In the Empire of Eng-Land Beyond the Eldritch Continent

[mouli]

In the Empire of Eng-Land Beyond the Eldritch Continent

I felt that some horrible scene or object lurked beyond the silk-hung walls, and shrank from glancing through the arched, latticed windows that opened so bewilderingly on every hand.
-Fragment of a burned diary entry found inside a pig, under 10 Downing Street

No recognised school of sculpture had animated this terrible object, yet centuries and even thousands of years seemed recorded in its squamous and rugose surface of bright blond tendrils.
-From the Forbidden Libraries of Lords Mayors of London, speaking of the Whig Wig​

The dread lands lie beyond the gray-green waters tossed by storms and holidaymakers for thousands of years, a dot of the terrible, hating Green in the seas that is called by its inhabitants the Pleasant Land. It is tethered to the earth by a thin umbilical of silver-steel 'neath the vasty depths of the seas, the empire bound to the whims and fancies of the eldritch Continent and its Single Market.

Yet Albion endures. There is the Dread Queen on the Throne of the Beheaded King, wearing the Bloody Crown of the Last War in walled-off Buckingham where the bearskins nest on the guardsmen standing stiff like marionettes when on parade. Behind her skulks the Prince Who Waits, called Charles, who is herded by by transparent film and bound by the Royal Prerogative. Yet the dread monarchs of Albion are bound by Parliament, and under the rule of the Prime Minister whose iron fist and squamous wig rule from the Tenth Downing Street. None know what happened to the other nine, or why the street is Downing rather than up.

Around the Parliament and Dread Monarch are the fortresses of the Old Boys Network in the city of London, greatest bane of the Single Market. The Old Boys Network watches the sea and the lands beyond it from their posts on the Square Mile, a mighty ritual site where the rites of the Yuro Dollar are conducted with utmost solemnity each evening. Except, of course, when the Old Boys Network 'fixes' it.

Above the city of London, the skies are gray and cold near without exception. This is the fault of the Green, whose strangulation encircles London and its Old Boys Network. For the Green hates, it is the bane of all things and eternally fights the Old Boys who call themselves the Developers. The Green hates, much like the Green Party. Those missionaries have gone forth to the lands of the Single Market to spread the word of the Green to other lands, while in Albion they are now weak. They are unneeded, for Albion already has fallen to the Green.

In the far frozen north there is Pictland, where the great working of Hadrian's Wall acts to turn hearty fare to terrible tastes in a manner forgotten by all. Save for the Dread Queen of Buckingham, who knows much forgotten knowledge.
And Mr. Kemal of Kemal's Doner in Aberdeen, but he's worse than the Dread Queen.

In Pictland there is a movement to escape the clutches of the Dread Queen, a movement that seeks to separate their 'fair' land from the Thatcher-haunted wilderness of the Norf where specters born of Privatization crawl their wriggling way into the deep mines of Yorkshire. There are things man was never meant to unearth, depths to which humanity should not have mined, but he did. Great pits were dug at the behest of Victoria, deep pits kept open by the iron arm of Arthur Scargill, who perished when Thatcher came and poisoned them. Perhaps he should not have delved so deep, and tempted recession…

Then there is the other fastness of the Green. Ireland lies beyond the waters and further from the Single Market than Albion, yet has already fallen to their clutches. Its green lands are now encroaching on the last fastness on the island loyal to the Dread Queen, while suspiciously American gunfire sounds off among the inhabitants. The Old Boys Network is weak here, and the Anglican Church is ascendant. As are the Sunglasses, a collection of men who always neither confirm or deny. Especially when asked whether they want tea or coffee.

I have a solemn task in this eldritch place, one that will take me through the wilds of Eng-Land in search of forbidden knowledge. It is nothing less than the acquisition of work experience, which I require to sate the hunger of the Market.
But I get ahead of myself, much like the hipster subspecies of London. Very tasty, they are.

