Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter One of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
“There seems to be an increasing number of omens suggesting the end of the world is nigh, and we should therefore persist with our quest to evoke revolution, regardless of the obstacles we encounter and their effect on our will to continue” – Sir Martin sighs, as he ambles, together with his friend, Martin, along a long, lamplit street leading to their Oxford lodgings.
“I mean; look. At the roadside. There is a dead fish.”
“Perhaps it is only injured” – Martin supposes, as he stoops and gently places a hand upon its shimmering form. “Ah, no. Cold as stone. Must have been hit by a vehicle, poor thing.”
“How strange” – Sir Martin continues, once he has discarded an expression announcing concern for Martin’s intelligence. “But it is only one of many unnatural phenomena we have witnessed that seem to warn of the perils humankind are faced with – from the consequences of climate change, to those encountered as a result of the hostile interactions between the world’s leaders.”
At that moment, the kerbside is violated by the guttural roar of a tired old engine, squealing rubber and a dull flash of aged, black paintwork, from which a brassiere is fired towards the astonished pair at an astonishing velocity.
“YAROO!” - Sir Martin shrieks, when the speeding brassiere slaps him in an eye. Sir Martin slumps to the pavement, while a leather-bound notebook bounces from Martin’s forehead, which encourages him to stumble into the path of oncoming traffic.
Caught in the glare of headlights, Martin begins to behave as though a rabbit – he lowers his trousers and hops in frantic circles, while constantly emitting spherical pellets of poo.
“MARTIN!” - Sir Martin bellows, warningly, a moment before Martin stops hopping and raises his head.
Martin’s face is illuminated by rapidly approaching headlights – his eyes are wide with terror, and his ample nose twitches nervously above a comically downturned mouth, sporting upper teeth protruding over lower lip.
“GET OFF THE ROAD!” - Sir Martin insists, at considerable volume.
As though still behaving as a rabbit, Martin’s legs become at once straight and rigid, resulting in an incredible bound that sends him sailing through the evening air and over a high fence encompassing a suburban garden.
A panel of fence swings open – some moments after a terrible crashing sound – which presents a growing number of sorrowfully wailing children covered in cake, ice cream and jelly, and then Martin, who pushes them roughly aside before sprinting towards Sir Martin, with arms flailing, as though tossing the word ‘run!’ in every conceivable direction.
The two friends grab the brassiere and notebook, and run until they reach their lodgings, where they flop onto their beds and begin to contemplate the evening’s events.
Chapter Two of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
“Do you think the brassiere and notebook are further omens?” – Martin asks – “with the bra hitting you in the eye a message from Mother Nature, demanding we observe her plight, and the notebook to encourage us to keep working?”
“No. It cannot be, for the bra is a man’s bra – a brossiere.”
“What leads you to believe so?” – Martin enquires.
“An element of my deduction was formed when observing how easy it is to open the clasp – even with one hand – and another when considering the manufacturer’s name ‘Mister Bra’.”
“And the notebook?” – Martin persists.
“The notebook is mine. I have been writing more than usual, of late, since Martin Sharratt seems to have laid his quill to rest for the time being, and the call for revolutionary writing is greater than ever. I had been writing as though I was the President of the World during our last visit to the Imperialist Club – before they kicked us out. I left the notebook in the club’s library, with the hope it would be read by the clones, who I imagined would be both amused and inspired by the revolutionary rhetoric. Unfortunately, Sir Richard and his cronies tore out most of the pages and this is the only copy, so my writing is lost and my effort, in vain.”
“Gosh. They really are a bunch of .... bunch of .... bunch of .... bunch of .... Sir Martin! What is the word I am searching for?”
“I think you will find the word ‘arseholes’ will encourage your search to cease” – Sir Martin suggests – “although ‘tossers’ may also prove suffice, or ‘dicks’. Yes, the notebook is mine, and I assume the brossiere Sir Richard’s, and both are evidence of a drive-by, carried out with the intent of announcing the sabotage of my writing, and as a warning; for us to stay away from the Imperialist Club for Gentlemen” – Sir Martin concludes, before lighting his pipe and puffing somewhat sadly upon it.
Chapter Three of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
Sir Martin and Martin are watching television. Britain’s prime minister is broadcasting a live speech regarding the latest pandemic – yet another consequence of global warming, according to scientists, together with a spate of viruses that have plagued the planet over the years.
“Instantaneous, uncontrollable turbulent flatulence, followed by torrential hole-destroying diarrhoea, and quite possibly, death” – the PM explains. “Toilet paper is already in short supply. Some citizens are being driven to wash their bottoms with soap and water ... ” – the PM continues, while lifting a leg and producing a sound like a tractor driving slowly over the bloated carcass of a goat.
The PM collapses on the podium. Jets of diarrhoea squirt from his wildly flapping trouser legs and what seems to be a small chocolate doughnut rolls across the floor and out of frame.
“Oh no! The PM’s always one of the first to get it” – Martin remarks.
“Yes. I suppose world leaders are among those most at risk. Yet, high-ranking politicians never die.”
“Maybe they know something we do not?” – Martin whispers, hoarsely.
“Maybe the viruses are not a consequence of global warming; perhaps they are man-made and governments have a cure for each” – Sir Martin hisses, as he leans towards his friend.
“Maybe the minority are conspiring to get rid of the majority before the majority gets rid of them!” – Martin reasons, while his fingertips dance upon his quivering lips.
“Whatever the case may be, the pandemics seem yet another factor that suggests the majority should take control of an out-of-control world order. But what can we do to evoke revolution, now that our alien friend is dead, Martin Sharratt has stopped writing, the CWO has been destroyed, and we have been expelled permanently from the Imperialist Club for Gentlemen? We cannot observe the devious, cunning tactics of the elite if we are unable to frequent the club, but then, equally; neither are they able to monitor our activity.”
“Then let’s not trouble ourselves with the arse-holery of arseholes, and concentrate instead on finding a way to evoke a revolution, which will transform the hell our world has become into a paradise for everyone!”
Sir Martin and Martin rise to their feet and shout - “POWER TO THE PEOPLE!!” - in perfect unison, as though the two were one.
Chapter Four of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
Sir Martin and Martin sit upon the edges of their beds, with their chins cupped in their hands, wondering how to evoke revolution during the current pandemic pandemonium.
“In a way, pandemics render our task an even greater challenge, since citizens place their trust in governments, with the hope they will be able to stem the spread of viruses by adjusting the mechanics of society. The power of governments is increased, together with the governability of the majority” – Martin calculates – “because the people expect to be told what to do by those they believe know what’s best for them.”
“You are right” – Sir Martin agrees – “yet, at the same time, as it is with all responsibilities that are dealt with by an irresponsible minority, there are colossal flaws in the reasoning of governments.
They always act too slowly, for one thing, because their fears for the economy, and stability of the status quo, outweigh their concern for the people. Therefore; these fears hinder or prevent the application of common sense.
For example, it would seem common sense to immediately provide free public transportation, so there would be no contact between travellers and public transportation workers, or slow queues where people are in close proximity to one another .... and closing all shops, apart from those essential to life, such as food supermarkets. But governments hesitate to take these simple steps of precaution time and time again, because they are afraid the world of their creation might come tumbling down if they should.
So, really, the pandemics expose the true concern of governments, which seems to be for society, rather than the people – and the the flaws of the societies governments place first and foremost in their reasoning; for what use are systems that collapse when common sense is applied to them?”
“Indeed!” – Martin responds, while vigorously digging an ear with a pen.
“In a true democracy, the common sense of the majority would prevail. Steps such as those you have mentioned would be taken without hesitation, and the risk to humankind from infection reduced considerably as a result. In fact; in a true democracy, the viruses would cease to be a threat, if they are indeed the consequence of climate change, since the majority would unite to design a manner of living that would not cause the planet harm.”
“As it stands, if we are lucky enough to live through the current pandemic, it is only to resume living with the possibility of being destroyed in a nuclear holocaust” – Sir Martin elaborates, as he frowns through the few remaining pages in his vandalised notebook.
“Or to perish, together with all life, should the climate change to the point of rendering the planet uninhabitable” – Martin expands, once his ear digging has ground to a halt and he has placed the pen on a small table between their beds.
“Sometimes, human life seems so meaningless it’s a wonder anyone would bother trying to save us” – Sir Martin supposes, glumly, as he takes a pen from the small table between their beds and sucks thoughtfully upon it.
“Perhaps governments really are trying to save us, but only because they want to blow us up in their silly war games” – Martin continues, while raising a cautionary finger and frowning uncertainly at his friend.
“Yes. Maybe the lives of the majority have meaning to the governing minority because we are a necessary component of their battles, for what is the point of bombing a country devoid of residents? Governments need innocent people to threaten, and ultimately; to kill, for that is the nature of modern warfare” – Sir Martin elaborates, before drawing the pen from his mouth and grimacing at it.
“Have you been digging your bottom with this pen?” – Sir Martin asks, while emanating an expression of morbid curiosity.
“Um. No” – Martin replies.
“And they like telling people what to do, so we are necessary for that too” – Sir Martin calculates, as he begins to suck the pen again – “and we generate the wealth of the so-called elite.”
“Our lives are meaningful to the governing minority, but what do our lives mean to us?” – Martin wonders, as they both adopt puzzled frowns.
Chapter Five of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
“Which hand do you wipe your bottom with?” – Martin shouts from the bathroom.
“My right hand.”
“Oh, you’ll be alright then, but I use toilet paper and there isn’t any. Could you pop to the shops and see if they have some?”
“I can’t. It’s after eight o’clock, and the evening curfew began at eight. I will be shot. You will just have to make do with the primitive, highly unhygienic washing of the bottom with soap and water, rather than scrubbing it clean with a piece of dry paper.”
“Perhaps the viruses have been manufactured by governments so they can enforce curfews” – Martin considers, as he pats his bottom dry with a face towel.
“You may be right. Especially when considering the first pandemic, the Qur’an* virus, may have originated in China at a time when the Chinese government were encountering an increasing amount of protest on the streets” – Sir Martin muses. “Although it seems an almost Neanderthal manner of communication in these advanced times, protesting on the streets is one of the only ways the majority are able to voice their opinions, and now we can’t, because we aren’t allowed to set foot upon them for the greatest part of the day.”
“You mean the Koran* virus?”
“That’s what I said. It was the first.”
“I think it was called the Coroner virus or the 99 Cone, or something”
“Whatever it was called, it was timely and seemed to benefit governments in many ways” – Sir Martin continues. “In fact; governments may have manufactured the viruses for a number of reasons – those we have considered, others we have not, and to give the planet a rest, with the hope the climate will stabilise as a result of a temporary reduction in planetary pollution. If this is an element of their intent, and it should work, the manner in which humankind live need not change to achieve the same result. Governments will assume the planet just needs a break, from time to time, and develop a virus whenever that time arrives.”
“I suppose the conspiracy theories are endless, and some may be true. To remain with the facts; the people are being forced to stay in their homes, and many have turned to the internet for entertainment during their isolation. If the viruses are being developed with the intent of empowering government, we may be able to turn the tables – if we find a way to install the CWO in each of the world’s one hundred and ninety five countries, and persuade the people of each to frequent their forums!” – Martin assumes, cheerfully.
“Yes, what may seem a situation to hinder revolution may turn out to be in our favour, and I have been devising a plan! – Sir Martin responds, while leaning towards his friend in a conspiring manner.
“I stumbled upon a TED talk on youtube by an Estonian woman named Anna Piperal, entitled ‘What a Digital Government Looks Like’. She describes Estonia’s government, which has been built from scratch in a period of decades, and it is entirely digital. The thought crossed my mind that the CWO could be plugged into Estonia’s existing government as though it were an app, and create an interactive democracy with comparative ease. We still have the cwo.uk on a memory stick, which could be modified by translating it into Estonian, to form the cwo.ee.”
“The revolution will begin in the north, according to some French philosopher of centuries past, if I remember correctly” – Martin elaborates – “so your plan may resound with the sound of premonition. However; I see flaws in your reasoning, or obstacles on the path to planetary liberation that may be difficult to hurdle.”
“Well. Firstly, we should travel to Estonia, ideally, which may prove difficult when considering the travel restrictions imposed as a consequence of the pandemic. Secondly, we do not speak Estonian, nor do we know any Estonians who would be willing and able to assist us in our quest.”
“You are quite right, Martin, and I have already thought of solutions to these nuisances. Firstly; Martin Sharratt lives in Finland, which is one of Estonia’s neighbouring countries, and he is willing to help. I received an email from him this morning informing me he is certain a global revolution is about to begin, and would like to travel to Estonia with us. Martin Sharratt said he may be of some assistance because he is more familiar with the country and its people than we are, and speaks Finnish fairly well, which may prove useful.”
