Westminster. Brompton Rhodes and “Shaky” Scott Geldart sidled into the alleyway, their bladders fit to burst. Everyone else had walked on, continuing to drink and smoke and stuff MDMA into their encrusted nostrils.

 Brompton picked at his own extensive nose, fingering a fine patina of the awful drug from the edge and placing it in his mouth. The chemical taste brought waves of nausea to his gut and he remembered his reason for being there, fumbling for the button fly on his far-too-tight-to-be-healthy trousers. He could bear the pain and the constant erections, he thought, still fumbling with the first button, as long as it meant he could keep up with the hip kids.

 “Shaky” Scott was already mid-stream, pissing like a powerful Swedish troll, singing some homosexual ballad to himself as he used a hand to steady his stance. Scott was too far gone now, and Brompton suspected he would have to shake him loose. Scott was going to a terrifying place and Brompton didn’t want to be there when he arrived.

 Brompton finally unbuttoned himself and extracted his penis, shamefully shrivelled by the drugs and the chill October air. He gave the front sphincter a tentative squeeze and a spurt of rancid piss flew from his end. He was careful to balance the rear sphincter, aware that with this much Guinness and MDMA in his system an unfortunate bum-squirt was an all-too real possibility.

 Urine trickled against the wall and splashed on Brompton’s wrinkled, razor-pointed Chelsea boots. He ignored this, just grateful for the chance of a comfortable and de-stressed wee. He closed his eyes and allowed the drug to take hold. Lost in this piss-reverie, he was most perturbed when a cry rang out, a shrill, pathetic cry that seemed to catch in the throat of its owner before it had even left his vocal chords.

 Footsteps down the alleyway. Brompton turned, mid-piss, still careful to keep that rear-sphincter balance, and observed a small, portly silhouette walking towards them. He heard Scott’s voice beside him.

 “Look” said Scott. “Someone’s coming.”

 Brompton ignored Scott’s talent for the obvious and finished himself off. He gave a half-hearted shake of his organ and tucked it back into his trousers where it dribbled small tears of liquid down his leg as a sorrowful parting gift. As the gentleman approached he was still doing up his buttons with now-pissy fingers.

 “Oi! What the hell’s going on here? Do you feeble idiots realise where you are? Do you know what the time is? Hmm?”

 Brompton and Scott staggered towards the figure, his features now visible in the dim half-light of the alley. Except Brompton had now realised that this wasn’t an alley. It was actually the side of the Treasury. And it wasn’t dim half-light, but actually broad daylight. How long had they been pissing? Had they even been pissing?

 The breeze against his leg froze the stains of piss, reminding him that yes, they had indeed been pissing. Brompton, with his customary politeness, stepped forward to the gentleman, to apologise for their crass behaviour.

 Brompton studied the man’s features. He seemed familiar, somewhat. White, middle-aged, yet somehow with the face of an arrogant twelve-year-old: the nose and lips set in a permanent sneer, the weasely eyes poking out like currants on his puffy, doughy face. There was no chin whatsoever.

 “Did you hear me!? I was speaking to you, you vile cretins. Now, explain yourselves.”

 Brompton once again heard Scott Geldart in his ear.

 “Fucking hell, Brompton, look! It’s George Osborne! It’s the Chancellor of the Exchequer!”

 Brompton blinked, wiped the hard crust from the inside of his eyes, and looked again.

 No chin.

 Of course!

 Brompton panicked. His mind flew to all the myriad possibilities. What should he do? Why did this sort of thing always happen when he was drunk and on drugs? Like that business with Robert Peston?

 His fist flew out and struck George Osborne in the face. The Chancellor fell to the floor, a pathetic whimper that turned into a sob being the only noise he made. Brompton knelt down over his prone body and held his head to ground by the neck. George Osborne whimpered, tears in his eyes. Brompton hesitated:

 What was he doing?

 “Brompton, what are you doing? That’s George Osborne”

 “I know” replied Brompton as he brought his fist down hard into George’s face, almost losing it in the process. The Chancellor’s head lolled to the side as he faded from consciousness, a low groan from that combined chin-throat.

 “Now, just go with me on this…”

Ten minutes later Brompton and Scott were sitting in the back of a taxi with the unconscious Chancellor of the Exchequer. A bag had been placed over his head, and beneath the bag he was gagged, should he awaken. They had also taken the liberty of tying up his hands.

 “Stag-do, mate” they told the cabbie.

 As the taxi sped past Hyde Park towards Knightsbridge, High Street Kensington and ultimately West Kensington, Scott turned to Brompton, his eyes doing cartwheels as the drugs continued to do a number on him.

 “What now, Brompton?”

 “Trust me, Scott. I’ve got a plan.”

 Brompton did not have a fucking clue…

 To be Continued!


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