You see, I have learned of the terrible sorceries of Eng-Land. Of Mac Kin Say and their rivals, sorceries that can destroy a small town and squeeze the taxes from nations, sorceries that can be taught. So I abandoned R'lyeh to put on what they call an Armani and learn. I will master the Square Mile, before Brexit happens.

AN: Discussion and headcanon keep this going, and every outlandish suggestion funny enough will happen. For this idea I blame @Sturmi and thank @Laplace

 

[mouli]

To the Square Mile​

London has changed since last I was here. For all that, though, the excellent lairs of the Savoy Hotel with their coiling scrollwork reminiscent of the last Romans I feasted on still makes me feel at home. At the desperate entreaty of the glassily smiling individual acting as the lure-puppet of Reception, I have rated the Savoy as worthy of all the Five Stars on the Yelp. That will hopefully propitiate the Savoy, for I do not wish to match its peerless craft at draining souls from its puppets, leaving them hollow-eyed and reciting rote-learned incantations of service.
On a related note, the offering of Kippers was most excellent this morning. I did not realize that the Eng-Landers were so delicious after they go for a kip. I shall have to make a note of this.

The streets before the Savoy are home to the crawling black beetle-like forms of the London Cabbies' Hive, a most excellent system of conveyance. There are rumors of the odd passenger being exsanguinated in Whitechapel, but one such as I from the deeps of the oceans does not fear such things. I wave down one of them with a certain elegant style, my long coattails fluttering in the wind like the mating signals of the Victorians who supplied me so much opium the last century or so. The beetle-conveyance screeches to a halt with an angry squeal, and the human grafted to its piloting array eyes me with the jaded expression of one who has seen the Old Boys of the Network and did not flinch. It asks me in the vernacular of Eng-Land where I am going, and I tell it of the Square Mile and its Big Four.

It nods sharply with the air of an expert, and I take a careful seat on the greasy digestive surface of the 'back' of the beetle. There is a red stain on the floor that is explained as a 'Marinara', clearly a stray sailor who ran afoul of the Hive. The piloting biological tells me of a complex route through the London maze, and I nod a regal assent that it perhaps takes offense to, for it attempts by sudden motion to slam me against the greasy digestion membrane camouflaged as cured green skin at the rear of the conveyance. Fortunately ones such as I are too resilient to be easily damaged by minor magics such as Newton's.

After what is far too long a time in the slick black transportation membranes of London, the soaring crystalline spires of the Square Mile come into sight. I take heart from the letters KPMG, the incantations of the London Exchange displayed far more openly here than elsewhere. I alight from the beetle with a certain aplomb and no little relief, and hand the pilot a piece of the local paper currency for its trouble. I tell it to keep its changes, for I shall change as and when I please rather than accepting the magicks of the Cab Hive.
Before me is the crystalline spire of Mac Kin Say, the suited drones that inhabit it moving in and out of the spire even as a member of the security caste in the bright mating plumages of its kind guards the entryway.

I walk up to the doors with the confidence of one who has been summoned, handing the security caste member my letter of offering and being ushered inside. I am greeted by two of the management caste, their forms distinguishable by the more subdued sheen of their suits. I greet them with grace as someone who has been inducted into their hive, and we exchange the customary greetings to pay homage to London and its curses. The Cheery Manager from Australia nods lugubriously as I ritually mention the weather, and the Sober Manager from Eng-Land with his drooping moustache completes the ritual by referring to the weather as 'filthy'. We then shake appendages and move to the cubical hive-cells of the spire where drones interact with the entities of the Exchange to generate mana for the spire's continued existence.

I ask the Sober Manager about my place in the hierarchy of place, and am informed that I rate a cell of my own isolated from the rest of the drones. This is, apparently, due to my extensive experience with public perception. The Cheery Manager then mentions that there is a client file waiting for me, and he can tell me in brief about the two clients.