“And the travel issue?” – Martin queries, queerly and a little wearily.
“We have in our possession the two space hoppers that fell out of the Alien’s underpants. We could ride pillion on one to Estonia and pick Martin Sharratt up on the way, from Finland, and he could ride the other space hopper.”
“Well, that sounds like a sound plan!” – Martin exclaims, joyfully – “let’s prepare to leave at once!”
(* The reference to the Qur’an, or Koran, is not meant to suggest that I believe the Muslim community may be responsible for the creation or spread of the Coronavirus. Rather, I consider the remote possibility that it may have been named Coronavirus to subconsciously provoke such an assumption (Koran – a virus) by those who wish to generate animosity towards the Muslim community.)
Chapter Six of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
“I have often tried, but I find it quite impossible to keep my nipples on the outside of my shirt, as you have” – Martin remarks, as he waggles a fingertip at Sir Martin, who has just stepped from the shower room of their lodgings – “or my genitals on the outside of my trousers. Although, I would tuck it all in; this evening is a little nippy.”
“Indeed. That is why I have chosen to wear long-johns, corduroys and a thick jumper for our journey .... Ah, good! .... You have inflated the space hopper already!” – Sir Martin exclaims, while he begins to dress by pulling on an shirt, followed by an expression of concern, which suggests he is a little worried about the lasting consequences the anvil landing on Martin’s head may have had, since Martin’s strange rhetoric was delivered from the floor of their lodgings, where he lays upon his back and repeats an action of pulling his shoes onto the balls of his feet and kicking his legs in the air, which encourages his shoes to fly across the room, over and over again.
“Damn! These shoes are tricky to don!” – Martin complains, with a tone of exasperation – “despite their lack of aesthetic appeal, slip-on brogues have an increasing allure as one ages.”
“If you perform the same action in a position one hundred and eighty degrees from that which you occupy, with your feet resting on the floor, you will encounter success and we may leave” – Sir Martin assures Martin, as he examines the intricate dashboard of the space hopper, adorned with a constantly fluctuating screen and array of unfamiliar, yet oddly understandable symbols.
“I wonder what these two icons mean. One seems as though a bottom poised over a pipe, and the other :– male genitalia dangling inside a pipe” – Sir Martin wonders, as he wanders wonderingly around the wonder of engineering.
“Ah. Yes. I think the representations accurate; they are for converting waste into fuel. The Alien said most travellers eat a slap-up meal before embarking upon their journeys, so there is plenty of fuel, so I should cook one soon. He explained the symbols’ meanings and I remember those two, for some reason. When the buttons are depressed, fuel pipes pop from beneath the vehicle and automatically search for the fuel sources, upon which they latch.”
“I can’t remember, but in a manner that minimises the risk of losing fuel. Suction, or something. A powerful vacuum.”
Sir Martin’s brow crumples into a worried frown. “Well. We have a full tank, and hopefully more than enough fuel for our short journey, so we need not worry and make do with some cheese, crackers and a small glass of milk.”
Martin’s brow crumples into a network of creases suggesting concern, when he remembers how badly wrong everything turns out to be, and begins to prepare a stonking meal of sausage, egg and chips, with buckets of custard and boiled prunes for pudding.
Chapter Seven of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
As the two friends throttle towards the evening’s first stars, through the chill of the troposphere, riding pillion – with Martin driving and Sir Martin sitting behind, navigating – Sir Martin’s stomach rumbles and churns.
“Whoo-öö-argh! I told you I didn’t want a third helping of pudding. And the tank’s completely full. I think we may have to jettison some fuel” – Sir Martin complains, as he twists into a position that tells of an attempt to drive a fist into his own bottom.
“Not here. We are passing over a group of stargazers. We would spoil their evening. Try to hold the case of emergency in; in case of an emergency.”
“Soiling my pants would be a case of emergency. I would not like to greet Martin Sharratt while trousorially impaired. You know how important it is to create a good first impression. Drive higher. There would be no splatter from high up – the poo would turn into a fine mist as it descends to Earth.”
“Wait! There seems to be a moped’s headlight approaching, like an old Honda CB 50 from the seventies. Like ours. As if a mirror image. Maybe it’s some kind of weird tropospheric reflection, or something.”
“It cannot be” – Sir Martin disagrees – “for the rider is waving and we are not. It seems as though another space traveller. Let’s hope their wave is friendly, and they are not shaking an angry fist.”
“Well, from what I gathered from the Alien before he was murdered – the inhabitants of the universe are friendly to one and all, and it is only we Earth people who are hostile, even to those with whom we are already acquainted, so we need not be alarmed; only curious.”
“He looks quite humanoid” – Sir Martin observes, as the other vehicle approaches and the driver’s features gain distinction.
“Apart from his eyes, which seem identical to our old Alien friend’s.”
The alien, idling towards Sir Martin and Martin on an Earth moped-like space hopper, not unlike their own, raises a finger and smiles, before performing an about turn on the craft and pulling the beltline of his trousers down. The alien grasps a buttock in each hand and pulls each in opposite directions, while producing a sound that speaks of great concentration and physical effort.
“OH NO! Perhaps Martin Sharratt was right in his initial assumption, and aliens intend to annihilate humankind with noxious space poo after all!” – Sir Martin wails, while raising a forearm to cover his brow.
“Or perhaps it is only a strange greeting” – Martin supposes, as the alien’s anus struggles and writhes, as though trying to form a specific shape.
After a period of anal twitching, and a long drawn out – “hww-w-w-w-o-o-o-o-o-o-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-r-r-r-r-ghhh!” – expressing enormous determination, the alien’s anus forms a v shape, which remains long enough to evoke Sir Martin and Martin’s enlightenment.
“Oh-hoi! The Alien’s face! If you imagine the eyes on the bottom!”
The alien spins on the hopper’s saddle until he is facing the two friends, when he throws his arms wide and announces – “yes! I am the Alien! They did not murder me. They only blew my bottom off, which has regenerated perfectly, as you can see.”
“Your bottom seems very well, as does the rest of you. We wondered where your body went. We had intended to bury your remains but they had vanished. We thought someone must have collected them – aliens or the Pentagon Police, or what not. Anyway, we are delighted to see you alive, and looking splendid after what one assumes a successful teleportation to Earth.”
“Yes. We have mastered the art of teleportation since our last meeting, quite some millennium ago, in our time scale, so we arrive at our destinations as we depart.”
“Thousands of years? I must say you have aged remarkably well – neither your face nor bottom has worry or laugh lines.”
“I confess to having slept for most of the time. Since I had gleaned so much insight regarding life on Earth and the people’s revolution, during my visit, my role was seen as invaluable, and I was placed into a state of hibernation until my services would be of use to you two revolutionaries. So, let us journey together to Finland, my dear old friends, to meet Martin Sharratt, and attempt once again to provide an opportunity for the majority to unite in a quest to save the Earth, and more – to create a planet to be proud of!”
Chapter Eight of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
“Before we begin journeying together to Finland, Sir Martin must return to Earth to perform an urgent duty” – Martin explains, while directing an upturned palm towards Sir Martin, who squirms behind his companion with beads of sweat trembling upon his flushed brow.
“Yes. Sir Martin’s body language suggests urgency. May I ask what it is he must perform?”
“A giant shit. The fuel tanks are full, and I have just remembered the space hoppers are enveloped within an atmospherically controlled environment, so he cannot release it up here, in the troposphere, for it would back up and create the kind of conditions only dung beetles would feel blessed to travel within.”
“I see. Well, I think it would be more convenient to travel to the moon and use a toilet there” – the Alien supposes, as he begins to throttle towards the moon’s waxing crescent – “and there will be toilet paper. I hear there is a shortage on Earth”
“There are toilets on the moon?” – Martin asks, quite astonished, while accelerating to catch up with the Alien.
“Rather, in the moon, with the entrance being on its dark side” – the Alien explains, an instant before Sir Martin leans forward and punches ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ into the destination feature of the hopper’s dashboard, while wiggling his left foot beneath Martin’s – an action which selects the gear ‘interstellar-overdrive’.
A mere nanosecond later, on the moon’s dark side, Sir Martin and Martin crash through the kind of entrance one might expect of an underground nightclub – above which a flickering neon sign hangs reading what one might presume ‘welcome’ in a legion of languages – and screech to a halt within the moon’s incredible cavernous interior.
Martin’s forehead thuds against the hopper’s dashboard, which presses a number of buttons, including those relating to the conversion of waste to fuel.
Two pipes pop from beneath the hopper – the nozzles of which vanish down the back of Sir Martin’s beige corduroys – a moment before the pipes begins to emit loud schluurping noises, and Sir Martin; a kind of high-pitched, fearful yodelling.
The disappearance of the space hopper is accompanied by a rubbery ‘thwack’, Sir Martin and Martin’s screeches expressing incredible pain, the sound of around one thousand ray guns being drawn, and startled exclamations of what one might suppose to be “Earthlings!” in a legion of languages.
Chapter Nine of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen RevolutionSir Martin and Martin’s surroundings begin to swim into focus as they slowly regain consciousness after a period of an almost coma-like state of being, induced by the trauma of entering the moon’s interior in a manner that proved detrimental to their physical, spiritual, intellectual and emotional selves.
Once their surroundings have gained a degree of clarity, Sir Martin and Martin slip back into an almost coma-like state of being, and remain there until their subconscious minds have processed the unfamiliar, mind-boggling information as well as they are able.
When they regain consciousness once again, they realise they are laying upon beds in a room of unimaginable proportions, with a floor that stretches as though a landscape until it meets a steel, concave wall that rises from the horizon as though a sky, which curves towards an apex where a myriad of giant circular windows encourage beams of light to illuminate the colossal room.
They observe an array of highly advanced machinery surrounding their beds – to which they are connected by a number of colourful cables – and nervously acknowledge a huge group of alien beings gathered around them, who smile warmly and wave politely at the recumbent pair. Their view is partly obscured by giant black orbs; two of which hang above each bed from an intricate metal scaffolding.
Sir Martin and Martin’s Alien friend makes his way through the gathering of aliens and arrives at their bedsides, where he sits upon a chair between their beds.
“Ah! How wonderful! You have woken, at last!” – the Alien exclaims, as he clasps their hands resting beside him, on the cool sheets of their hospital beds.
“What are those?” – Martin asks, as he raises a hand and directs a trembling fingertip towards the orbs.
“Those? Well, they are your testicles. Slapped once again as a result of dismounting the space hopper incorrectly. And since the signal sent from the space hopper to the recycling centre came from within the moon, the Retrieval of Resources settings automatically adjusted to those required for mining. So, the space hopper vanished from beneath you with industrial force, resulting in a blow to your undercarriages that has never before been witnessed.”
Sir Martin and Martin’s faces flush with embarrassment, and they begin to writhe on their beds in response to an overwhelming sense of self-consciousness.
“Was it really necessary to place them in traction?” – Sir Martin whispers hoarsely, as he attempts to flip his bedsheet over his bloated, blackened balls.
“Traction? They are not in traction. We hoisted them up above your beds so everyone could see them. They are of great interest to space travellers. We have never seen such consequence. And we have been making a documentary film about dismounting ....”
“Well, would you mind putting them on our beds and covering them up?” – Martin gasps with exasperation.
“Yes. Of course. I understand. You must be embarrassed. I am so sorry. I forgot how bashful you Earthlings are” – the Alien apologises, as he flips a lever which releases their inflamed testes from their suspension.
Sir Martin and Martin squawk and return to their almost coma-like state of being, moments after their testicles have landed on their beds with loud thumps.
“Oh dear. How silly of me. I forgot how sensitive Earthling’s testicles are” – the Alien mutters, while his fingertips pitter patter along his long, rubbery lips, drooping dramatically at each corner.
Chapter Ten of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
When Sir Martin and Martin regain consciousness for the third time, they find their testes have returned to their normal size, and the Alien sitting on the chair between their beds, deeply engrossed in a book entitled ‘Earthlings – An Introduction to Their Habits Customs and Super Silly Stupid Ways’
“You are reading alien literature in English” – Sir Martin remarks. “That’s interesting.”
“Is it?!” – the Aliens asks as he slams the book closed.
“Well, yes. English is one of the most popular languages spoken on Earth, so it seems a little strange to see you reading a book written in English by an alien author.”
