The last of (the current) story of our previous Royal Corespondent, who has expanded into reporting many other areas; especially as here on Ungagged we are anti-monarichists!
Anyhoo, what becomes of Prick and what plans do the gang have for the BHC06. If we did trailers you’d know all this already but we don’t. So you’ll have to listen to the whole lot. It’s worth it!
Transcript
The Miami sun, a malevolent orange all seeing eye in the sky, beat down on our hotel. Chuck, miraculously, had been coaxed from the bath. Ward Allen, a man whose patience was clearly as boundless as his puppet Roger’s enthusiasm, had achieved the impossible. The Congressman, though still prone to sudden, wide-eyed pronouncements about the “cosmic significance of goats cheese,” was at least vertical and clothed, a testament to the therapeutic power of Chucklevision, Les Dennis and Cilla fucking Black.
Just as Chuck was attempting to explain the nuances of the “Aw right, my loves… lets ‘ave a look at the old scoreboard…” catchphrase to a bewildered bellhop, the cavalry arrived. Clementine, Reggie, and our backpacker pulled up in a rather battered, but surprisingly well-stocked, RV. The reunion was a chaotic symphony of hugs, shouted greetings, and Reggie immediately attempting to teach Roger the Dog how to twerk.
“Right, darlings,” Clementine announced, her eyes gleaming with a strategic fire. “Operation Orange Fizzog, Phase Two. Prick’s intelligence is invaluable. We know the product, the shade, the delivery schedule. Now, for the enhancement.”
She produced a small, innocuous-looking vial from her voluminous handbag. “This, my dears,” she purred, holding it aloft, “is a little something I’ve been cultivating. A highly concentrated, entirely harmless, yet utterly dreadful olfactory agent. A single drop, when mixed with that particular gunk, will, within minutes, release a scent best described as… dog shit. And the beauty of it, darling, is that it doesn’t release for a full hour after application. Just enough time for our orange-hued friend to be well and truly ensconced in his public duties.”
The target, Clementine explained, was a minor international economic summit that Trump had decided to unnecessarily attend. World leaders, captains of industry, all gathered in one opulent, air-conditioned Miami ballroom. Trump, naturally, would make himself the star attraction. The plan was audacious, relying on precision, chaos, and the sheer, unadulterated power of a truly offensive smell.
Luthen Rael, who had seemingly materialized from the ether, laid out the tactical details with his usual steely calm. “The event security will be formidable. But predictable. We create a multi-layered diversion. Chuck, your… unique oratorical style will be invaluable.” We grabbed some gin, a few huge spliffs, and grabbed some sleep.
The next morning we watched Fucks News as it exclaimed the arrival of their tin-pot bargain basement Shitler to the summit, a crucible of minor global power and impending olfactory disaster. Our grand, Gonzo plan was set in motion. Chuck, resplendent in a slightly stained suit, launched into his diversionary performance outside the security zone set up at the venue. Armed with a megaphone and a fresh dose of mescaline (purely for performance enhancement, you understand), he began to bellow about “safety pin manufacturers” and “the spiritual bankruptcy of pizza cheese.” He attempted to “liberate” a particularly well-manicured topiary, declaring the immediate vicinity a “sovereign psychedelic republic.” Security, predictably, swarmed him, their grim, fascist faces a perfect frame for Chuck’s escalating,manic faced madness. Reggie, with his old-school charm, assisted Chuck, attempting to entertain bewildered security guards with tales of his showbiz past, while the Farsi backpacker, a phantom of the digital age, had his drone poised high above, ready to capture aerial footage of the unfolding chaos. Luthen Rael, meanwhile, was a ghost in the periphery, observing every twitch of security, every shift in the wind, his presence a silent, tactical oracle ensuring our escape routes remained viable. Ward Allen and Roger the Dog were on standby, a bizarre contingency, ready to “ground” Chuck should his performance become too unhinged, or perhaps provide a bizarre, ventriloquist-based distraction for any pursuing security.
Inside, Sparkles, a gothic shadow of a whisper of the ghost of a void in the opulent corridors, led me through a labyrinth of service entrances and hushed VIP lounges. We found it: a small, discreet dressing room, surprisingly unguarded in the chaos. On a pristine white counter, nestled amongst an array of brushes and powders, sat the small, familiar pot of Orange BHC06. My hand, surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline, produced Clementine’s vial.