He smiles with teeth far too white to be natural even as the Sober Manager glares at me as if seeking to terrify me, and informs me that the first client is to be the Labour Party. I am to embark on Image Management. Wonderful. I have had much experience with images, and it has often been said that politics drives men mad.
I shall be truly exceptional here, even before I deal directly with the entities of the London Exchange. Truly, this was an excellent move.

 

[mouli]

How to Make Friends and Influence The People, Part I​

My cell is shown to me by the Cheery Manager, his colonial accent and unnatural cheer no doubt lending a veneer of exoticism to his manners, much like the manner in which a predatory plant lures its prey with bright foliage and sweet scents. I compliment him on his dentition, unnaturally strong and repeatedly visible whenever he bares his teeth in a smile. From his answer, the dentition is expensive and a mark of pride. Perhaps I shall acquire some.

At any rate, I must make a good impression and as someone here to learn, I ask about what is required from me in image consulting for the party of Labour. What is required by the party of that excellent but rather rubbery human Anthony Blair? Surely it cannot be in the creation of facades, for he is a master of such. When I mention this to the Cheery Manager, he solemnly nods before informing me that Blair has been, in his words, 'retired'.

Such a pity, the human had potential. Still, he chose the inferior route. I tell this to the Cheery Manager more as flattery than anything else, and it is taken as such. I am told that the Square Mile is the superior place, for it is what keeps Eng-Land afloat. I nod sagely, aware that what in fact keeps Eng-Land afloat is the dread realm of Shub-Niggurath, asleep far beneath the vasty deeps. Such things cannot be told in polite company to humans, sadly.

So I instead ask the Cheery Manager about the case, changing the subject to the tasks required from the Mac Kin Say Spire of the Square Mile. He opens the file to a face that glowers at me in a manner most red and familiar, and says that this is the main client. His name is Corb In, and there is a need to rehabilitate his image so that he does not become Corb Out. When I remark that this is not a task for those new to the practices of the Square Mile, I am told that Corb In has a very set image and does not generate much mana for the Spire on the Exchange. Therefore I am to be assigned.

This is truly insulting. I am no fodder-spawn to be given hopeless tasks. Still, when I look at the human in the photo who must stay Corb In and not Corb Out, an example of politics red in tooth and ice-pick, I am unnerved. This will not be easy even for one such as I.

Yet am I not an expert on the local culture? I nod graciously and sagaciously to the Cheery Manager and tell him that this Corb shall be In the Tenth Downing Street before the year is out, for I am skilled in such matters of illusion. Even if this new acolyte is not half the rubbery man of much mystery that Anthony Blair was.

The first thing to do, I think, is to read of this Corb In and his images. The client file that I have been handed is, however, fat and pregnant only with paper. I am not given anything to work with save for documents written by a dead iron hand named Hewlett Packard. No flesh, no bone, no meetings. When I make a request for a meeting with this human, though, I am told that the best place is to find him is in his seat of power, in the London wilderness of Islington. I have been there before while eating Anthony Eden, and I know it well.
This will be a dangerous voyage, and best undertaken using the Tubes of London, those great digestive arteries that undergird the realm of the Dread Queen. But before I leave, I am required to let the Spire know where I am going. No doubt so that they can dispatch a search-party if I do not return.

I am told that the Tube is perfectly safe, and I nod solemnly as the receptionist teaches me with the familiarity born of much bitter experience how to propitiate the Tubes of London with the use of an Oyster card. Perhaps this is more convenient than Oysters? I recall the Savoy mentioning a scarcity of Oysters. Nevertheless, I acquire an Oyster card with its bright blue so akin to aristocratic blood and move into the echoing maw of the Tube Station. Behind me is the indisciplined jostling of the Eng-Landers, their too-wide, staring eyes captured by little rectangular glowing daemons that burrow writhing tendrils into the fabric of their lives at the behest of the vastest, most bloated Entities of the London Exchange.
All I can do as I board the Tube's motile component when it comes shrieking into the digestive platform, is shake my head sadly. For all that the Square Mile is a terrible place, there are other powers more terrible still.

