The evening ends with a fisting of the woman, following the introduction of a few bottles into her, one of which can’t be removed. The video brings in two dollars.

Utter shite

Thinks

MI5 PIET

Quickly looking at the porno. Double-checks the data of the participants. Uninteresting. Not relevant. And the cock. MI5 bursts out laughing. Coffee on the various keyboards. He has stayed a bit—shall we say—childish. He’s retained that. The childishness. And loves words like noodles, willy, pussy hole.

Yes. All joking aside.

Pan to the villas on Holland Park.

In one

THOME’S FATHER

Is writing

Talking aloud, a bit of spittle sprinkling onto the handmade paper,

A cigar smokes itself in a crystal ashtray. On the wall hangs some forefather, looking down with his degenerate, smug facial expression at his great-great-great-grandson. And there, the double glow reflected in the window, you know how it is, symmetry.

Thome’s father has had enough of these speeches. Of the phrases that represent the dumbing down of the populace, la la la: militant democracy, reclaiming our values. The great lie of a society that’s supposed to take care of everyone but that always comes at the expense of the working man, the preservation of Britishness, security, fairness, public resources to those who deserve it, those who work for it, who participate, those born here, the whites, who do all the work and won’t let outsiders come here and take the piss, personal responsibility, a societal cancer, fighting these vermin, cohesion, prosperity, “I assure you, my utmost concern will be the security of the earnings of ordinary British people, the doers, who make use of their full potential both in their work and in their leisure activities…”

This is really going to be an incredibly shite speech. People will cheer. Thome’s father looks at his library. All works by old men who think they are the only ones to have discovered their own transience, who fantasize about young women, bemoan the wishy-washiness of their loins, as if it were a fate limited only to them.

Thome’s father reaches with his liver spot–covered hand for the barrel-aged whisky. “Infernal stuff, old man.” Flabbergasted, Thome’s father looks around. “Yes, I mean you, old man.” It’s the crystal glass that appears to be trying to have a quiet conversation with him. “Old man,” the glass continues, “if you are honest with yourself, you know that it won’t work much longer. And you know that you’ve got maybe ten more years left. Half of them you’ll spend with arthritic hands gripping a walker. A nurse will feed you, you’ll wear diapers. You’ll contemplate the half-witted baby that you fathered with your rotted genes. You’ll die, nothing of you will be left behind. So why, why do you want this power that you can no longer savor?”