“Not at all. Although there are many languages in the universe, intergalactic bestsellers are published in English because it is the generic tongue shared by intelligent life. Alien races have spoken English long before Earthlings. The Intergalactic Board of Moderators only thought it safe to allow speech between humans some sixty thousand Earth years ago, and English; comparatively recently. English is not an Earth language; it is universal, and you only speak a simplistic version of it.”
Sir Martin and Martin’s brows concertina with embarrassed enlightenment, and they lower their heads to examine little yellow vaguely duck-like creatures printed on their hospital bedsheets.
“Anyway, it is wonderful to see you have regained consciousness” – the Alien smiles, as he rises to his feet and heads towards a gathering of aliens.
“Your clothes have been laundered and lay folded at the feet of your beds. I will leave you to dress and hope to see you soon over at the Refreshment Circle, where space travellers and I will be awaiting your presence with deep anticipation, for there are many questions we would like to ask, and intergalactic wisdom we wish to share with you.”
Chapter Eleven of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
Sir Martin and Martin’s pace slackens as they approach the Refreshment Circle, since around a thousand aliens are either seated or standing around the perimeter of an enormous circular bar, within which all manner of strange, busy beings are scuttling, dressed in the attire of Earth waiters, with some holding silver trays of unusual beverages and snacks expertly aloft.
Sir Martin and Martin’s pace plods to a standstill when they notice each of the aliens, including the bar staff, have Ray Guns, of a nineteen fifties’ Earth toy styling, resting on the bar or tables before them, or hanging at their hips.
“Ah! Splendid! Sir Martin and Martin!” – the Alien exclaims, while waving cheerfully at his two Earthly friends from a small, round, steel table near the bar. “Why are you standing there? Do join us! Are you afraid of something?”
“Yes” – Martin replies
“Of what?” – the Alien asks.
“Of Ray Guns” – Sir Martin clarifies. “We thought humans were the only beings in the universe one should fear.”
“Oh! And you are, you are!” – the Alien responds, reassuringly.
“The Ray Guns are for our protection. We collect them from the foyer when we arrive in the moon, and return them when we have finished whatever we wish to perform on Earth. Ray Guns are banned in the rest of the universe, together with all forms of weaponry.”
“You do not have one though, and neither did you when we first met, which is a pity, since you may have defended yourself and the revolution succeeded as a result” – Martin continues.
“Well, I decided not to carry one this time because I didn’t wish to alarm you, and although I packed one during my first teleportation, it transformed into a pair of y-fronts, together with my wardrobe and other belongings” – the Alien clarifies, while stretching his tie out in front of him and admiring its pattern of a constellation of spaceships, stars and planets against a space-blue background.
“Has anyone ever had cause to use one?” – Martin asks, as they resume their advance and seat themselves at the table.
“Yes, but no one ever has. Although there have been many occasions when their use would have been justified, it seems all have found it impossible to harm another. I’m afraid that manner of resolving conflict is unique to humankind” – the Alien expands, while a short, rotund waiter approaches the table with a tray of curious comestibles.
“What happened in those situations?” – Sir Martin continues, while smiling at the waiter and taking a slender glass from the tray, within which a colourful, animated beverage burps and blops.
“Well, although the aliens attempted to reason with aggressive Earthlings in the encounters, they failed miserably, since an Earthling’s English is so basic that it was almost impossible to understand, at the time, and the English the aliens familiar with; too complex for humans, which is one reason Earthling Pidgin English is being taught in schools throughout the universe these days. The book you saw me reading was a school book, written in Pidgin English.
I should add that all encounters between aliens and humans have been accidental, and those that proved aggressive were mostly between aliens and the Earth’s authorities, such as officers representing the pentagon or armed forces. And I suppose the misinterpretation of alien intent is our fault, to some extent, since it has been the consequence of carrying weapons – even though doing so was solely for our own protection.”
“What kind of situations led to those encounters?” – Martin presses, as he selects a large, square wafer from the tray, folds it in half and pops it into his mouth, before chewing it increasingly slowly until he begins to choke and retch dryly, at which point he takes a small bowl from the tray and downs its liquid contents with a loud gulp.
The waiter’s tray and ware fall clattering to the floor, and he folds over double, braying a contagious laughter that spreads throughout the Refreshment Circle like wild fire.
“Oo-er! Har har har! Aaa - ha ha ha! Oooh - ho ho ho! Eeee! Bah ‘ek! Ah’v neva seen nowt sur fun-nee in me liy-fe! That thur lad ai-yut a sqway-ure o’ eh-ut plah toy-lit pey-pah an wosht it do-wun wi’ t’finga dip! Ooh! Eeee! Buggah me! Ha ha!” – the waiter enthuses, with his hands splayed on his knees.
“Ah! It seems the waiter kindly brought you a gift of some sheets of standard, universal eight ply toilet paper, since the word around town suggests there is no toilet paper on Earth, but Martin ate it and washed it down with a finger dip. The waiter found the sequence of events quite hilarious, as you can see.”
“Yes, I almost understood what he said, so I imagine learning proper English would not be all that difficult” – Sir Martin supposes, as he vigorously slaps Martin’s back.
“No. The waiter was speaking Pidgin English, since we have all agreed to do so in your presence, yet with a Yorkshire accent. Just as students on Earth are able to choose whether they wish to learn English English or American English, language students throughout the universe may choose what dialect of Pidgin English they would like to speak. There is a wide choice, from New Yorkian to Cockney. The waiter chose to learn Yorkshire English at school because he hoped to holiday in the north of England, someday” – the Alien explains. “If the waiter would have been speaking proper English, he would have said something like ‘nevernot whobody norbut I a titalerium .....’”
“Indeed” – Sir Martin interrupts, somewhat deflated. “Have alien holidaymakers encountered aggressive encounters with humans?”
“Almost none. Whenever an Earthling has stumbled upon an alien – while the alien was enjoying a picnic in the forest, for example – the encounters have usually been friendly. However; they resulted in the abduction of the Earthlings, since the Intergalactic Security Council deemed it necessary, so our sporadic presence on Earth would remain as much a secret as possible. Although the sudden disappearance of loved ones has caused a great deal of anguish and heartbreak for many families on Earth, the abducted Earthlings have always been well-treated by their hosts, and live happy, productive lives, like Bob there, for example, working behind the bar.”
Sir Martin and Martin raise their heads and scan the bar staff until their gaze rests upon a distinctly humanoid figure.
“Bob, Bob! I say, Bob!” – the Alien shouts, as he waves a spindly arm in an effort to catch the bartender’s attention.
“You enjoy living on So-lar-de-dar, do you not, and working here in the moon? Or would you rather return to Earth and live and work there?”
“Fuck me, no! Life on Earth is a fucking head-fuck!” – Bob exclaims, before returning to his task of replenishing the snack bowls resting upon the bar with curiously shaped nuts, and a raisin-like dried fruit pulsating with an eerie orange glow.
“Most of the hostile encounters have been with the Earth’s governmental forces, when they have investigated the crash-landing of an alien space craft, for example” – the Alien continues, as he takes a tall glass from a passing waiter’s tray, containing a liquid of a colour Sir Martin and Martin have never seen before.
“And since they are the only recorded incidents of alien encounters on Earth, leaked files detailing the events have spawned popular culture, such as Ray Guns – with the first toys representing alien weaponry modelled on the actual armoury stored here within the moon – physical appearance, such as almond-shaped eyes, and the supposedly aggressive nature of aliens; a presumption founded upon the observation that the aliens were armed.
Unfortunately, since the officers representing the Earth’s governmental forces killed the aliens they encountered, there has never been an opportunity to rectify the misunderstanding” – the Alien sighs, sadly.
“How very interesting” – Sir Martin and Martin murmur, in perfect unison, as they lower their heads and examine what seem to be small fossils, encapsulated within the polished rock floor of the moon’s interior.
Chapter Twelve of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
“Well, we certainly have some catching up to do since we last met” – the Alien assumes, before drawing a draught of his strangely coloured drink through a Pluto-pink straw.
“Indeed, some years have passed for us, and thousands for you. It must have been strange to have woken after such a long time. Were there many changes?” – Sir Martin asks, while admiring the fine tailoring of the Alien’s three-piece, midnight-blue suit, while feeling somewhat under-dressed in beige corduroys and an Icelandic, deer-print jumper.
“My mind boggles until this day” – the Alien agrees. “I suppose the first thing I noticed was the change in climate. The climes of every inhabited planet in the universe known to us had settled considerably, through the forces of nature, and advances in universal climate-control technology allowed the creation of weather conditions comparable to Earth’s, with the four seasons. So, when I stepped out into the world I encountered a bright, sunny day with a pleasant breeze, which wandered through a forest of ancient trees, rather than a near darkness and howling, bitter wind twisting and curling over a barren, inhospitable landscape.”
“Wow! So there must be a great many planets like Earth in the known universe?”
“Yes, I suppose there are, although the physical similarities are more or less where the likeness ends. Another change that grasped my immediate attention was that civilisation had appeared. The most incredible architecture studded streets and highways, and all manner of homes for the people adorned the landscape. And I had never seen so many people all at once. Before the climates settled, most spent their lives underground, safe from the elements.
I sensed an incredible love one had for another in our new world, and for the environment that allowed a delightful quality of life. Rivers and streams ran fresh and clean. The azure fingertips of the planet’s water caressed tidelines where only the sea’s refuse could be found – a dead fish, seaweed, sticks, a cursing fisherman’s oar. That kind of thing. The air tasted as one might imagine heaven’s. I thought the Earth’s air was fresh when I visited you, but now, when I look back with the ability to make a comparison, it had a dusty, acidic taste that left one’s mouth parched and bitter, although I don’t suppose it was always so.”
“No. Probably not. One of the qualities we humans have is that we seem intent on destroying that which is perfect and beautiful, at the same time as we are trying to create what we consider perfect and beautiful, as though destruction is an absurd and inevitable consequence of humankind’s creative efforts.”
Chapter Thirteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
Sir Martin and Martin thoughtfully sip their drinks while the Alien reclines in his chair, with his head tilted back, admiring the view through the giant circular windows adorning the moons interior.
“Quite a feat of engineering; the moon” – he remarks, as he resumes an upright position and drags his chair towards the table. “The windows look like craters from the outside. We can see out but one cannot see in.”
“Yes, what is the moon, exactly?” – Sir Martin asks, as he slides his chair back on the polished rock floor and assumes a position the Alien has discarded.
“The moon is at it seems; it is the Earth’s only natural satelite. However; it was modified some two hundred thousand Earth years ago to act as a secret observatorium, from where the inhabitants of the universe would be able to monitor the advance of humankind. Engineers of the day bored into the moon’s centre and hollowed it out. Usually, footage of Earth is broadcast throughout the universe, and there aren’t this many observers within the moon itself, but there has been a growing interest, of late, now it seems humankind are about to become extinct” – The Alien explains, before loudly shluurping the dregs of his drink through the straw.
“Extinct?!” – Sir Martin and Martin exclaim, simultaneously.
“Do you find that surprising? What do you expect when there are so many countries with nuclear weaponry, and so many people engaged in a manner of living that seems as though it has been designed to destroy the delicate balance of the Earth’s life and climate? Ha! Humans! It’s as though you punch yourselves in the face and wonder who’s hitting you!” – the Alien laughs, as he spins the drink’s pink umbrella between a spindly thumb and forefinger.
“No. It isn’t surprising” – Sir Martin admits – “but it is overwhelmingly upsetting. Do the Earth’s observers still find the whole scenario distressing?”
“Those who observe the Earth wonder whether humankind are simply insane, because you see the harm you do, and may do yet, but continue on the same path to self-destruction. And yes, everyone finds it rather distressing to watch. But your seemingly inevitable self-destruction does not seem so tragic, now there are many planets in the universe comparable to Earth. The Earth is not as special to the inhabitants of the universe as it once was.
Now, to the rest of the universe, the Earth is regarded as a rather small planet, with so called intelligent beings who have evolved in such a crooked manner that their intelligence is called into question. Yet, we have learned a great deal through observing the factors that have disrupted your evolution, and led to the bizarre circumstances governing humankind’s interactions, and the construction of Earth’s global civilisation.”
“I suppose you have learned how not to create your worlds through observing the Earth?” – Martin asks, glumly.
“Well, yes. I suppose we have, to some degree, but mostly the philosophy of creation seems as though it is only common sense. Since the climes of our planets have settled, and we have the opportunity to create planetary civilisations without the fear of them being destroyed by the forces of nature, to create destructive forces seems a terrible irony, so there are no weapons of mass destruction on our planets. And even if we would have been able to create our worlds unhindered from the beginning, as humankind have, it seems incredibly stupid to destroy that which has been created with great care and effort.
