.

"She's the buxom blonde one, isn't she?" Salivated Bane. He learnt fast how the revolution rewarded its minions. "You think maybe I should do a personal interview with her later; an in-depth one-two-one, perhaps at the hotel, or my new apartments, Colonel?"

I wanted to tell Richard Bane to shut-up, to concentrate for the next few days on the job in hand, and then sort out who he wanted to sleep with. He wanted to get the lovely Sarah alone and have his wicked way with her, as he did with the prostitue I sent to his room. She phoned me in the early hours and informed me my plan paid off. But as for Sarah, she was reserved; for me!

We arrived at the BBC television centre, London, and swept in through the main gates, parked, moved through reception, and headed directly to the green room where we were to be met by the show's producer. A courtesy measure they called it, but with my newly found powers, and as the BBC was on the verge of privatisation, I knew it anything other than courtesy: it was an exercise in protecting their own over inflated salaries.

As we waited in the solitude of a small, nicely furnished room, as my two Secretariat guards pinched anything that wasn't nailed down, a man, who was obviously homosexual entered, and began to act in a stereotypical way: he was demonstrative, very showy, and appeared to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, when all he had to do was run a second-rate news show for people as they readied themselves for work each morning.

"Bryce," he said, and puffed as though out of breath. He extended his hand whilst clutching a clipboard tightly under the other arm. "You wouldn't believe the morning I've had, Colonel." Like I was interested!

He stood there in his baggy red trousers, bright yellow shirt with a green tie, and looked as though he should present children's hour, not help run a news service. The corporation had dumbed down to such extents, with its politically correct policy, it then bordered worthlessness. Bryce, was the epitome of a once great news corporation that reached the four corners of the earth, but by the early 90s had trouble crawling into peoples' living rooms across the UK. Like everything else in our country, they had wrecked that too. "Kline," I replied. I briefly shook his hand, and then introduced Bane. "Professor Richard Bane, Oxford university," I added, politely.

"Your prepared questions, Colonel," whispered Bryce in a tiny voice, as he turned me by the arm, and led me a discreet distance from the others. "We've got a bit of a problem!" he continued. "Apparently, there's some suggestion among the content that members of our ethnic community will find highly offensive; John Mckey is refusing to conduct an interview: so is Sarah I'm afraid." His face appeared pained as he revealed the bad news, news I didn't need to hear. I exploded . "Where's Mckey?" I demanded, abruptly.

"In make-up; but..." stuttered Bryce, as he noticed me move towards the make-up area, as though I out exceeded my authority. "You can't go down there, Colonel..." protested Bryce some more, as he chased me along a narrow corridor, a corridor lined with pictures of has-beens from the eighties and nineties. I found McKey seated in a large, tall leather chair, an apron around his neck covering a very expensive suit, and a middle-aged woman fussed over him with a powder brush, as McKey admired his well cultivated good looks in the mirror. He was in his mid thirties, with curly brown hair, brown eyes - and prominent features, all extensively manicured. He held an air of superiority about him; and was a man who liked to get his own way. But not that day.

"You! Out!" I barked at the make-up lady. She viewed my uniform in the mirror, turned horrified that someone could be so rash, and then left. I closed the door behind her, and sealed Bryce, who apologised to McKey, outside in the corridor as well. It wasn't going to be pleasant, I'd had enough.

"What's your problem with these questions?" I demanded, as I shook several pieces of yellow paper at Mckey simultaneous, so he viewed my action as a reflection. McKey, pulled the apron from round his neck, jumped from his seat and confronted me.

"They're offensive, racist, filled with nonsense and not something I will present to the public," he shouted, loudly in my face.

"Jesus!" I growled, turned momentarily away from him disgusted, before I turned back, and asked: "What difference does it make to you: you only have to ask the questions for God's sake. I'm not asking you to endorse them."

