Answers on a postcard, please

I was in a big city. I thought it was Dublin but the building-lined road looked very, very wide. London’s Pall Mall came to mind. But the hotels were massive, Vegas-like structures. Wherever I was, it was a big English-speaking city. I was standing by the side of the road watching tens of flatbed trucks go by. Each truck had about 50 glowing brown bodies, naked from the waist up, glistening with sweat. They looked Indian.

Those along the sides of the truck were facing outwards, sitting cross-legged, arms linked. Each wore a heavy steel ring around their neck, looped to their neighbour’s by a heavy chain. They looked scared, frightened, and worst of all resigned.

Then I teleported to the front of the parading vehicles. Three long rows of horsemen dressed as pirates, brandishing gladiator spears were grinning malevolently, walking their mounts slowly up the wide road, yodelling feverishly. All had long, black, ringletted hair and wore three-cornered hats, ruffled collars, and eye patches. They were posh pirates. Facing them, walking backwards, were thousands of black people of all ages, dressed formally, casually, and every which way. They were trying to stop the approach but were being driven slowly backwards, inch by inch. None of them said a word. It was as if the sound on the right-hand side of the TV had been turned off.

Next, I’m in the lobby of an office building/hotel trying to get to the Ops Center to meet my team of agents whose job it was to infiltrate the captives, the pirates, and the protestors. The problem was, my team were all white, English-speaking males from Ireland, England, Wales, Scotland, Australia, the USA, and Canada. The lone female was from New Zealand. Mission impossible.

I was waiting to take the lift to the 37th floor in front of a bank of elevators manned by the people wearing WOKE badges and riding high on the power given to them to ensure that no more than eight people rode each lift. I missed my slot twice, pushed aside the first time by a young woman with a pram and the second by an old lady on a Zimmer frame.

I eventually made it upstairs to meet my boss, a jolly, chubby chap by the name of Enterkin, taken straight from the pages of Gerald Hammond’s Keith Calder series. He had no idea what was going on but he was preparing two sets of reports – one for the truth file and the second for public consumption. Looking out the window, I could see the pirates edging closer to a large building some miles away, pushing back the ever-growing crowds of protesters. It was a long, wide road with not a white face in sight. We were all upstairs looking down.

My colleague, and fellow handler (and friend in real life), had decided to take one of her agents to lunch. He was having a bad time of it. I can’t remember why exactly but she was adamant they had to go. I didn’t think much of her decision – we had more worrying things to deal with. I remember thinking she’d never get a table as every restaurant would be booked solid with spectators. I had a fleeting sense of sadness, despondency, and helplessness.

And then I woke up.

WTF? Answers on a postcard, please…

 

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