So, I suppose it is difficult to say what we have learned from humankind and what has seemed only natural. You pump your excrement into seas and oceans, whereas we use it to fertilise the land, since that is the purpose of land-dwelling creatures’ waste.
Our homes provide a sense of security, for that is the purpose of a home, and security is a quality we have always wished our homes would have – so it seemed absurd to copy you and use homes as a tactic to force workers to work. To render a home a privilege that must be earned through labour, and withdrawn if the worker does not work, was seen as a tactic that would stress the workers, and if the practice were to continue from one generation to the next; a method of blackmail that would damage our evolution, as it would the evolution of any creatures whose homes were held as ransom in return for labour.”
“Isn’t there anything we do that you have been inspired to emulate?” – Sir Martin asks, hopefully.
Of course! you may find it incredible to learn that the political systems on all planets are modelled on Athenian Democracy, and Martin Sharratt’s concept of the CWO. And there are many Earth recipes that are popular throughout the universe, like fish and chips and cheese and tomato sandwiches. And many musicians are inspired by the Earth’s music too, and musical instruments, like rock and roll, electric guitars and the harp” – the Alien replies, cheerfully. “The harp is such a delightful instrument, don’t you think? The sound of it seems as though it drifts from heaven.”
“I love the harp” – Martin agrees, as he covers his face with his hands and begins to cry.
Chapter Fourteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
“WAH! It is so sad!” – Martin wails, amidst sobs of sorrow wracking his body.
“Now, now. There, there” – the Alien murmurs, kindly, as he stoops over Martin, with his long, delicate fingers fluttering comfortingly upon Martin’s shoulders – “there is still hope.”
“Is there?” – Martin asks, pleadingly, as his sobbing ceases abruptly and he raises his tear soaked face towards the Alien.
“Well .... not that much, admittedly” – the Alien assumes, while standing upright, rolling his eyes towards the colossal windows and massaging his chin thoughtfully between thumb and fingers.
“Hardly any” – he clarifies.
“Wah-ha-haaaa!” – Martin expands.
“But it is still there. Present .... tangible ... perceptible ....” – the Alien continues, as he resumes comforting his Earthling friend.
“You see; it is almost too late because the universe has been reluctant to assist after what happened last time. When my bottom was blown off. Or my head, which were one and the same at the time. Almost. I mean; apart from my nose and brain, which were in my underpants. I suppose the severity of the situation on Earth called upon the universal community to reach into the depths of the well of compassion, and it was there we found the resolve to assist you for what is widely regarded as the last opportunity to do so.”
“How do you plan to assist?” – Martin burbles, hopefully, as two increasingly large snot bubbles grow under his nose, which encourage the Alien to take a hasty backwards step.
“Well, at first I planned to join you in your quest to form interactive democracies, by assisting in the modification of existing governments into digital governments, which would allow citizens to demand that the CWO should be installed as though an app. However; since our journey to Finland to meet Martin Sharratt was interrupted by Sir Martin’s call for ablution, which resulted in a long delay due to the time you both spent in an almost coma-like state of being, and the situation on Earth worsened during that time, a more drastic measure is called for” – the Alien expands, as his almond-shaped eyes expand to become hazlenut-shaped, as a consequence of observing Martin’s constantly expanding snot bubbles.
“A more drastic measure?” – Sir Martin enquires with interest – “what do you have in mind?”
“That we should travel to Earth, where I will create the CWO on a global scale, once again, and you will orchestrate the revolution as The President of the World, with Martin as your Assistant” – the Alien clarifies, as Martin’s bubbles pop and cover the three unlikely revolutionaries with snot.
Chapter Fifteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
The next day, after the trio have enjoyed a good night’s rest, they meet in the refreshment circle for a hearty breakfast, and to discuss the intricacies of their mission.
“I had a meeting with the Board of Representatives for the Intergalactic Community last night, after you two had retired to bed” – the Alien informs Sir Martin and Martin, in between shovelling spoonfuls of Space Poofs into his mouth.
“I see. Was the meeting beneficial?” – Sir Martin asks, while enjoying a third helping of Plutonic Poopaloops.
“Very. And once we have eaten, I will take you into the moon’s engine room, where we will be able to create more favourable conditions for our mission” – the Alien confirms, before dropping his spoon into the cereal bowl with a clatter and rising to his feet.
Sir Martin and Martin trail behind the Alien as he strides across the polished rock floor of the moon’s interior, and through a gigantian opening upon the concave steel wall. A roughly hewn corridor leads to a flight of foot-worn stone steps, which the trio descend until they find themselves in a cave-like room; the size of which might be compared to The Isle of Man.
In the near distance, groups of beings are seated upon rows of chairs, which stand in front of enormous screens, where live footage of life on Earth is being projected. On one screen, a face of Arctic Ice breaks from a glacier and falls crashing into a warming sea, and another; an army of haters march through frightened streets with their weapons bleeding, and the next; a crowd waving placards upon which grave concerns are scrawled.
“Oh no! I don’t want to see this!” – Martin cries, while raising his hands to cover his eyes.
“And you are not the only one” – the Alien responds, as he raises an arm and points to screens where Earth people are engrossed in the computer games they are playing, and a wide variety of pursuits which distract their attention from that which demands their attention, such as photographing their luncheon.
“But we are not here to observe the end of the world” – the Alien continues – “and I will show you how we may improve the chances of averting such an unspeakable calamity.”
The Alien leads his Earthly friends from the screens and towards a stretch of wall hosting an assortment of machinery and gadgets, which range in appearance from futuristic to steam-driven.
“Look!” – the Alien exclaims, as he pulls upon an iron lever nestled among a row of the same – “this adjusts the tilt of one of the moon’s windows; shaped into a lens that enlarges the Earth, and this” – he continues, while twiddling a smaller lever positioned directly below – “adjusts the angle of a camera positioned behind the window, so a different view may be selected.”
“Hoy! I was watching that!” – a tiny alien being complains, in an almost inaudible high-pitched timbre that makes the inside of Sir Martin and Martin’s ears itch.
“Oh. Sorry!” – the Alien apologises, as he pushes the levers back to their original positions and waves cheerfully until the alien has turned to face the screen.
“What are these two big levers for?” – Martin asks, with growing interest.
“Well, as you may already know, the moon exerts considerable influence over the Earth, such as regulating tides and even the Earth’s magnetic field. And since the moon is locked in a synchronous rotation with Earth, and rotates on its axis as fast as it orbits the Earth, the same side of the moon is always facing the Earth. What you probably do not know is that the moon’s rotation is directly engaged with the passing of time on Earth.”
“What do you mean; directly engaged with the passing of time on Earth?” – Sir Martin asks, as his keen expression collapses into an animated display of bobbing eyebrows and fluctuating creases.
“I mean, if the moon’s rotation is adjusted to be fractionally faster, for a moment, the Earth would be projected into its future, and if it is slowed momentarily, the Earth would recede into its past. And these adjustments may be made here, within the moon’s engine room, with the levers that have attracted your attention.”
Chapter Sixteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
The images on the screens within the moon’s engine room blur for a moment, before turning black.
“What on So-lar-de-dar are you doing!” – the Alien shrieks, before grasping the lever Martin has pushed forward and pulling it back as far as it will go, and then forward to its original position – at which point the images upon the screens resume their sorrowful reportage of life on Earth.
“Oh! Sorry! I just wanted to see what the future holds!” – Martin replies, sheepishly, while avoiding the piercing intensity of the Alien’s scolding stare.
A grave silence has descended in the engine room, and the seated aliens have turned to face the three revolutionaries, wearing expressions revealing the deepest sorrow.
“The future connected to the present is of no concern to us” – the Alien grumbles. “The present is both unfolding and malleable, so the future holds an infinite amount of possible scenarios. To protect the psyche of the observers, the screens turn black when the footage from Earth would be too distressing to watch – when the Earth and its life has entered the realm of an irreversible destruction.
Yet, the blackness of the screens was connected to a moment that has passed. If you were to push the lever again now, for the same amount of time, there may be footage of Earth on the screens. However, it is fair to assume the Earth’s future is increasingly grim and finite, so we must go back in time to improve the chances of evoking a revolution to save the Earth.”
“How far back in time do we have to go?” – Sir Martin asks – “to the Renaissance, or the Middle Ages?”
“Goodness, no! It isn’t possible to go that far back in time, or into the future. A few decades is the most that can be achieved” – the Alien confirms, as he grasps the Bakelite handle of the second big lever.
“So, the black screens we saw suggest the Earth will be destroyed in a matter of decades?” – Martin asks, at the same time his face and body slump to express his misery.
“Not necessarily. As I have said, each possible future is connected to the present it is projected from, and each moment in time is unique. The same is true for the past, so when we travel back in time, we may find ourselves in a past on Earth you do not recall. It is very difficult to travel back in time accurately. However; I believe that is the first time the screens have turned black, when observing possible futures, so it does seem as though time is running out rather quickly” – the Alien explains, while dragging the lever back and observing a monitor embedded in the wall.
“How far back in time do we have to go before the chances of a successful revolution are increased?– Sir Martin questions, as the Alien returns the lever to its original position.
“I hope we will be able to return to an actual past; back to the end of one of the Earth’s most notoriously awful president’s time in office” – the Alien replies, at the very same moment the screens begin to broadcast images of a burbling, waffling orange-coloured person – “back to 2020.”
Chapter Seventeen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
Sir Martin, Martin and the Alien spring smartly from their space hoppers and cover their eyes, as the hopper’s composite materials are attracted to various recycling centres throughout the universe at the speed of light.
They find themselves standing in a narrow alleyway, in the east end of London, during the Autumn of 2020, where the scent of freshly baked bread drifts among a multitude of other smells, which combine as they are drawn into their nostrils, to suggest that someone, somewhere, is preparing a sandwich with some poo in it.
“Ah! It is nice to be back in England!” – the Alien remarks, as they make their way down the alleyway and out into a sparsely occupied street.
Their observation of London in 2020, before they left the moon, suggested the Covid pandemic still raged, and they should wear face masks, which, together with round, mirrored sunglasses and a straw boater hat, has allowed the Alien a convenient disguise.
Martin has chosen not to wear a mask, since he caught the virus many years before they found themselves within the moon, and he considers himself immune.
Once they have bought a newspaper, and booked themselves into lodgings, they retire to their room to catch up with the news and rest after their journey. The Alien sits upon a bed and opens the broadsheet, and begins to search through ads for pets, because he hopes to take an Earthly kitty cat back to his home planet, once their mission to save the world has been accomplished.
Sir Martin and Martin’s mouths sag suddenly agape, when they see the bold print of the newspaper’s headline;
PREPARE FOR WW3!
“Tiddles Pom-Pom. Black kitty cat with a somewhat temperamental character, and enchanting male genitalia-shaped white patch on top of head” – the Alien reads aloud, before Sir Martin snatches the newspaper and gasps – “World War Three? It cannot be!”
“And it is not” – Martin concludes, once he has read the text beneath the headline. It is an announcement of a new pandemic, which has been named Werewolf Three, or WW3, for some reason, although I cannot remember it – perhaps as a result of there having been so many. Anyway, I should shower and clean my teeth, since I was not wearing a mask” – he supposes, before leaving the room and entering the bathroom.
Martin emerges some time later, and stands in the bathroom’s doorway in his underpants, with the back of a hand placed theatrically upon his brow.
“I do not feel very well” – he whimpers – “I hope I haven’t caught the .... tha .... thoo .... thwoo .... thwooo-aaaar ...... thwhooooaaaaaaar .... WHOOOOOAAAARGH!”
All at once, the hair upon Martin’s head expands to fill the ceiling space of the room, and his noble nose grows to form a long, twitching snout.
HWOOO-AAAAAARRRRGH!!” – Martin roars, as his eyebrows flourish to become wild, woolly rings, from which his feverish eyes glare, and tufts of hair burst from his nostrils and ears, to form giant fluffy spheres.
“WHOOOOOOOOOOOAAAARGH!!” – Martin expands, while his underpants bellow and balloon dramatically, as a consequence of exponential pubic hair growth, and his arms raise at his sides, as though needles on a gauge measuring the growth of his armpit hair.
“PWHOOOOOAAAARGH!!!” – Martin continues, while hobbling towards the room’s open window upon skinny, white legs, vanishing within writhing tubes of pubes.
“HR-R-R-R-AAAAAAAARRGH!” – he adds, before clambering out of the window and dropping silently onto a sloped rooftop beneath, which he whirls down until he flips over its edge with an – “oh!” – of surprise.
