With the recent disasters in Lithuania, Cornwall, and Montana branded into the intelligence communities of all major players throughout the world, Munitions Galore found itself flooded with requests for Ice-10 bombs that it supposedly did not have.  The failure of MI-5 to find any Ice-10 bombs, far from discouraging demand, increased it.  Absence of evidence, never the best indicator of evidence of absence, inflamed the minds of acquisition officials.  Munitions Galore must indeed know the value of Ice-10 is enormous to have hidden samples so well.  Its invisibility showed how valuable it was.

Once Peregrine, Wolverine, and Lord Caligula confounded the MI-5 agents, his Lordship went to the House of Lords sober to begin a series of talks on the glaring incompetence of MI-5.  When Englishmen are murdered on a stretch of Cornwall beach, MI-5 and other organs of her Majesty’s government must find better uses of its time than the persecution of patriotic members of an English company that has done so much to keep the free world free.  

Having picked up speed, his Lordship invited educated Englishmen to behold the state of their country.  Just hours before coming to the House of Lords, his Lordship said MI-5 gangs of muscle-bound men and fatuous women–whose accents guaranteed they were graduates of comprehensives and redbrick universities, or worse–had attacked his two ablest assistants at Munitions Galore.  These clods had launched clumsy webs of deceit that tried to blame Munitions Galore for MI-5’s ineptitude. Her Majesty should thank almighty God that the good people at Munitions Galore worked ceaselessly to preserve Great Britannia.  Tears leaked from the sides of each eye, and he did not ever have to use any onions in his sleeves to elicit them. 

As he left the House of Lords, packs from BBC, Fleet Street, and the foreign press set upon him.  He promised them they would receive evidence from his solicitor on the perfidious doings of the Home Office. 

Putin sat with his advisors in Moscow watching coverage of events in London whilst contemplating the totality of the situation.  A young aid volunteered that despite the threats and hateful commentary emanating from the EU and America, Putin’s reputation had continued to soar in Africa.  Crockett’s features in L’Afrique Aujourd’hui had won Putin boundless love on the Streets.  It was enough to make Mugabe wonder if he should commission features by Crockett.  Stories that incantations of Putin’s name cured impotence, West Nile Virus, and prevented being eaten by crocs or drowned by conniving hippopotami endeared Putin to simple people throughout the eastern Congo.  Also, Crockett’s assurances that pure-hearted requests to the heavens in Putin’s name would make a man wealthy and immune to HIV were especially dear to African teamsters, as was the idea that a sinless man’s prayer in Putin’s name would resurrect Lumumba.  

After listening to this new news, Putin said out loud that his popularity in Africa was not translating well in DC, Jerusalem, Paris, Berlin, Rome, London, Tokyo, Stockholm or, less surprisingly, Vilnius.  Turning to his Minister Laughoff, he said, “Get this young genius posted to Goma to begin figuring out why.  And let’s look a little deeper than the impact of Crockett’s clever stories.”  A couple of security officers removed the now crying aid.

Nothing like horseback riding lifted Lord Caligula’s spirits.  Constance understood so she made no objection when he fitted her naked body with a saddle and himself with a cap and riding crop. With possible fights with Lucky looming, these were precisely the kind of workout that readied her for the struggles ahead.  Besides, she got to pay his Lordship back double when she mounted him after his old body made it possible for him to continue as the top.   Sooner or later every Etonian revealed himself for what he was.  Thank God Winston went to Sandhurst.  Even Bertrand Russell wisely submitted to education at home before attending college in that nest of Sodomites on the River Cam. 

At least Lord Russell seems to have escaped the clutches of the squeaking pervert Lytton Strachey. Of course, Constance was far from sure that running with Bloomsbury women was a bit better.  “Gad,” she thought, “Russell’s afternoons in the arms of shallow nympho Ottoline Morrel, yuck. l hope he escaped from the Lesbo Virginia Woolf.  Life as a catamite would be better.”

After recreating with Constance, the refreshed Caligula put on his dinner clothes to sup with Peregrine and Wolverine.  They had to decide how to maximize profits from the bots, and stealth bombs, especially the Ice-10 models, without having the CIA, MI-5, Mossad, the BND, the DGSE, etc., etc. murder them.  

When Wolverine and Peregrine were telling me about their recent worries and doings over dinner, I told them I was surprised that intelligence services still killed opponents.  The two of them fell to the floor they were laughing so hard.  “Yes, and Armies don’t buy weapons that will kill civilians en masse either.” They thought my naivete was priceless.  Live and learn, I say.