Evelyn's Political Escapades

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Evelyn grinned at the camera. "With your help, I can become the first female illegal immigrant prime minister of this country. There's no limit to the changes I can make. Together, we can banish the memory of Alfonso Gusztdav Guillame Richardson, the eurotrash child rapist, alongside the many other murderers and conmen recently elected as prime minister, all of whom keep walking into the wrong door at the House of Parliament and falling into the furnace. Thank you."

The camera stopped.

"Well done Ms. Evelyn!," said the man behind the camera. "That was a brilliant speech! Now, we could have called that a practice run, seeing as it was filmed in a rubbish skip, with a hand-held camera, whilst I was masturbating, but as that was a live broadcast, I guess it'll have to do."

"You don't think I rambled too much then?"

"No, of course not! Anyone that knows you, or I, knows of our innate tendency to ramble at the most inappropriate of times. Where would we be if I didn't tell you, and everyone I know, that I like brushing up against old women in queues?" Evelyn eyed the cameraman up.

"Well, I just met you about three minutes ago, so I may, previously, have not considered punching you in the head, although you do have one of those annoying faces, so I might've just done it anyway." The cameraman, on hearing this, hastily cleared his things away, which, basically, just entailed folding the side of his handheld camera and wiping the semen from his already grubby t-shirt with a piece of very dirty cloth found in the skip.

"Ermm, that's okay, I'll be on my way now. I hear there's some fresh mutton leg down at the 6:30 bus to Orpington." Before Evelyn could get up from the rusty oil barrell she was sitting on, she was approached by a simple, conservatively dressed old man holding a muddied tree branch.

"May I interest you in a child sacrifice madam?," the old man proffered. His voice was just a touch too high-pitched for his looks, which made conversation with him rather uncomfortable.

Evelyn stared, horrified. "...What? No! Why would I want that?"

"It is customary for a runner in the general elections to sacrifice a child," stated the old man, casually but with a misunderstanding edge, unable to see why she would have to ask such a question, "it's normal. Can't I press you to a bit of blood-letting? You politicians certainly are sticklers for a... smattering of infant claret."

"No, thankyou very much!," Evelyn retorted. "Anyway, what's with the branch you're holding?"

"It's my 'magic staff'. It can't do any real magic, but I use it for a little bit of... personal magic, if you get what I mean." Evelyn's eyes focused briefly on the branch, and came to a terrible realisation.

"That's... not... mud... is it." She said, cautiously, before walking away slowly. The old man remained rooted in his place, with his eyes fixated on her.

"You can't escape forever, you know!," he called after her, as she walked away. "Shit, wait, my legs are broken."

As Evelyn walked to her destination, which was anywhere away from the child cruelty pensioner, she had to suppress the feeling deep inside her that the country she had come to rule with an iron fist (or, considering her situation and lack of money, an illegal brass knuckle) was full of people like that man, and that she may as well give up now and stick her head into a freezer until she either exploded from eating the entirety of its contents, or died of cold, and, judging by this train of thought, she was either not trying very hard to suppress it or it simply wasn't easily done. Considering the indelibility of seeing a tree branch covered in faeces and what she hoped wasn't blood (all the way from one end of the branch to t'other, it was covered!) it was probably the latter option.

Drugs. That was what she, a candidate for prime minister, needed. Good hard drugs. Nature's way of saying "there's easier ways of forgetting things than bludgeoning yourself with a small wooden hammer, and either way you have to break the law, in stealing something from a judge." Nature could be quite sharp, bitchy and vitriolic like that, especially with authority figures. Anyway, drugs. Yeah, it would be risky, Evelyn thought, but then, so is abseiling, so what makes drugs any worse? Besides, the TV advert that was on before her election broadcast stated that everything is political, from cars to the price of bananas, so what made drugs special? Surely then, if everything is political, then everything she did, regardless, was a boost to her career? It stood to reason. Evelyn, comfortable with her slippery slope of logic, set out to find a drug den.

Of course, first she would have to know where one is. She saw a young-ish but wearied man with a camera and a notepad, sitting down and gazing regretfully into middle distance. Perfect. Not only did he have the face of a drug dealer, but he had a notepad and a camera too, which was bound to contain all sorts of helpful information. If he was a journalist then that would just be a bonus, seeing as her everything is political reasoning meant that informing him of her intended drug use could only be a positive force on her career.

"Excuse me, kind sir, but could you inform me as to the whereabouts of a local place for the convenient purchase of drug-like substances for the perusal of said substance-like drugs, et cetera?"

"Who the hell are you?" snapped the man, who was wearing a badge with the words journalist, please do not kick written on it.