Chapter Eighteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
Once back within the moon, after their unsuccessful attempt to return to the Earth’s past, Sir Martin watches the Alien as he adjusts the levers in the moon’s engine room, with the hope of winding back time on Earth accurately.
Martin is otherwise engaged. Although the WW3 infection vanished once the trio vacated the time zone within which it existed, Martin sits upon a chair, retching loudly and sporadically, while picking lumps of raw meat, crushed bone and tufts of fur from between his teeth, since evidence of the experience lingers.
“What do you think the chances are of saving the Earth?” – Sir Martin asks, while grimacing in response to a fousty feral fart his companion generated some moments beforehand.
“Well, creating the opportunity for a global revolution, which may save the Earth from destruction, is not an impossible task” – the Alien begins, as he frowns at a monitor broadcasting footage of the burbling, waffling orange-coloured Earth president, who is seated at a tiny table, and upon a chair that seems to have been designed for infants.
“Ah. This must be a glitch in the space-time continuum”– the Alien murmurs, as he adjusts the levers nuancically in an effort to eradicate the anomaly.
“Um .... no” – Sir Martin responds – “he chose the furniture to make himself look bigger, so you may be on the right track”
“Really?” – the Alien exclaims, with feigned surprise, as his almond-shaped eyes begin to twitch and water, as a consequence of the putrid werewolf trump suddenly engulfing him.
“And when observing this particular president, and other world leaders, both past and present, adopting your role as The President of the World, with Martin as your Assistant, does not seem such an outrageous notion” – the Alien continues, while regarding a wide-eyed Martin as he repeatedly rolls head over heels on the floor with his tongue sticking out – engaged in a desperate attempt to lick his own bottom.
“The greatest obstacle to planetary liberation may be the people themselves, for one may lead a horse to water, but one cannot make it think, as I believe the Earth adage goes” – the Alien supposes, as he grasps the Bakelite handle of the big, iron lever and pushes it forward, before pulling it back as far as it will go, and then forward to its original position.
Chapter Nineteen of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
“Are you sure you feel well enough to journey with us” – Sir Martin asks, as he and the Alien regard Martin with kindly concern. “If you still feel unwell, you may remain here and join us when you feel ready and able to do so.”
“Really! I feel wonderful! I haven’t noticed any symptoms of WW3 for some time, and I’m really looking forward to embarking upon our mission!” – Martin replies, as his eyes widen, and he begins to rapidly shuffle his feet and pant loudly with his tongue lolling about.
Sir Martin and the Alien slap a hand over their foreheads.
“Do you realise what you just did there?” – Sir Martin asks, while peering through a gap between his fingers, once Martin’s display of wolfish enthusiasm has passed.
“What do you mean?” – Martin asks innocently. “I didn’t do anything. I only felt a great happiness.”
“Indeed” – Sir Martin remarks, as he allows his hand to drop and hang as dejectedly as its companion.
“Well, let’s hope all symptoms of the WW3 pandemic will pass in good time” – Sir Martin concludes, while observing the polished rock floor with an expression of hopeless resignation.
“So, where are we going first?” – Martin asks the Alien, as he swings a leg over a space hopper and seats himself upon its spongy, pvc upholstered saddle.
“I thought we could visit Martin Sharratt in Finland, as you initially planned” – the Alien replies, after he has heaved a rucksack onto his shoulders and performed the same action as Martin. “While I was observing him in 2020, he had almost finished writing and seemed quite miserable, due to a lack of response. And his misery only worsened, as you know, so we can change Martin Sharratt’s future too!”
“A splendid plan!” – Sir Martin agrees, as he mounts his hopper and flicks the kickstart out from the right hand side. “Cheering the great revolutionary formed an element of our intent, so our mission is crammed with good purpose!”
The three revolutionaries kick kickstarts and open throttles wide, and after a deafening squeaking of rubber on the moon’s polished rock floor, they hurtle towards the entrance at around forty eight miles an hour.
They accelerate from the exosphere and down through the thermos, meso, strato and troposphere until they drift over a country where lakes rest as though fragments of mirror upon a carpet of dark green moss. The Alien punches Martin Sharratt’s home address into the Sat-Nav, and they soon find themselves in a car park some twenty metres from his home, in the stillness of an unusually warm Winter’s night.
Once they have sprung from their space hoppers, and have waited until they are certain the blinding flash of light generated by their disintegration has not attracted any attention, they walk up to a door standing within a row of the same, which adorn a block of terrace houses, and ring the doorbell.
After ringing the doorbell and knocking several times, they walk around to the rear of the building, where they find Martin Sharratt’s back door held open with what seems to be a meteorite. The trio knock on the door and call his name, but he does not appear, so they walk into the small, one-roomed apartment with the hope of finding him there.
One end of a Kenyan Prayer Scarf is tied to the handle of the bathroom door, and its length stretches upwards and over its summit. The Alien pulls upon the scarf. It seems taught, as though it is tied to something heavy on the other side of the door, which stands slightly ajar.
“Martin .... Are you in there?” – the Alien asks, in a soft, polite tone.
“Are you having a giant shit?!” – Martin adds, loudly, as the soles of his brogues pitter-patter excitedly on the fake parquet floor.
The Alien grasps the edge of the door and gently pulls it open a fraction. A hand, within which a letter is loosely held, flops from the gap between the door and jamb.
The Alien takes the letter and grasps the hand within his own.
“Stone cold” – the Alien exclaims, sorrowfully. “Martin Sharratt has hanged himself. He is dead!”
Chapter Twenty of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution
Sir Martin, Martin and the Alien sit nestled within the comforting embrace of a two-seater sofa, in the small kitchen space of the apartment, passing between themselves pages of the letter they found within Martin Sharratt’s lifeless left hand, as though its placing revealed it held the final reminiscences of a man’s past.
“Listen to this passage” – the Alien suggests;
“I cannot bring We Free Prophets to a closure in the autobiographical manner it demands, for I have faded to insignificance when compared to the book’s true intent. Yet; the more I understand of my life, the more I am compelled to write of it, so I have chosen to bring my life to an end, so the anomaly does not increase.
As I live, the focus rests upon me. When I am no longer here, only my art will remain. So, I must separate the artist from the art, for art is not truly art until the artist’s life is over and his work is done, and the urgency of the situation regarding life on Earth demands that my work be taken into consideration as soon as possible.
An increasing amount of the majority must participate within the world’s political arena, for that is the nature of true democracy, and true democracy has the power to transform this troubled world into the paradise it should be for all who live, and are yet to live.
For so long as so many are governed by so few, who place their own interests before the majority they supposedly represent, humankind will continue to be instructed to create a fearful, dissonant, corrupt world, resting upon the brink of a man-made destruction, until the time of its man-made destruction.
Should the tables turn, and the interests of the majority reign supreme, humankind will find themselves living in a peaceful, fair, harmonious world, resting upon the brink of a man-made creation.”
“Poo!” – Martin exclaims.
“Goodness!” – Sir Martin expands.
“Snorzob!” – the Alien elaborates. “Although Martin Sharratt lived a life few would envy, behind his flawed character rested a heart of gold, and within his troubled spirit; the kindest of intent towards this beautiful planet and all its life. One cannot help but admire him, a teeny-weeny bitty-bit.”
“Yes. It is sad he is dead” – Martin supposes, as he casts a glance around the room. “I wonder if there is any food in the fridge. He lived a lonely life and may have assumed it would go off before anyone found him – dangling there – so he may have eaten everything before he hung himself.”
“Is there anything of interest in your excerpt, Sir Martin?” – the Alien asks.
“I don’t know. These pages seems quite discordant. Paranoid, almost. Obviously, he would have been in a curious frame of mind, and his handwriting is difficult to decipher too, at times. Something about Harry Potter. The Joker film. Clan Sharratt in Star Wars’ gaming. A Russell ..... Gland, perhaps. Stephen King. An apology to a disabled Australian Aboriginal whom he offended during a time of extreme paranoid anxiety, and a journalist on a dating site at the end of his marriage. A call for the extreme taxation of .... a .... Jiff Buzzarse .... and others who have accumulated fortunes that have a negative impact on the Earth’s economy.
Something about drugs, and how he wished he had never used them, or only occasionally, rather than on a daily basis. A passage encouraging abstinence, for he assumes it is time to face a grim reality and seek sober alternatives to the seemingly intoxicated guidelines dictating humankind’s advance.
Then a passage as though an excerpt from a manifesto, suggesting paper recycling is unnecessary, if forests are managed with care, and a minimal amount of ink used on packaging, since paper is bio-degradable, and that attention should be turned towards plastics, because they cause the greatest harm to the environment.
He has written of his love for his children, and how he wished he would have been the father they deserved. His fury, for what happened to him in his childhood, the consequences it had on his life, and a somewhat resigned stance when he considers he is a mere fraction of evidence suggesting humankind’s evolution is flawed.
There is an almost unintelligible, somewhat paranoid rant regarding hackers of the public domain, who he claims have stolen writing and personal correspondence from him and his family, and who he believes should be held accountable for their crimes, since he argues it is burglary; theft achieved by breaking and entering a home, and it should not make any difference how a home is broken into. Something about hackers spying on him and broadcasting his every day living, and of a general initiative to essentially destroy him and his family.
The Daily Mail. Star-shaped unicorn poo, the day of the Dead. Fousty Foam, trolls, goats, avocados and underpants! It is impossible to make sense of it all! I suppose it amounts to that which he could not cram into the autobiographical conclusion of We Free Prophets, and perhaps it is just as well he failed. What about you, Martin. Have you found anything of interest?
“Yes. I found a sausage skin, and something green with mould and quite delicious!” – Martin responds, from within the fridge, as he licks a bare shelf with the eagerness of a child their first ever lollipop.
The lap, lap, lap of Martin’s licking reminds Sir Martin of the tick-tock ticking of a clock, and the passing of time, which results in a revelation.
“Wait! This cannot be! I wrote to Martin Sharratt in a future far beyond this day, so he cannot be dead. This is another glitch in the space-time continuum! Martin Sharratt did not hang himself. He is alive!”
Chapter Twenty One of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
“Poo! I would wait for a day or two, if I were you” – Martin Sharratt suggests, to his sudden guests, as he hurries from the bathroom, before recoiling from shock, pirouetting upon a heel, and collapsing into a heap on the floor behind the sofa.
Sir Martin, Martin and the Alien twist in their seats, rest on their knees on the sofa, and observe a quivering Martin Sharratt with wide-eyed wonder.
“How remarkable” – the Alien remarks. “It seems that once we identified the glitch in the space time continuum, it vanished. I think it is safe to assume that we are in an actual past on Earth.”
“I think you are right. Look! The letter has gone, and the Kenyan Prayer Scarf has transformed into a length of toilet paper passing over the top of the door” – Sir Martin calculates, before the three revolutionaries turn to regard the one whose work they admire so.
“He is coming to” – Martin concludes, after some time.
“Yes; he is trying to say something” – Sir Martin observes, as Martin Sharratt’s greying beard begins to twitch, as though an elderly hedgehog poked in the bottom by a cruel child with a stick.
“Pn-mf-knorble-font .... droit!” – Martin Sharratt manages.
“He is speaking gibberish!” – Martin observes – “let’s throw a bucket of cold water over him!”
“Wait!” – the Alien commands, as he raises a commanding hand; a spindly finger of which vanishes up one of Martin’s nostrils, which encourages Martin to yelp, yap and sneeze, and gallop in frantic circles upon his hands and knees.
“I am fluent in Earth Gibberish. Since time is of the essence, I shall explain the reason for our presence while he is regaining his reasoning, which will allow him to understand the situation before he would if we were to wait until he has fully regained his senses” – the Alien explains, as he draws breath to speak. “Now, listen up, Martin Sharratt ........ p-toomf, snurdley-parpli poop-le-p-toink .....”
Chapter Twenty Two of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
“I think I understand the reason you are here” – Martin Sharratt murmurs, while steam rising from the piping-hot cup of tea he holds to his lips curls around his noble nose and permanent frown.
“Ah, good!” – the Alien exclaims, cheerfully, while standing in front of the small sofa where the others are seated, with his hands clasped to his chest. “So, you understand we are here to assist you in your quest to evoke a global revolution, which may save this beautiful planet from destruction?”
Martin Sharratt looks up at the Alien from beneath arched eyebrows and nods eagerly, while blowing billows of steam from the surface of his tea.