"Not directly, but you are by stealth," insisted McKey as we found ourselves vis-a-vis, screaming inches from each others face. It was a stand-up shouting match I could have lived without at that ungodly hour. "There's such a thing as professionalism," continued McKey, belligerent.

"There's such a thing as the revolutionary council," I retorted, forceful.

"They might scare you, Colonel, but they don't scare me."

"Don't talk rubbish," I scoffed, turning my head away again. Was the man serious: 'they don't scare me' indeed. Who the hell did he think he was? He was some overpaid newsreader on breakfast tele that still hadn't made the big time, and he was getting right on my nerves. I began to pace the room, and became more and more angry that I had to constantly encounter that deliberate obstruction every time I wanted something done. It was the same with Richard Bane, the same with other newsrooms, the same with Emily Rooker at the Guardian: and I felt it thoroughly disrespectful.

"You'll get out there and do the interview like you're told, or you'll find yourself unemployed tomorrow, arrested the day after, and held accountable to the revolutionary council the day after that." I yelled, frustrated. Didn't he understand, my life could have been on the line? Or didn't he care?

"You'll have to find someone else..." He decided with only five minutes to air. I ripped open the door, called my two bodyguards from Shaw's Secretariat division and almost instantly they filled the doorway of a compact make-up room as Bryce constantly interrupted and constantly protested

"Arrest him," I ordered as my eyes pointed towards McKey.

Both of my extremely large Secretariat officers closed on McKey, he struggled and so they extracted the wind from his body with one brutal punch, turned him bent him over dragged his arms high behind his back and handcuffed him. He was then lifted tall. McKay's face flushed bitterly as he stared wild eyed at me, and he growled breathless: "This is outrageous."

"One last chance?" I warned the anger in my eyes apperent. McKey conceded, once he realised his situation futile. His face still appeared agonised from the blow as he decided to undertake my offer. I ordered my officers to release him as I shoved the questions hard into his stomach and said: "Get on with it."

"Under protest," shouted McKey at me as I left the room.

Sarah Jones, his co-presenter stood in the corridor along with a dozen or so other concerned members of staff their faces lifeless from the commotion

"Not a word," I snarled as I passed her, pushed my way back into the green room and found Bane seated on an orange sofa sipping tea, and I still heard the belittling mutters from the corridor beyond as I offered Bane one final briefing, and Bane's patronising antics never deserted him either.

"I see you've made some more new friends Colonel," he sniped as he held that arrogant, mocking look I witnessed so often with him in the past.

"You just better not mess it up," I warned.

With two minutes to air Bryce returned, his expression still appeared concerned but his attitude was more conciliatory once he witnessed the power of my security officers and the force they were prepared to use, and the lengths I was prepared to explore to push the project forwards.

The show opened with the usual round of tired headlines. They didn't even mention in the opening credits the potential of the virus which appeared in The Sunday Times the day before, and I got the Impression they did it on purpose.

I knew The Angel of Death would watch the performance from the comfort of his country residence and would be in my private office in Whitehall later that afternoon, looking to offer me some praise or spit some venom. But as long as Bane played his part, the rest didn't matter. Shaw wouldn't see the threats and intimidation that led to that interview, he'd only see the political performance on television afterwards and so nervously I waited the outcome.

Once they dispensed with the usual early morning drivel, Israel, the Middle East, and some halfwit football story, they got down to business. Sarah, turned to look directly into camera 3 from the comfort of a tangerine coloured sofa, applied her most sympathetic smile, and said concerned:

"A dramatic report in yesterday's Sunday Times suggests the country might be of the verge of a new, epidemic disease. From an academic's report, it seems the highly deadly, highly contagious Ebola virus might make its first appearance in the United Kingdom. With me, is Professor Richard Bane from Oxford university: Professor?" Said Sarah, as she turned, crossed her black nylon covered legs, and relaxed back and expanded her immeasurably large cleavage and casually tossed her collar length golden blonde hair.

