Barely a league to the east, at the far end of Ratcliff Highway Boz and Phoebles were in their Limehousesailortown penthouse bed-sit, deep in contemplation. They were perusing two inflammatory pamphlets that they had picked up in the Charing Cross Road earlier that day.
“I’m convinced these are both the work of Slasher McGoogs.” declared Boz, waving one of the handbills aggressively towards Phoebles.
Yes, comrades, wake from your slumber
Scrutinise the world about you.
Think on the
Widow in her hovel,
The infant in its pram,
The prisoner in his shackles,
The lonely little lamb.
The MOGUL in his mansion
Cares nothing for these wretches.
In thrall to the Merovingian Dark Lords,
Manipulating the guardians of State and Law,
Hypnotising you with media pap,
With Capitalist trinkets and baubles
He revels in his wealth and power.
Open wide your sleep clouded eyes
And be ready
The days of retribution come!
A Metropolitan Police dirigible passed slowly by the window. It was following the London River, moving down stream, panning a searchlight back and forth across the water. Ripples and eddies sparkled in the harsh arc lighting and black skiffs scurried for the enveloping shadows of wharf and pier. A steam whistle piped shrilly.
“But if this is his too, what is he playing at?” Phoebles jabbed at the second sheet of paper.
RALLY TO THE FLAG BOYS
Rally to the cause
This land of hope and glory
This septic isle
At this point in the text Phoebles had smudged a bit of a paw print across the type and in attempting to clean it up had made a hole in the paper. However he was fairly sure that he remembered what it had originally said and had pencilled ‘septic’ in above the blemish.
The enemy is without your gates
The vandal at your door
Your country needs you
Be ready to defend those treasured institutions
That are forever
“Hm…” Boz frowned. “He’s up to something again – and it’s probably going to end in tears.”