“You are aware that the Board of Representatives for the Intergalactic Community have authorised intervention in the Earth’s political affairs, since the dissonant, idiotic, aggressive interactions between your world’s leaders will surely result in the Earth’s destruction, in one way or another; either as a consequence of climate change and global warming, a spate of pandemics, which would eventually wipe out humankind, or a nuclear holocaust that may even destroy the planet itself?” – the Alien continues, while smiling broadly and nodding his head, which encourages Martin Sharratt to resume nodding in the affirmative.
“You understand that the Intergalactic Community have been monitoring your work since you began writing, in 2008, together with Sir Martin and Martin’s efforts to form the CWO?” – the Alien expands, maintaining a steady nod, and observing Martin Sharratt as he does the same.
“And I hope my command of Earth Gibberish is of a standard that has allowed you to grasp that I have assisted them in their quest, and briefly lost my bottom in the process, yet I have returned to Earth for the second, and more than likely, the last time, with the hope my assistance will ensure the mission to save the Earth will conclude successfully?
I also hope you understand that your work has not been in vain? Although the concept has not been received with enthusiasm on Earth, your writing has encouraged every planet within the known universe to create political systems based on Athenian Democracy, with the CWO adopted as a modern-day version of the ancient principle?”
“Yes. I did grasp that, and I must say it is wonderful news! I am not much encouraged by my fellow writers, or anyone, for that matter, and I have been finding it difficult to muster enthusiasm, of late. So, what I have learned today provides the fuel I need to complete the books I have always hoped may have the power to change the world!”
“Ah! Splendid! Just as we had hoped!” – the Alien enthuses, joyfully, while Sir Martin and Martin each offer a gleeful – “yay!” – and clap their hands beneath beaming smiles.
“Yes. In fact, I have to say; it is all more than curious” – Martin Sharratt assumes, while scratching his troubled crown. “You see; I had given up, because I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm required to continue; as though I had collapsed from exhaustion when the finish line was in sight.
Yet; I thought I had written enough to be able to achieve my goal, so I wrote a suicide letter, which I hoped would find its way to the press, and hung myself in the bathroom with a Kenyan Prayer Scarf, with the hope doing so would draw attention to my work. Or, at least that’s what I thought I had done, until I found you here. Now, I suppose I passed out after performing a colossal hole-wrenching shit, and dreamt of the plan while unconscious. Or maybe I am mistaken and I did hang myself, and I am dead?”
“Ah, no! I can assure you that you are very much alive!” – the Alien smiles, while patting Martin Sharratt’s shoulder reassuringly. “You see, we travelled back in time with the hope of altering the Earth’s future, for there may not be enough time to save the world within the time frame we are from. We are from the future, and Sir Martin wrote to you in that future, where you exist, so you couldn’t have hung yourself.”
“Or perhaps this is yet another glitch in the space-time continuum?” – Sir Martin offers, much to the Alien’s annoyance – “and Martin Sharratt’s presence in the future a consequence of having meddled with time in a glitch?”
“Or maybe we are from a glitch?” – Martin wonders.
“Yes, yes, yes!” – the Alien replies, curtly, while his eyes roll around and around, briefly revealing their whites. “But we do not have time to ponder such variables, so we must assume this is the Earth’s actual past, and we are from an actual future, and embark upon our mission to save the world while there is still time!”
Chapter Twenty Three of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
“How do you plan to save the world?” – Martin Sharratt asks, with a permanent frown struggling to perform an expression of curiosity.
“Well, although we tried a similar approach before, and failed, I have been perfecting software to create the CWO in each of the world’s one hundred and ninety five countries, based on the generic model you outline in your book, The Last Revolution, and a global version of the site, all of which will be promoted to the Earth’s majority by Sir Martin, who will act as The President of the World, and Martin, who will perform duties as his Assistant.
Their mission will be to encourage the majority of humankind to attend the forums, where they will begin to design a new world through collective intelligence, and I will intervene if the response does not reflect the urgency of the situation at hand.”
“And how do you plan to intervene?” – Martin Sharratt asks, wonderingly, with a tangle of creases upon his brow that fail to project the sentiment.
“I will act as a representative of the Intergalactic Community; to inform the peoples of Earth of the existence of other worlds hosting intelligent life, and the universal wish that humankind would begin to behave as though they were intelligent too, before their stupidity results in the destruction of the Earth.”
“Ha!” – Martin Sharratt exclaims. “How coincidental! I had the same idea; to be The President of the World, with the hope of evoking a global revolution, but I failed miserably. Or rather; I do not know whether I would have succeeded or not, since I was expelled from the writers’ site where I was conducting my presidential affairs, and my writing was deleted by the site’s moderators.”
“Well! Ha! And yet another ha!” – Sir Martin exclaims. I had the same idea too, but I was expelled from the club where I was conducting my writings as The President of the World, and they destroyed the notebook where my writing may have been read in the club’s library, by those I wished to influence.”
“I suppose there are many who wish they could be The President of the World, and encourage everyone to revolt against the corrupt forces governing humankind’s advance, and an equal amount who would sabotage their efforts if they were to try” – Martin Sharratt supposes, glumly, with an expression that has managed to express sorrow with ease.
“Yes, but this is not an indefinite scenario” – Sir Martin assumes, while pinching the tip of his noble nose and pulling it towards the floor – “at some point the majority must succeed in their rebellion against a corrupt minority, for it is undeniable that time is running out.”
“You are right” – Martin Sharratt agrees, while frowning naturally at the expression Sir Martin’s nose-pulling has generated – “I wish you swift success in your mission.”
“Would you care to join us?” – Sir Martin drones, nasally.
“Um, no. It is always good to have a plan B, no matter how weak it may seem when compared to plan A. So, I should stay and continue writing.”
“Very well, good sir. I wish you a swift success in your endeavour, as you have wished us the same.”
The four revolutionaries engage in a group hug, before Sir Martin, Martin and the Alien prepare to leave, by inflating a new set of space hoppers, and Martin Sharratt excuses himself, to perform yet another giant shit.
Chapter Twenty Four of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
Sir Martin, Martin and the Alien dismount their space hoppers expertly, in the overgrown gardens of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen, and walk towards the silhouette of the building, as though it stands guarding a thunderous night sky.
“Just as we assumed; the club is vacant” – Sir Martin announces, as he reads a yellowing notice pinned to the club’s front door, demanding visitors fill out a registration form.
“Good! Then we may use the club as our headquarters, as we had hoped” – Martin concludes, as the trio stride through swaying grasses towards the club’s rear, where they climb through an open bathroom window and into the club’s fousty interior.
“Gosh, it smells of mould and old people’s poo!” – Martin complains, while pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Yes, the club is devoid of members, but they have left their smells behind” – Sir Martin presumes, as they head through the club to the library.
“And there’s no electricity, as usual” – Martin adds, when he flicks a light switch, once they are within the room, which does nothing to alleviate the darkness – “and it is too late to call the provider and have the electricity reconnected.”
“The electricity is of no immediate concern, for I thought of such inconveniences beforehand, and have brought a limitless source of energy that will be suffice to illuminate our presence, and power the entire planet’s CWO!” – the Alien announces, as he lifts a glass box from his rucksack, housing a large, orange-coloured grub, with round eyes that radiate an air of happiness and contentment, and a tiny pink tongue, which intermittently licks either a lemon or a potato. A stout cable protrudes from the grub’s glowing posterior and leads to an array of power-points, secured to the outer wall of the box.
“Does it have enough power to provide heating?” – Martin asks, who stands trembling with his arms wrapped around his sides.
“Unfortunately, although it has the capability, I seem to remember there are no electric radiators. The club is heated by fireplaces alone, and I noted the woodstore empty, as we passed it on our way to the rear of the building, so we should search for something we might burn. Let’s venture first to the kitchen; perhaps there is some wood there.”
The trio march along a corridor, lit by the powerful beam of a flashlight held by the Alien, and turn into the kitchen’s doorway.
“A-ha! The very dab!” – the Alien exclaims, as the flashlight illuminates a long washing line presenting a row of Sir Richard’s brossieres, ranging in design from polka-dot to floral.
The three revolutionaries spend the rest of their day warmed by Sir Richard’s blazing brossieres, while preparing an area of the library where Sir Martin will be able to deliver his inaugural address as The President of the World.
Chapter Twenty Five of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
After the trio have spent a restless night working, and catching cat naps upon sofas within The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen’s library, they make the final preparatory steps towards their mission of replacing the Earth’s fragmented political system with a true, global democracy.
“Are you ready?” – Martin asks Sir Martin, from his seated position at a table, upon which rests the laptop that hosts the entire planet’s CWO forums, and will control Sir Martin’s broadcasts as The President of the World.
“Yes; I am as ready to evoke a global revolution as can be expected” – Sir Martin smiles, from within a grand old armchair that makes him look rather small.
At that very moment, Sir Richard appears in the doorway of the library, with a sledgehammer held within the grasp of his powerful, yet spindly arms.
“ENOUGH OF YOUR BLOODY FUCKING REVOLUTION!” – Sir Richard shrieks, as he strides towards Martin, with hitherto unobserved members of the club trailing behind, as though they popped out of Sir Richard’s bottom.
As Sir Richard raises the sledgehammer above the laptop, a squirrel scuttles up his body and sinks its sharp, yellow teeth into his wrist, causing Sir Richard to screech in pain, drop the sledgehammer onto his foot, and screech in pain again.
Within moments, The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen’s library is swarming with furious, ginger rodents, seeking revenge for the terror Sir Richard inflicted upon the squirrel community throughout his childhood, youth, and thirties, forties and fifties.
“YA-ROO!” – Sir Richard squeals, as one of the rodents vanishes into his lederhosen.
As if the squirrels sense they are no threat, and only wish to rescue a dying world from a needless, sorrowful fate, neither Sir Martin, Martin nor the Alien receive a single bite.
They only watch, transfixed by the horror, as the vengeful squirrels writhe over Sir Richard and the members of his club, until all that is left of the scoundrels is a scattering of gleaming white bones and an assortment of weapons, polished by the buffing of squirrel fur.
The trio of unlikely revolutionaries gawp with wonder as the writhing rabble of rodents retreat from the room, and listen until sound of claws scrambling across wooden floors has been swallowed by an eerie silence.
“POW!” – Martin exclaims, eventually – “that was weird!”
“Weird, yet entirely beneficial. Sir Richard and his cronies will bother us no more, so we may embark upon our quest to save the world unhindered by hindrances!”
Sir Martin, Martin and the Alien exhaust the day by carting bones and weapons from the library and digging a large hole, within which they toss the aforementioned.
Once they have filled it in, and placed a rudimentary cross on the grave – with RIP written neatly upon it in biro – they return to the club to shower and retire to bed for the night, where they dream of a world that should have been, and may yet be.
Chapter Twenty Six of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
Sir Martin spends the morning arranging a delivery of firewood, lashings of fine food and wines, and the reconnection of the club’s electricity, while Martin and the Alien make the final adjustments to the setting from which Sir Martin’s speeches as The President of the World will be broadcast.
“What percentage of the world’s population will receive the broadcasts?” – Martin asks, as he floomfs a cushion.
“Well, the broadcasts will be automatically subtitled in the language of the country they are being transmitted to, and interrupt every television channel and social media platform. Headline articles will be generated in all of the world’s online newspapers, in all of the world’s languages, and those who are not reached through these means will be informed by those who have, so I expect pretty much the entire planet will know of the CWO within days of the first broadcast” – the Alien explains, while he adjusts the webcam until the armchair’s head cushion rests dead centre.
Once the stage is set, Sir Martin flops into the armchair and tilts his head back, so Martin can perform one of his first duties as Sir Martin’s assistant, by applying stage make-up. When the task is complete, Martin holds a hand mirror in front of Sir Martin so he can admire the results.
“YO - DEL - AI - TAI - E - TI!” – Sir Martin yodels, before grabbing a handful of wet-wipes from the make-up tray, which he uses to remove thick black mascara and purple eye shadow from around his eyes, and pomegranate-red lipstick from his lips.
“Oh! I thought you would approve” – Martin sulks, as he adjusts a tartan brossiere he has looped over Sir Martin’s shoulders. “I thought a gender-neutral image best when reaching out to the entire planet.”
Once Sir Martin has offered his companion a troubled frown, bridging a look expressing concern, he wriggles from the brossiere and indicates he is ready to begin.
Martin seats himself at the table upon which the laptop rests, with his finger poised over the key that will allow the broadcast to commence, while the Alien stands behind him, counting down from ten to zero, with the last digits indicated by the wagging of a spindly forefinger and silent mouthing of the numbers;
“Three, two, one ...... ”
“Ah! Yes! Good day to you, dearest peoples of planet Earth ..... ” – Sir Martin begins, moments before Martin curses and slaps the laptop.