My hand hovered over the pot of Orange slap. Clementine’s vial, a potent concoction designed to unleash the stench of a thousand unwashed dog kennels, felt heavy in my pocket. I could do it. I could unleash the olfactory apocalypse. I could turn the summit into a gagging, retching spectacle. A media event that would “prove” the rumours of the benappied President. Or I could have filled it with glitter, or itching powder, or even just plain old human excrement. The possibilities for pure, unadulterated revenge were endless. But then, a thought, clear as a bell through the gin-soaked haze, pierced the madness. This wasn’t about a cheap gag. This wasn’t about a temporary embarrassment. This was about a message. A primal, visceral, utterly undeniable threat to autocratic power. This was about the death of a dream, and the rise of something truly vile.
My mind drifted, briefly, to the cancellation of The Late Show, to the relentless, insidious attacks on my friend Stephen Colbert, a man who dared to mock the emperor (and me, in an unfortunate untelevised book promotion interview in which I, in the horrors of a two week bender,
had stripped bollock naked and ran through the audience in the Ed Sullivan Theatre… my publishers pulled the book and I was unfortunately detained and restrained while I sobered up. To give Stephen his due, he sent me a lovely card, with a bill from CBS for pissing on a velvet settee in the green room). Even the jesters, the bloody comedians, weren’t safe. In fact, as Jon Stewart indicated, and I quote,
‘”It’s not the fragility of audiences, it’s not the woke police that are going to be an existential threat to comedy, it’s not the Fresh Prince, it’s the Crown Prince. It’s not the fragility of audiences, it’s the fragility of leaders. Comedy doesn’t change the world, but it’s a bellwether. We are the banana peel in the coal mine. When a society is under threat comedians are the ones who get sent away first. Authoritarians are the threat to comedy, to art, to music, to thought, to poetry, to progress.”
It was all part of the same bloody pattern, wasn’t it? The slow, insidious creep of the fascists. They didn’t just want to control the news; they wanted to control the laughter, the very ability to mock them. And that, my friends, was when you knew the game was truly up. Fascist beige was the new colour.
Anyway, I had decided. This demanded something more personal. Something that would speak directly to the man, and to the very soul of his Temu manufactured image. Make the cunt truly shit his pants. Let him know we were everywhere. My fingers, surprisingly steady, found the sharp edge of a discarded match. With a deliberate, almost surgical precision, I began to carve. Not a smell. Not a colour change. Something far more personal.
‘F–U–C–K Y–O–U.’
Each letter a tiny, defiant scratch into the smooth, orange surfaces. A silent scream against the fash beige. I snapped a quick, incriminating photo, the flash a silent testament to the impending revolution.
My mission complete, I received the signal. A text from the heiress: “Jet ready. Runway 3. Don’t be late, darling.” I sprinted through the chaos, the lingering scent of the “Orange Stink Bomb” (which, thankfully, was not emanating from the podium, but from my own lingering paranoia) a triumphant perfume in my nostrils.
I found the others near the perimeter, a motley crew of revolutionaries. Chuck, still buzzing, embraced me in a bone-crushing hug. “Keep at it old chap. We’ll win. I await “President Chuck’s inauguration!” I assured him.
Reggie clapped me on the back, his remaining eye gleaming, though rolling in his head. Clementine, with a knowing smile, pressed a flask into my hand and she pressed me into her bosom, “Look me up again, Prick if Reggie’s failing organs go before we do!” Reggie smiled and chuckled a chuckle that meant, “I’ll outlive all of you!”
The Farsi-speaking backpacker offered a silent, respectful nod. Even Ward Allen, with Roger perched on his arm, gave a solemn salute.
The private jet, a gleaming silver dart, awaited. As I clambered aboard, I looked back at the city lights of Miami twinkling below, a vast, indifferent sprawl. I loved it, in my own peculiar, detached, yet deeply felt way. Loved its wildness, its promise, its sheer, unadulterated madness. But that promise, that grand United States of American experiment… it felt like it was dying. Not with a bang, but with a whimper, a shrug, a silent turning away from the screams of children… from the poverty enveloping its own people… from reality. The fascism wasn’t marching in in goose-steps; it was creeping in, disguised as common sense, as ‘security,’ as a reality TV show. The dream was necrotic, its blue-rinsed remains fading into a dull, shitty orange hue. The very idea of democracy, that glorious, messy, chaotic dance of freedom, was being replaced by the boot, the iron fist, the cult of personality. And the silence, the bloody, deafening silence of the many, was its most potent enabler.
I was leaving it, for now. Leaving it to its fate, or perhaps, to its next, inevitable, glorious, and terrifying revolution. Back to Blighty, to the comforting banality of lukewarm beer, predictable drizzle and that endless stream of incontinence, Farij. But the taste of America, that bitter, beautiful, terrifying taste, would linger. A taste of what has been lost, and what might yet be fought for. Even if the fight was utterly, gloriously, and tragically insane. I slipped into unconsciousness as the engines hummed and we headed north, towards the postulated fag-end of the British Empire.
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