"You can call me, Richard," said Bane, as he flirted like a schoolboy.

"Richard, then: This report in the Sunday Times, how seriously should we take it? Can you really be suggesting millions of people might die?"

Professor Bane looked downwards, and digested Sarah's question. He nodded his head as though pre-empting her inquiry, and then replied: "We should take it exceptionally seriously, Sarah. My work has already identified individual cells that carry traces of Ebola, and from the genetic mutation enveloped within them, the veriety appears incredibly hostile: it actually throws a whole new insight into Darwinian theory. I believe, what we are witnessing, perhaps for the first time ever, is a deliberate attempt, of natural genetic mutation, where the virus seeks to establish itself within the host carrier, but protects its own genetic matrix's and virulently attacks those it can't inhabit."

John McKey interrupted, his heavy Scot's idiom questioning, as he asked Bane: "You've identified certain people infected with the disease; one arrived at Heathrow airport, can you not be sure you've not made a mistake?"

Bane crossed his legs, reclined on the seat, and perused the question, before answering: "The poor soul at the airport arrived on a flight from Uganda. We are, as you speak trying to trace all persons on the said flight; but to answer your question as to whether I've made a mistake, the answer's no: I've analysed the data time and time again. At this juncture we must err on the side of caution, and take no risks with the indigenous population."

"That means?" Inquired Sarah.

"We're indeed in for a rough ride over the coming years, and it's not going to be popular..." Sighed Bane frustrated. But it was all an act.

"Why not popular?" Asked Sarah, genuinely inquisitive. Her forehead frowned.

"Well, I'm afraid we'll have to introduce a system of apartheid, and separate certain sections of society from one another. This policy will obviously cause friction amongst local communities, but I would strongly urge everyone at this point not to panic."

"Telling people not to panic usually makes them panic, doesn't it?" Asked McKey, (the shit!)

That was not part of the question sheet that I stood and monitored from behind the cameras, and at his deviation, Bane suddenly disorientated. I panicked, rolled my hands, and encouraged him to continue, to ad-Iib where possible.

"The people of our country, John, usually tend to have more resolve than that: they've faced adversity throughout their history, and I'm sure they'll play their part heroically this time." Said Bane, and recovered the situation. He went on to add: "We'll need the British people to demonstrate the mettle our nation is made of, because if my postulation proves right, the United Kingdom might never be the same again."

"In your paper," questioned Sarah, "what was leaked to The Sunday Times, you say; 'left unchecked, or not quarantined, this viral disease may have the potential to kill anywhere up to, and maybe beyond 60% of the indigenous population of the United Kingdom:' is that a serious estimation, or just a scientific exaggeration?"

"I've never been more serious in all my life, Sarah," argued Bane, and moved forwards on his seat, so he could speak more closely to her, as though the conversation personal, like friends chatting. "The old disease is normally passed through body fluids, and is unlikely to travel as a bacterial spore. But the new viral strain I've discovered can travel as an airborne mutation in the shape of TB, and that might infect half the country in the space of a few weeks. Don't forget, Spanish flu killed more people just after the first world war, than the war itself. Until now, we've treated contagious airborne diseases with contempt. We have our previous governments to thank for that, with their economic cuts in research. But, I've narrowed this specific type of Ebola down to certain sections of society; one would assume their genes have built a resistance over the previous years, yet the indigenous population of the UK have not. Therefore, one outbreak of flu over the coming twelve months - and you could witness 40 million dead Britons."

I thought, as I hid myself behind the cameras, if that didn't scare the life out of our population, nothing would: 40 million dead! Bane, was an unadulterated Prince, a propagandists dream. What a star. He nearly even convinced me.

"Could the health service cope?" Asked McKey.

"It will collapse in weeks, John," revealed Bane. "If a heavy flu epidemic can causes chaos each winter, imagine what 40 million infectious people will do."

"What symptoms should people look for?" Asked Sarah, concerned .