“Dammit! The feed has jammed!” – Martin hisses – “there is only a still frame of Sir Martins face, and it’s turning white, so there’s something wrong with the colour balance too!”
Chapter Twenty Seven of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
A considerable percentage of the Earth’s inhabitants are startled by the sudden appearance of an unfamiliar face, upon the screens of their electronic devices, which greets them as though an alien, before falling silent and turning ghostly white. Moments thereafter, they hear a loud farting sound, accompanied by the gradual disappearance of the strange host, who exits the frame sideways, as though a tree being felled.
For some time, the broadcast offers nothing but a cream-coloured pillow, upon which ‘The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen’ is embroidered, in gold thread, and an incoherent mumbling and flickering subtitles, which read ‘Oh no! Sir Martin has passed out as a consequence of stage fright!’ and ‘Poo! I think the fear was so great it encouraged him to soil himself!’
A half hour or so later, a fractionally larger percentage of the Earth’s inhabitants are startled to an even greater degree, when the oval head of a seemingly alien being invades the screen, who repeats the greeting of the first host of the curious broadcast.
“Ah! Yes! Good day to you, dearest peoples of planet Earth ..... ”
They are mesmerised by the alien’s black, opaque, almond-shaped eyes, and lulled into a strange sense of calm by the gentle timbre of his voice.
“My name is .... well, actually, it is P-tow F-nickertop A-gordli Dronk E-a-eh-eh Sporzonfroot G-nor B Fonki, but I will adopt an Earthly title, so you may remember it with ease, and ‘Sir Martian’ has sprung to mind.
As you may have already guessed; I am not from Earth. However; neither am I from Mars, as my pseudonym suggests. In fact; it is rather difficult to explain where I am from. So, in an effort to simplify the region of the universe, let’s just say I am from the ’hood – if one considers the ’hood as an area of an infinite universe known to intelligent life residing within the vicinity of the infinite universe known to them – and the Earth is a planet within this vicinity, which is a fact you have only now learned.
Please do not be alarmed! I come in peace to Earth, to bring peace to Earth. I am a representative of the Intergalactic Community, and represent the concern all forms of intelligent life in the ’hood have for this beautiful planet, for it seems humankind are intent on destroying one another, all life, and even the planet itself, for reasons even you yourself may find difficult to comprehend.
Since all intelligent life seem to share fundamental traits, such as the desire to survive, thrive, and create an agreeable environment within which to flourish – which have guided the development of wondrous, peaceful, harmonious civilisations upon all planets throughout the universe known to us – the Intergalactic Community assume humankind may achieve the same, if presented with the opportunity to do so, for we assume your fundamental nature no different from that of any other form of intelligent life.
So, once this introductory broadcast has ended, I hope you will browse the internet in search of a site entitled the CWO – the Consensus of World Opinion – which will offer this opportunity in the near future. You will also find smaller versions of this global forum, which represent the society of each of the Earth’s one hundred and ninety five countries. You will find your country’s site by searching for ‘CWO’ followed by the internet suffix relating to your country. For instance, if you live in the United Kingdom, you will find the site by searching for the cwo.uk, and so forth.
Within these sites, you will encounter a number of forums representing the various elements of society, such as healthcare, education, and so on. Although the forums are not yet active, instructions relating to their use may be read in the site’s FAQ, and a deeper understanding may be gleaned by reading a book entitled ‘The Last Revolution’ by Martin Sharratt.
That is all for now, dear friends. The next broadcast will commence in approximately twenty four hours. Until then, I wish you enjoy contemplating this exciting opportunity, and dream of the kind of world you wish to live in.”
Martin punches the key to end the broadcast just as Sir Martin is regaining his senses.
“What happened?” – Sir Martin asks, groggily – “and why has someone shat in my pants?”
Chapter Twenty Eight of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
Sir Martin and Martin enter the library, during the morning of the following day, to find Sir Martian reclining in the armchair sitting before the webcam.
“So, although it is often said, here on Earth, that money is the root of all evil, it may be more accurate to assume it is the root of all stupidity” – Sir Martian muses, as he nods and smiles at his two Earthly companions, who stroll over to the table supporting the laptop, which informs them a broadcast is in progress.
“For instance, there are rafts of garbage floating in the Pacific Ocean, which consist mostly of plastic, and may be as big as Russia’s land mass when combined. Although they are incredibly detrimental to ocean life, and should therefore be removed, they are, to quote a disturbing article from National Geographic, which you may read via the link I have provided;
‘.... so far from any country’s coastline, no nation will take responsibility or provide the funding to clean it up. Charles Moore, the man who discovered the vortex, says cleaning up the garbage patch would “bankrupt any country” that tried it.’
Although money has been around on Earth for some time – with the first form of currency, the Mesopotamian shekel, minted almost five thousand years ago – and the world’s wealth of today has been generated by the toil of humankind’s ancestors since that time; eight Earthlings own half of it, and may spend it as they please.
Unfortunately, cleaning up the Great Pacific Garbage Patch is not on their list of things to do with their cash, and those responsible for allowing this incredibly unjust division of the world’s wealth have not retained the finance required for such tasks.
However; even if such mindless stupidity were rectified, one may wonder what to do with the plastic if it were removed from the ocean. Yet; although separating the different types of plastics for recycling would certainly be a tiresome, if not near-impossible task, there is an alternative; all types of plastic refuse could be chipped together, mixed with sand, heated, and pressed into a wide variety of durable construction materials, from roof tiles and building bricks to paving stones. The plastic may also be used for other construction purposes, such as the surface of roads.
There are many articles and videos on the internet promoting such innovation, and I offer a link to a video from youtube, which describes the process of creating bricks in a simplistic manner.
Of course; your entire planet is polluted with plastic waste, but since there are solutions to the problem, one should wonder why it is not being dealt with. One should wonder whether it would be if the problem were considered by the collective intelligence of humankind, rather than the fragmented logic of a governing minority.
After I have breakfasted with my Earthly friends, Sir Martin and Martin, I will return to discuss further advantages of a global democracy. Until then, I wish you a pleasant day, and hope you are beginning to acknowledge the absurdity of some aspects of life on Earth, and sense they are rectifiable though intelligent intervention.”
Sir Martian smiles, waves cheerfully, and slides downwards in the armchair until his image on the laptop’s screen has been replaced by that of the head cushion with ‘The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen’ embroidered upon it, in gold thread.
Chapter Twenty Nine of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
Sir Martin, Martin and Sir Martian are seated at the table in The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen’s dining room, with their breakfasts before them.
“Ah!” – Sir Martian exclaims, while wiggling his fingers at either side of his head – “Piping hot Earth gröt. My favourite.”
“Yah! .... woh - a - woh - a - ploh .... ploh .... ploh .... p-lohrij!” – Martin replies, while nodding his head and wafting a hand before his open mouth, from which steam from a spoonful of porridge is billowing.
“I do apologise for commencing the day’s broadcast without you, but you were both sleeping so peacefully I thought I would allow you to rest while I activated the world’s CWO forums. The immediate response was mostly within the global version of the CWO, where debates regarding such concerns as nuclear warfare, poverty, corruption and planetary pollution had began, so I thought I would offer an intergalactic opinion regarding these issues.
And it is just as well you interrupted me when you did, as I may have been straying into the territory of creating a manifesto, by offering an opinion relating to the recycling of plastic waste.”
Sir Martian explains, before gently blowing on a spoonful of porridge, with the appearance of thin bands of white at the outer corners of his black eyes suggesting he is squinting at the spoon.
“Well, perhaps that would have been acceptable, since the immediate disintegration of the space hoppers, after their use, and dispersal of their component parts to recycling centres, suggests the Universal Community is most adept in the recycling process, and we may learn a great deal from your expertise” – Martin assumes, before shovelling another spoonful of steaming hot gröt into his mouth and a-woh-ing and wafting it cool.
“Ah, yes. We have developed a most intricate recycling system throughout the known universe, since resources are not as abundant on other planets as they are on Earth, and we like to consider generations who will live beyond our own – to make sure there will be enough for them too.
But the system we have developed is far beyond Earth’s technological capability, so I was about to suggest one that rests within the realm of possibility. In fact; it would be a very simple solution.”
“Woh?! Aww! .... pwee teh a - woh - a - woh itiz!” – Martin pleads, as though his wafting hand has rendered the sentence almost unintelligible.
“Ah, no. I shouldn’t. Anyway; it really is simple, and I’m quite certain the collective reasoning of humankind will arrive at the same conclusion as I. And the point of democracy is that the majority trust in their own capabilities, rather than expecting to be told what to do by a minority – for that is not democracy; it is dictatorship.”
“Yes. That is true, but whatever you say will not go beyond this room, and both Martin and I are curious to hear your opinion.”
“Very well” – Sir Martian concedes, as he places his spoon into the bowl of gröt and leans towards his friends.
“Rather than separating plastics destined for recycling – one type from another – with the remaining plastics left to pollute the environment, or harvested by a growing number of entrepreneurships, which grind them up as a base for construction materials; all plastics could be processed in this manner.”
Sir Martin and Martin’s puzzled expressions encourage Sir Martian to expand.
“I mean; all the Earth’s plastic waste could be ground together, to form a base that may be used to produce a wide variety of durable construction materials, from bricks to roads.
The construction materials would be a valuable commodity, and the plastics employed in their creation an expense for the manufacturer. So, rather than receiving a deposit for a bottle made from a certain type of plastic, for example, there could be a handsome price, per kilogram, for all plastics, from styrene cups to toothpaste tubes. And should this system be introduced, I imagine there would be a race to clean up the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, and the rest of the planet.”
Chapter Thirty of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
“Wow! That’s a really great idea!” – Martin enthuses, while attempting to hang his spoon from the tip of his noble nose. “I imagine people would be digging through landfills to find plastic gold! Do you have any more good ideas?”
“Well, yes; I do. And if you and Sir Martin hadn’t interrupted me, I may have suggested other solutions to the Earth’s problems too, based on the functionality of civilisations upon planets throughout the known universe.
For instance; I may have suggested a solution to the Earth’s economic crisis, by recommending the introduction of a global progressive taxation system, a universal currency, and a global minimum wage that would eradicate exploitation. A universal price for basic commodities, such as a litre of milk and a loaf of bread. That kind of thing.”
“Oh! How I wish we would have slept all day!” – Martin wails, as the spoon falls from his nose and lands in his empty porridge bowl with a clatter. “Why don’t you be The President of the World instead of Sir Martin? Everyone would listen to you, especially if you were to broadcast footage from civilisations throughout the universe to show how well they function.”
“Well, although that would be possible, it would defeat the purpose of a revolution. If I told everyone what to do, the majority would still be governed, and should I cease to be The President of the World, they would be at risk of being governed by a minority once again, which may lead to the same kind of problems as those humankind should strive to eradicate in this present day.
I’m afraid Sir Martin will just have to overcome his embarrassment and resume his role as The President of the World, and guide humankind’s advance for so long as he is able, as a human being, with human reasoning based on human understanding” – Sir Martian replies, while polishing his spoon on a cuff of his suit’s sleeve, before holding it in front of his face and regarding his reversed reflection.
“Also; one cannot simply provide an answer to a problem. One must determine the reason for the problem, to ensure it will not arise again. And a practical problem may have arisen as a result of a spiritual flaw.
You see; a revolution leading to a paradise on Earth would not be purely intellectual – a political revolution. The revolution must also be of the spirit. In fact; it’s success depends on it. It isn’t politics that has landed you all in this mess. The world’s political infrastructure is only a means through which the spirit of humankind is, and has been expressed.
Of course; it may be argued that politics only expresses the nature of a governing minority, rather than the nature of the whole of humankind – and if this is not the case, and politics is a means through which the human spirit may be measured, it may be said humankind’s collective character is not a pleasant one to behold, and a revolution would lead humankind back to their point of departure.”
“Do you think the world’s political climate reflects the true nature of humankind” – Martin asks, glumly, with his nose resting on the rim of his porridge bowl. He sniffles sorrowfully, and begins to choke, when a blob of gröt shoots up a nostril and down his throat.
“No. Both I and the rest of the universe assume politics reflects the nature of a governing minority, and the world would be entirely different if it were to reflect the nature of the majority, through true democracy, which forms the reason for intergalactic intervention in the Earth’s political affairs” – Sir Martian replies, reassuringly, while slapping Martin’s back and observing Sir Martin, who is pacing around the table, wringing his hands.