"Evelyn," replied Evelyn, assuming this was enough detail. She really was rather shocked to be unrecognized.

"Who?" the journalist said, impatiently.

"You know, Evelyn? Campaigning to be first female illegal immigrant prime minister?"

"What? There's another one? God, you're probably the least likely of the three," said the journalist. "You sure you're an immigrant? With a name like Evelyn?"

"It's perfectly plausi-"

"-And with a pale white complexion, and a posh English accent?"

"Shut up," said Evelyn, conclusively. "Look, just tell me where I can get drugged-up, okay?"

"Drugs, eh? God, you people just bait yourselves nowadays. I don't even need to start a hate-filled slur campaign anymore, especially considering the vast hundreds of prime ministerial candidates as it is. Tell you what," the journalist added, "it just so happens that I indeed have links to the drug industry." Evelyn looked pleased and beckoned for him to continue divulging details. The journalist handed her a very long piece of rope.

"This is it. If you pull on this rope, the other end will recieve the signal and pull back, quickly transporting you to your desired place, so long as you hold tightly onto the rope and don't mind flying at great speeds through crowded places." Evelyn smiled and thanked the man before enthusiastically tugging on the length of rope, causing the brick wall next to her to collapse, in pieces, in a heap on top of her, crushing her.

Chapter 2: Awakening the Portentous Hag Hey, wait! For one there wasn't a chapter 1, and for two I don't write in chapters. So, yeah, ignore this.[edit]

Evelyn woke up with a pounding headache. Jeez, she thought that must have been some good drug-like substance, I can't remember anything after that rope pull!

Slowly she began to realise that she was surrounded by a large group of people haranguing her and holding cameras. And she was in a hospital. This didn't do much to assuage her headache.

It's worth knowing at this point that the reason the journalists were there probably wasn't worth knowing. They spent three hours yelling questions at Evelyn and noting things down, preventing her from responding. If she'd have been spatially aware she'd have noticed that, as she left the hospital, all of the local newspapers were covered with pictures of the pillow she'd slept on with words such as "BAN" and "OUTRAGE" partaking in the headline. That's right, newspapers are even vilifying singular inanimate objects now. Keep up, boy/girl, we're in the noughties now!

Ah, such is the life of the politician, she thought to herself. Her tendencies to obliviously self-aggrandize would eventually be her downfall. Shit! I gave away the ending! Aww, now I'm gonna have to write a new one.

Right, ahem, ummmmmmmm... ermmm... yeah, ok, I got it. What? No, I'm not gonna tell you! No. You're gonna have to read on.


Evelyn walked along the street, basking in her apparent fame. As she walked, she waved and grinned at random people, all of whom shot her an evil look that said How dare you attempt to brighten my day up, dickface. You, walking along with your dry-clean clothes and obvious observance of hygeine. How dare you break the boundaries of culture in well-wishing a stranger! It was a very economical evil look, Evelyn thought. At least if the "credit crunch" affected facial gestures there wouldn't be any problems. As she continued her rampage of unwelcome positivity, she was approached and responded to by a young boy in a stripy t-shirt, a baseball cap and jean shorts. Never in the history of Evelyn's life had she seen anyone who looked like they could belong in a children's cartoon until now. God, he was a creepy, creepy-looking kid!

"HAY!" The boy unnecessarily exclaimed.

"Hi, there, little boy!" Evelyn replied, a little bit bewildered. The boy continued waving with a large grin on his face in spite of the ensuing awkward silence. A look of comprehension dawned on the boy's face.

"I'm not LITTLE!" shouted the young boy, gleefully for some reason. "I'm all of six FEET EIGHT inches high!" This was a fact hitherto unnoticed by Evelyn. Wait, scratch that, it wasn't a fact! The boy was five foot at most!

"Umm, it's fun to pretend, but you've got to remember that make-believe isn't real!" said Evelyn in an attempt at diplomacy. The boy started crying.

"NOoOoooOoooOOOOooOOoooooOOOOooOOOOooooo! O!" said the boy, actually said, he didn't shout at all for some reason, but it still went on for a time far too long to be comfortable. People passed by, muttering about Evelyn's cruelty to children despite not knowing about anything of the sort. If it came to it, Evelyn was nice to children thank-you-very-much! The occasional milk-bottle full of sedatives never hurt a child... intentionally!.. much! Well, not for long, anyway.

Another non-Chapter 2: A new age in the creativity of man[edit]

Yeah, so... Like, six months later or something, when the author decided to actually finish this article, she was still standing there. The world had gone by and had assumed that Evelyn was dead, even though no-one knew about her except... actually, everyone knew her. She was president of the world, or something.

A tumbleweed rolls by, crying.