The journey to Islington turns out to be long and terrible, with the Tubes being home to all the exotic wildlife of Eng-Land. I step out of the Tubes after letting it feast on the mana of the Oyster card, and I emerge under the frowning sky of London. With the knowledge imparted to me by Anthony Eden and the rubbery but adept Blair, I shall find this revolutionary Corb in the Islington wilderness, and adjust his image.

AN: Feedback keeps this going. Please do comment and drop the ideas you want to see in the story.

 

[mouli]

How to Win Friends and Influence the People, Part II: The Shadow of Brexit​

The portals of the manse of Corb open into gloom and shadow lit only by the dim flame of Truth, the cyrillic letters of Truth! burning in the fireplace while the Shadow of Brexit stokes it. I can recognize the Shadow of Brexit from the ghost that haunts him and his legacy, the Ham Sandwich that slew his predecessor of the Miller's Band. Its grease drips down his back and lends him some of the rubbery slipperiness of Anthony Blair, and I am sure that given good time I can suitably adjust his image. Alas, though, when I approach the Shadow of Brexit to confirm that he is indeed the Corb, he turns to reveal that his countenance is that of the Parliamentarian of High Gate and Old Camden Town. He is not the one the Spire has as client, for no task would be that easy.

He smiles as I enter and informs me that the Corb is engaged in deep Vacillation. My enquiry as to my earlier appointment is greeted with appropriate sadness, for the Corb is Out. He has journeyed to be On the Fence, or so I am told. Naturally I am forced to enquire as to the metaphorical nature of the Fence and the Corb's corporeal location. To my shame, my chagrin as I make the inquiries is expressed in very intemperate Language that sets the blaze springing eagerly high and sets the tea a-glistening. I am forced to ask the Shadow to Pardon my French.

With great graciousness he does, setting me in his debt as he informs me that the Corb is on the Fence in Lancashire. The Fence of Lancashire, that place that is entirely Legal and Incorporated inside the Old Booth of Laund. According to the Shadow, Old Laund is long dead. We appropriately ask the gods to rest his soul and I am appalled to know that the Fence abuts the Lanes of Wheat Lee where the May Queen once ran in the fields and did terrible things before she was Resigned. Clearly the Corb has placed himself in great danger.
Indeed, says the Shadow. For the Corb has taken it upon himself to rebuild the Red Wall before it falls to the Wig, and in doing so once more seal away the spirit of Thatcher that haunts Eng-Land. The Parliamentarian who is the Shadow of Brexit tells me this with great conviction, and I am forced to concede the necessity of this. If the Red Wall is not rebuilt, the milk of Eng-Land will be endangered.

Surely, I ask, can the Corb not delegate the important matters of the Fence to some other? Or is the Fence and being On it so important to the Party of the Workers?
ClearIy am mistaken, for the Parliamentarian of High Gate shakes his head.

He tells me with the grave wisdom of Miller's Band bitterly earned through the Ham Sandwich that sitting on Fence in Lancashire to rebuild the Red Wall is critical to the Party and therefore the task of the Corb. I am forced to nod bitterly in agreement, aware that seeking the Corb in the dark satanic mills of Lancashire will take me away from the mana and comforts of the London Exchange. Nevertheless, I am here to learn and learn I shall.

Yet when I thank the Shadow and ask to leave, he smiles again with politeness premeditated. He asks me to remain for a moment, binding me by social obligation. He informs me that I would be of great use to the Party and the Corb in the critical matter of F i s h. No, he says shaking his head. It is not fish, it is F i s h. Spacing has proven important to the quotas set by the Single Market.
He tells me with zeal terrible to behold that the single scroll of Brexit easiest for the Party to resolve concerns F i s h.