Chapter Thirty One of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
“Are you ready to evoke revolution, Sir Martin, as The President of the World?” – Sir Martian bellows, in a tone he hopes both projects and inspires confidence.
Sir Martin screeches – “WHAT?!” – and rotates rapidly on a heel, while his bottom generates a loud belching sound, as though a motor responsible for his sudden gyration.
“Oh no! The mere suggestion has caused Sir Martin to käk his khakis” – Martin groans, into his hands covering his face – “I have never seen him like this; he’s always been so brave!”
“No! It was a poo buzzer; warning of such an event. But yes. I am very much afraid” – Sir Martin admits, as he spins to a standstill.
“Please consider reconsidering!” – Sir Martin begs – “or could Martin be The President of the World?”
“I’m sorry; I can’t be The President of the World, for reasons I have already presented you with, and Martin is still suffering from concussion, after the anvil landed on his head, and from the occasional symptoms of WW3, it seems” – Sir Martian explains, while frowning at Martin, who has adopted an expression of intense concentration and a stooped stance, which allows him to sniff Sir Martin’s bottom.
“What about Martin Sharratt? He wrote The Last Revolution, so he would be perfect for the role!” – Sir Martin asks, while gripping the tip of Martin’s nose and pulling him upright.
“Well, yes. That’s true, but he has also written We Free Prophets. Have you read it?” – Sir Martian asks.
“No. We’ve only read The Last Revolution. What is We Free Prophets about? Is it revolutionary literature?”
“In a way, yes. But it is a very strange book, full of odd stories about bears and gerbils and dogs and things, which do very little in the way of elevating him to the lofty heights one would expect The President of the World to occupy. In fact; it rather has the opposite effect, so I’m afraid you are just going to have to gather the courage and do it yourself.”
“NO!” – Sir Martin shrieks – “I know the world’s a mess and time is running out, but why should I care any more than anyone else? Why should I care about those who will live after I have lived? I will have left already! Why should I even care about those who live while I live? The homeless and the hungry? I have a roof over my head and a tummy full of gröt! And why should I care if the world is destroyed? It doesn’t matter, so long as it holds out while I am here! I could get some tattoos and have my nipples pierced, grow a beard and talk about revolution, but I don’t think I have it in me to actually do something!” – he whimpers.
“Well, ironically, your attitude should allow you the resolve required for your quest” – Sir Martian calculates, while stroking his chin between a thumb and forefinger, and wondering why humans are the only form of intelligent life capable of growing beards.
“What do you mean?” – Sir Martin asks, in a tone of voice that should make one cringe.
“Well. Another trait intelligent life share is a pack mentality; an altruism that allows both the survival and healthy evolution of a species” – Sir Martian explains, while walking slowly and thoughtfully around the table, as though avoiding stepping upon certain aspects of the carpet’s pattern. “Without it; I would not be here, for technology would not have advanced sufficiently to enable my teleportation to Earth, since team work is an essentail component of advance, whether technological or otherwise. In fact; intelligent life throughout the universe may still be living in caves and holes in the ground, with each fighting for their own survival, if we would not have understood the immense benefits of altruism.
Or – together we stand; divided we fall. You see; although politics reflects the nature of a governing minority – their nature, expressed through politics, influences the nature of the majority, and their influence has led to the erosion of altruism, among other things, which you have expressed in your recent change of attitude.
Of course; this is a very deliberate strategy, for altruism is an essential quality of revolution and power of the people. So, I hope you are able to recognise that your basic human nature has been manipulated, and reach deep within to find your true, altruistic self, and the courage to encourage each and everyone to do the same.”
Sir Martin’s eyes widen and he emits a loud, farting sound, which leads Sir Martian and Martin to wonder whether it was a poo buzzer, or a solid declaration of defeat.
Chapter Thirty Two of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
“I won’t give up! I won’t get tattoos, grow a beard and have my nipples pierced, so I look like a revolutionary! I will continue to shave carefully, wear a suit and brogues, leave my nipples in peace and actually be one!” – Sir Martin rants, while stamping a determined ellipse around the grand oak table in The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen’s dining room.
“That’s the spirit!” – Sir Martian exclaims, encouragingly, while Martin skips and hops excitedly alongside his companion with his tongue lolling about.
“So, are you ready to broadcast?” – Sir Martian asks, a moment before Sir Martin arrives at an abrupt, squeaking standstill.
“My shoe” – Sir Martin explains, in response to Sir Martian’s raised eyebrow.
“But yes; I am ready. Before I begin, could you help me, somehow? I mean; I know I must be The President of the World, because both Martin and Martin Sharratt are unable to fulfil the role, for one reason and another, and you can’t because you may end up telling humankind what to do, when it is up to humankind to decide what should be done, through true democracies, but could you explain the reason we have found ourselves in such a mess? It may help me to understand how we may extract ourselves from it.
The Intergalactic Community have been observing humankind’s advance for many thousands of years, so could you tell me at what point things started to go wrong?”
“Well, yes. I suppose I could. You see; your species has been fond of manipulating your environment since the beginning of your time on Earth. The first evidence dates back hundreds of thousands of years.
Your early ancestors carved spirals upon stones and created art in caves.They wore paths through forests and built shelters wherever they pleased. The world was theirs, to treat as they wished. They did not wish to harm the world, for it allowed their survival and filled them with a sense of wonder. Rather; they sensed they were contributing to a flawless, magnificent design to which they belonged.
Evidence of your ancestors’ impact on the environment increased in direct proportion to their increasing numbers, and the impact was wholesome and fascinating. There is nothing to suggest your ancestors disrespected the Earth. On the contrary; ancient architecture and artefacts speak of humankind’s worship of the Earth, and whatever miracle that had led to its creation.
Evidence of ancient altruism suggests a respect for the environment within which humankind’s ancestors lived. However; at some point in time, the freedom to manipulate the environment passed into the hands of a tiny percentage of humankind.
Now, although I could elaborate, to do so would be giving an answer to a question that humankind are able to, and should figure out for themselves. It will not be so difficult, for the change has taken place over the course of a few thousand years, which is documented within your history books.
Yes; it is up to you to figure out what has led to the withdrawal of what may be seen as a considerable element of life’s joy and meaning – the freedom to manipulate the environment in which you live. You should figure out why the world’s design has become a concern for so few people, who have manipulated civilisation’s advance to suit their own criteria, at the expense of a majority, who work to create the world of their invention.
Now, you live within a world that has been designed for you by a handful of people. You must strive to reclaim the right to design the world in which you live – to work together to create a world that is designed by the majority, for the majority. Even though there is endless entertainment, humankind are bored and frustrated, for they are unable to express a fundamental desire; to manipulate the environment and create the kind of world they wish to live in, full of spirals and art and dance and music!
All you may do is design your home and garden, if you are lucky enough to have them, or yourselves – right down to wondering what you might do with your belly buttons, which you may decide to pierce, or include as the bottom hole of a tattoo design for some creature or other.
The majority of humankind have been forced, by a minority, to reside in the corners of a colossal box they have been instructed to build. The walls of the box are folding inwards, and the majority of humankind are trapped inside.
To escape the confines of the box, humankind must reclaim what has been withdrawn; reclaim a sense of altruism and reach out into the world, and to one another – to join hands and engage in the dance of life!”
Chapter Thirty Three of The Imperialist Club for Gentlemen Revolution.
“So then; are you ready?” – Sir Martian asks Sir Martin, as the trio of revolutionaries enter the Imperialist Club for Gentlemen’s library.
“I suppose so” – Sir Martin replies, while spreading his fingers, turning his hands palm upwards, and frowning at them.
“I have adjusted the software of the CWO forums so the microphones of those participating are active. They will cheer and applaud your speeches, which should give you the confidence you will need to evoke a global revolution. Their reaction will be channelled through these speaker stacks and amplifiers I found in the basement.”
Sir Martin flops into the armchair from which his speeches as The President of the World will be broadcast, and begins to massage his temples. “Really? What if somebody curses at me or calls me names; it would put me off?”
“I assume the general cacophony of noise would exude a positive vibe, and drown out a minority who may boo” – Sir Martian replies, reassuringly, from his position behind Martin, who sits with a forefinger poised above the laptop key that will allow a broadcast to commence.
“Ready? Ten, nine, eight ....”
“NO! Wait! I’m not ready! I think I need to go to the ....” – blurts Sir Martin, while observing Sir Martian’s wagging finger and silent mouthing of – “three .... two .... one.”
“Um. Yes. Hello! A heh heh! Um .... ” – Sir Martin begins, a moment before his face drains of colour and he emits a long, loud pump of fear.
The trio of revolutionaries jam their fingers into their ears as the room is invaded by the sound of around a billion humans roaring with laughter, until Sir Martian switches the laptop off, when the room falls immediately silent, save for the chirping of birds sitting upon the boughs of trees outside the library’s window.
“Right! That’s it! I’m not fucking well trying again!” – Sir Martin shrieks, before cradling his face within his hands and weeping bitterly.
“Poor Sir Martin!” – Martin exclaims, sorrowfully. “I think he’s had enough. He’s a decent sort of fellow, but he’s not very good with people. He spends most of his time alone, or with me. And I suppose Martin Sharratt is pretty much the same. Ha! A funny bunch; the Martins!”
“I understand. I like my own company too, which is just as well because I’m not very good at making friends. Or maybe I would be if I ventured out more than I do” – Sir Martian supposes, before drawing a deep breath and blowing into the mouthpiece of a space hopper.
“Oh! Are you leaving?” – Martin asks, with a note of disappointment.
“Yes. I should return to my home planet. I have much to do. For instance, I planted some seedlings in my garden and I’m curious to see whether they have sprouted. To me, and everyone else throughout the known universe – apart from humankind, who take such things for granted – such a simple performance of nature is a miracle to behold” – Sir Martian explains, as the space hopper forms – “would you like me to take you and Sir Martin to the moon first, so you may return to the future?”
“No. Sir Martin and I should stay here in the past, so there is a better chance of saving the world. But why are you are taking the laptop?”
“Well, it’s my laptop, and there are some things on it of a personal nature” – Sir Martian explains, while placing the laptop in the main compartment of the rucksack and pulling the drawstrings tight, before tying the two ends into a bow.
“What about the CWO?”
“A country’s CWO is basically a large text file, if you keep it simple. You and Sir Martin did a pretty good job with the cwo.uk, which you still have on a memory stick, so you could use that to begin with.”
“But who will be The President of the World?”
“Perhaps you will be able to fulfil the role, once your concussion has passed and symptoms of WW3 have vanished? Or sir Martin, if he manages to overcome his stage fright?”
“No. I don’t think we have it in us. We have spent our entire lives together, so we are very much alike.”
“Well, it is of little importance. A revolution resulting in a true democracy should not have a leader, for a true democracy is a leaderless political concept. There should only be a representative of the people, elected by the people, who truly represents the people, rather than the principles of a minority.
The President of the World would encourage a revolution leading to the implementation of the political ideology, and possibly offer some kind of guidance, but really, it is up to the people to wake up and smell the coffee, as I believe the Earth saying goes; to admit how bad things are and unite – to gather together and do something about it before it’s too late, rather than sitting around waiting for those who have created the predicament to clear up the mess they have made.
Humankind have been evolving for hundreds of thousands of years. Yet; you are on the verge of destroying one another, all life and even the planet itself within hundreds, due to the empowerment of the Earth’s governments by modern technology and industry, which is a situation that worsens with every technological and industrial advance.
However; these are the early days of your global civilisation, so it won’t be difficult to make the changes necessary to ensure it advances in a logical, creative manner. I expect that once the ball is rolling, everyone will see what needs to be done to make this world the paradise it should be. I expect it will seem like common sense” – Sir Martian assumes, while swinging a leg over the hopper and flicking the kickstart from its right hand side.
“Goodbye!” – Sir Martian says, cheerfully, while raising a hand and keeping it there until Sir Martin stops crying and looks up at him.
“Oh! Goodbye, Sir Martian, and good luck!” – Sir Martin replies, whilst proffering a hand, which Sir Martian shakes while exchanging warm smiles with him.
Once the trio of revolutionaries have bade each other farewell, and Sir Martian has sped off, Sir Martin and Martin begin to pack their belongings, with the intent of leaving the Imperialist Club for Gentlemen for good.
They step out of the building and stand blinking in the dazzling sunlight of a fine spring morning, in what they hope will soon be a bright new world, and head towards the train station, while engaged in a debate regarding where they should go resume their quest of saving the world from a man-made destruction.