He misses Martin’s assistance too. Sir Martin doesn’t know whether the people’s revolution will succeed, since Sir Richard has impregnated the Mitochondrial Eve of Politicians once again and she is expecting more clones. Sir Martin hates the way he manipulates her. Sir Richard says he loves her, and has managed to woo her back into his life, yet Sir Martin knows he would jab her in the bum with a fork without a moment’s hesitation, and without an iota of regret. Sir Richard hates women. Yet, he needs one for his sickly genetic experiments, which have produced a giant politician-clone-producing-person – the Mitochondrial Eve of Politicians, or MEOP, for short. She is the mother of the clones, and without the clones there cannot be an Imperialist Club revolution.
Sir Martin strides through the long grasses, laden with spider-spit, reading one inscription after another upon an array of crooked gravestones.
Here lies a squirrel I chose to name Herbert
Who did not like my milk but may have liked sherbet.
Sir Martin frowns, and reads the inscription on another;
Woeful am I, this poor squirrel’s surrogate mother
The squirrel would not be here, if I would have squirrel udders.
Sir Martin is overcome with a feeling one cannot put one’s finger upon, and wouldn’t wish to, and hurries away. As he does so, he trips over a gnarled branch, protruding from the ground, with a wooden lollipop stick taped to it with ‘Martin’ written upon it in blue biro, in an elegant hand.
A lonesome tear of sorrow escapes the confines of a nasolacrimal duct and hurries down Sir Martin’s noble nose, until it reaches a nostril. Sir Martin sniffs a loud, melancholic sniff. The tear shoots up the nostril and abseils down the back of his throat – on a strand of snot – which encourages Sir Martin to erupt into a colossal coughing fit. He coughs and farts and hacks and farts and farts and coughs until he collapses among the grass, stretching towards the sky, as though each blade offers the heavens gifts of sparkling diamonds of morning dew.
Once Sir Martin has recovered enough to reach into a hip pocket of his crisply pressed safari suit, he reaches into a hip pocket of his crisply pressed safari suit and evicts a crisply pressed petit déjeuner from within, which he chomps sorrowfully upon.
Shreds of greaseproof paper drift peacefully upon a gentle breeze, in the cool, damp, morning air, before vanishing into a mist rising from the wild, overgrown graveyard, that seems as though spirits roused from eternal rest. Sir Martin removes the greaseproof paper from a moderate length of baguette and chomps upon it again, with an even greater sense of sorrow.
“Woe is me!” – Sir Martin sniffles.
“Sniffley-sniff” – he sniffs.
He sighs a cloud of crumbs and inhales another, deep into his lungs, and coughs and farts and hacks and farts and farts and coughs and shrieks with terror, when a hand emerges from Martin’s grave and pirouettes thoughtfully, before dramatically pointing at the baguette Sir Martin dropped during his farty coughing fit. The fingers of the hand spread, as though it is delighted, before snatching the baguette and disappearing back into the hole, from where a hideous gnawing emerges, as if a zombie were feasting upon a moderate length of baguette.
An expanding patch of wee appears on the crotch of Sir Martin’s crisply pressed safari suit, like a storm approaching a picnic, as the ground beneath his feet begins to tremble and churn. A hideous stench accompanies the sight of his friend, Martin, as he ascends dramatically from the ground, like a mole with ants nibbling its sphericals.
Once Martin has emerged fully from the grave, he stoops and briskly brushes dirt from his suit, before rising and staggering towards his back-stepping friend.
Martin stomps stiffly towards Sir Martin as though he has no knees. His arms bow out at his sides, and his hands droop lifelessly at his hips.
“O-O-o-o-O-O-o-o-o-o-O-O-o-o-O-h!” – Martin wails.
“O-o-o-o-O-o-o-O-O-o-o-o-h!” – he continues.
“O-O-o-o-O-o-o-o-O-O-h!” – he persists.
“O-o-o-O-o-o-o-h!” – he enthuses.
“I think I have soiled myself” – he concludes, finally.
“Oh! What a coincidence” – Sir Martin retorts. “Let us go to the club and clean up. I thought you were dead!”
“Ah, no. Probably just a concussion. Feel fine now; after eating. Bit of a headache, that’s all.”
Sir Martin and Martin stagger stiff-legged towards The Imperialist Club, with their arms bowed out at their sides, and their hands flapping as though flags in a barely perceptible breeze. Their curious gait does not pass unobserved, for Sir Richard regards their approach from The Imperialist Club’s dining room window, where he and his guests have gathered for breakfast.