The other scrolls are held in Parliament as Reports to the Dread Queen on the Progress of Brexit, drafted by the ancient and storied House of the Lords of Albion. The others are far, far too squamous and rugose to be dealt with easily. When I enquire about the Report of Trade, I am told that it is in truth the report on Empire. It is, sadly, not Albion's Empire. In the distance, the dreadful cry of an eagle sounds.

My other alternatives are similarly fruitless. The report on relations with the Emerald Isle is a masterpiece of Byzantine arts, the report on cooperation with the Single Market was eaten by the Wig, and the report on Changes in the Climate evaporated into political Gas. With far more chagrin than is appropriate, the Parliementarian tells me once more that the report most feasible concerns F i s h.

Well and so, I tell him in the angered tones of a consultant brought low. How does that concern me? What may I do with a report that concerns the times to come?
At that question, the Parliamentarian laughs. It is dreadful, akin to the tolling of the biggest of Bens.

The Brexit shall happen when the Dread Queen and the Wig wish it to, he says. For the Albionites are all Subjects of the Dread Queen, and Time itself is thus Subjective to the Subjects of Buckingham. We shall address the future problem of F i s h through the medium of Promises, which summon the Body Politic.
And with luck, he says, we shall not pay the price of the Promises. At that, I sadly shake my head. For all that Albion has come far, they have some things still to learn.

 

[mouli]

How to Win Friends and Influence the People, Part III: Grims By Brexit​

To deal with F i s h, it appears, we must make use of the Iron Donkey of the British Rails. Much like the Iron Horse although more down-market and built for the People. Or so the Shadow of Brexit tells me with carefully choreographed motions that blend in with the common folk of the Train. As a consultant for the Spire, I however remain suitably attired and accented as we head for the wilderness of Grims By. As the Parliementarian of High Gate tells me, Grims By is much like a Sell By. When the time comes, the Party attends to it. But not before. Now that the season of Brexit is upon us, says the Shadow, we must meet with the Chair of the Parliamentary Committee on Bowels.

We encounter the Iron Donkey at the heart of the High Gate Parliementarian's power, the soaring spined red edifice of Saint Pancreas' Station. It is here that the Tubes of London intersect with the iron intestines of the rest of Eng-Land, and where the silver-steel tethers to the Eldritch Continent meet the pathways to the Square Mile. As the Shadow of Brexit tells me, the Tether to the Eldritch Continent was built to renew London and further swell the Square Mile. It has apparently succeeded, at the expense of leaving the rest of Eng-Land to the mercies of the Iron Donkey and its Rail Lords at TLC. I am told that it is called TLC camouflaged as Transport for London as a moniker for what the Rail Lords do, the Tender Loving Care that is stolen from those who ride the Tubes or the Rails and used to gorge the Rail Lords who thrive on such thievery. The gray, soulless surfaces that beckon with a greasy croon and sing of the Norf of England are testament to that. The Parliementarian and I are able to board with no change in our emotions, perhaps because there is no TLC to steal.

The correct usage of the Iron Donkey is a matter of heated debate, although the question of practical ethical experimentation rather than simple unsophisticated journeying has some merit to it. It is a question of solving the Trolley Problem, I tell the Parliemantarian who sits next to me. With the practical experiments of the Rail, we have solved it using the expertise of the Civil Service who very civilly found a solution. When one is late, one saves all lives on a track. There is no need to worry about running over a body. As such, we must budget time for being late on the Iron Donkey. The Parliementarian nods gravely, mentioning the ever present problem of leaves on the tracks. One of the Rail Denizens hears him and nods solemnly as if at a funeral, their hands stacking a trolley with suspiciously squamous and rugose packages labeled as Feed for Passengers.