"Ebola will cause uncontrolled bleeding from the mouth, the eyes, the ears and just about every other part of the human anatomy. The early signs though of the new strain will probably manifest as ordinary flu like symptoms first; the person affected may feel very drowsy, lethargic, and experience headaches, aching limbs and an uncontrollable desire to withdraw on themselves."

"Should they seek medical advice at that time?" Asked Sarah.

"My advice," replied Bane, "is to give it three days, If the condition persists then visit your GP, but under no circumstances place yourself in close proximity to other people. We're asking the public to introduce a self induced quarantine. I can't emphasize that more strongly."

McKey, interjected. He asked cautiously: "You say members of the ethnic community might act as a host to this illness; what is the likelihood of them being able to infect the white population; surely it astronomical?"

"I'd normally agree," responded Bane, professionally: "But in this type of situation we face a profound problem. If we assume the possibility of it emerging is highly improbable, and we do nothing, then it might spread like wildfire. A preventative action must take precedence over any compassionate left-wing ideology, and segregation must be introduced."

"So your recommendation to government is?" Questioned Sarah.

"Draconian, I'm afraid. I know this will sound unpalatable, but we must prepare for the worst, and hope for the best. I will be meeting government officials later today, and I will ask them to introduce a system of apartheid. First I will call on ministers to separate children of an ethnic mix from their white counter parts, as we know children's fun and games in the playground can create closer interaction than normal amongst humans. Then, we need people of ethnic extraction to visit their local GP, and have a small blood sample taken so we can analyse how far the virus might have reached, then reassess the situation from there. It won't be popular, but it will be necessary."

I stood behind the cameras, running my finger across my throat telling Sarah gesticulate I wanted the interview closed. In my assumption Bane did enough; he had set the ball rolling, and offered me an opportunity to expand the detail through more sensationalistic tabloid newspapers. As far as I was concerned, that evil postulation had gained merit, and I could mould and shape it over the coming months. Bane, offered it credibility, and there was nothing he could do to prohibit its advance. The genie was well and truly out of the bottle.

"Professor Bane," said Sarah, and smiled: "Thank you very much."

As the programme digressed, as it turned its attention back to the Middle East, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Bane, and Sarah sat and talked in whispers as I moved across to join them.

"Can I have a word in private!" I said to Sarah, and smiled to encourage her.

She raised from the sofa and moved with me to one side of the studio where I confessed intimately, that I'd like to take her to dinner later that night. I invited her to my complex of apartments for a quiet meal.

"I'm married!" she whispered, shocked I even asked her.

"I want to discuss the future of the BBC," I said, my eyes advising it might be in her interest to attend. "Your future too." I pressured.

"What do I tell my husband?" She asked.

"Tell him anything you like," I retorted. "My address," I expanded, and offered Sarah a small business card. "I'll expect you at eight.'

As I walked away from her, I called Bane with a simply wiggle of my finger, indicating he should follow, so we could travel to GMTV's studios and continue our deceitful propaganda campaign, and allow Shaw to implement the next round of our evil policy, the segregation and ghettoisation of all undesirables, before he removed them completely to Camp 51 for liquidation.

Professor Bane, informed the country a passenger was taken from a flight at London's Heathrow airport, and that passenger displayed all the symptoms of the Ebola virus. Which was true.

But little did Richard Bane know how the revolutionary council produced the fakery. To demonstrate our resolve, and convince a sceptical world, the revolutionary council instructed several of its operatives to use poison tipped umbrellas and inject small capsule of Bushmaster snake venom into four unsuspecting victims. That highly toxic pit-viper venom produced the desired results needed to fool the world: paralysis, bleeding from every orifice, death! And once the images were transmitted globally it allowed our fabrication to continue unabated. Our nation fell into turmoil, and the public demanded through protests and riots, that we took immediate action. And the revolutionary council was only too happy to oblige.