London – and, as the High Gate Parliementarian tells me, civilization – are left behind with aching slowness, the Rail being ejected from Saint Pancreas and into the Northern Intestines. I am left to sample the feed that is handed to those encased in the Iron Donkey and speak to the Shadow of Brexit beside me, who seems to be shielded from the pernicious influences of the Norf by some means beyond my ken. He smiles with the same unnatural dentition that the Cheery Manager of Mac Kin Say wielded with such skill, telling me that we go forth to Grims By due to the central nature of the place with respect to F i s h. I am polite and accommodating as always, pointing out the obvious – I am to aid the Corb in adjusting his image, not aid the Party of the Workers in adjusting their image. Unfortunately all I receive is a vague nod, a reference to the soporific effects of the Rail and an appeal to discussion later. Behind the back of the High Gate Parliementarian, the Ham Sandwich's ghost bleeds an unusual amount of grease.

We arrive with little grace into Grims By, where Viking Cod meets Eng-Land under the auspices of the Single Market. There are memories here of Viking raids on F i s h stocks, whispers in the winds of icy lands and a great deal of resentment. A cheery voice behind me alerts me to the presence behind my back of the Shadow of Brexit, the High Gate Parliementarian who tells me that the city is growing rapidly as more and more of the People move to Food Processing. Apparently with the classification of F i s h as Feed, Food Processing has grown at the cost of more Viking Cod from the Single Market. There is a chill breeze in the air.

It is cold even in the offices of the Parliementarian of Grims By, who is the Chair of the Committee on Bowels. She is pleasant and polite despite the clinging haze over her city that she attributes to Brexit, which she opposes much as she opposes the Corb and wants him Out. I must hold my tongues here lest I attempt to beneficially adjust the Corb's image without being paid to do so in his Party. There is intense discussion among the two Parliementarians, the High Gate man advising his comrade in Grims By of the Party policy of Vacillation on Brexit. With suitable Vacillation the Parliementarian may sidestep the haze that clings to her People and reacquire the Popular Mandate. Much like the mandates of the heavens or the Dread Queen, the Popular Mandate is a critical thing for a Parliementarian. And from what I am hearing, the Chair of Bowels lacks it due to her opposition to Brexit. Promises of F i s h are countered by words telling of Freedom from France by the opposing party, who are aided by the Wig's work in reinforcing the haze of Brexit in the minds of the Mass of People. The High Gate Parliementarian's confidence in Promises seems to evaporate as he listens, for Promises have already been made....but by the Wig and not by him.

The situation is dire enough that the High Gate Parliementarian turns to me, at which point I must inform him of the Spire's mandate on Contracts. I am to assist the Corb rather than he, and the bargains he proposes with the dread Book of Faces for securing the Mandate of the People are not to my taste. I do not deal in Books of Faces easily, those terrible pastel coloured leaches.
I prefer the Instant Grams, where a light weight image, suitably Euclidean, can compel the masses to Like and Worship.

However, I add to the two Parliementarians before me, I am willing to aid the Corb if he aids you. The Corb is said to be on the Fence and yet we are here in Grims By. Bring me the Corb, I say with gravitas. Bring me the Corb and we shall see.

The Shadow of Brexit nods gravely, his junior the Chair of Bowels and Parliementarian for Grims By swallowing nervously as if seeing F i s h in person and not in batter. The Shadow tells me that there is a place we may go to, a pilgrimage to the failing Red Wall where the spirit of Thatcher gnaws at the bedrock of tunnels delved too deep. A place that threatens the milk of Eng-Land.

We go to New Castle and the Shire of York, he says, a place of coal and strange hobbits. And stranger habits. A place where the Corb attempts to contain the Thatcher. Once we meet the Corb there, we may return to aid the Chair of Bowels.

Well and so, say I. We shall go there and free the Corb. We shall exorcise the Thatcher. And for that, we require a virgin sacrifice.
I must stop at Somerset, to pick it up. Once more we shall call the Iron Donkey and listen to its bray as it passes through leaves on the tracks.

AN: Feedback welcome. It may spoil the joke, but look up the position of Parliamentary Chair of the Committee on Inflammatory Bowel Disease. It is a rather immature joke, I admit.