Toothless

by Prose

The crowds screamed – they wouldn’t stop screaming for him, cheering for him. He stood on the old stage, bloody with the years. His feet slid behind the pedestal, and his bare toes were wet with the lifeblood of everyone who had stood there before him. Politicians, theologians, musicians, artists and athletes and actors had all taken this same stance – had all let their hands curl around the lectern, had all dug their nails neatly into the slots his fingers now filled.

He could barely see them, beyond the lights; could only hear them as one great creature, something so much more than himself that he had, by willpower and bravery, managed to master. He raised his hands, fingers curling into fists, and the crowd cheered for him. He let his arms hang there, aging, sagging, fatty flesh made muscular by adoration and his tailored suit. They loved him, and he let them love him until he had to lower his arms to the lectern again. He gave them a few more moments to calm themselves before leaning into the microphone.

‘What can I say?’ He demanded, letting his face break into a grin which only made them cheer again. He waved them down until they were silent enough – or as silent as possible. ‘Friends, what can I say after all these years? We’ve worked and worked to make our point and, finally, the British people have spoken! We have finally taken control and given it back to our people!’

The cheering started again, but he held up his arms.

‘Friends, friends! Let me speak – we have done something unique tonight. We have allowed our people autonomy, the opportunity to speak for themselves against a foreign power, without a single bullet being fired, without a single body falling, without thousands of our young men dying on the shores of foreign seas! This was a victory – the victory – for the ordinary, working people of this great country. We have come together to fight against international control, to fight against the banks and the corporations, to fight against even our own governments with their lies, their deceit and their corruption!’ There was no containing them at that.

He allowed the masses roar with joy and pride as he stood there – blinded by the lights, sweat on his forehead; arms stretched out to either side like he had climbed atop the cross.

‘Our victory – for make no mistake, my friends, that is what this has been! Our victory! As hard fought and as essential as any battle ever fought! Our victory will pave the way for a new world – one of sovereign nations under ourselves! One where the will of the people can no longer be ignored to please foreign bureaucrats! One where we are free to make our own choices! One where each of us is entitled to the sweat of our brows! One where we can walk out of the door every morning with our heads held high! One where you, my friends, can be proud to be British!’

He walked across the stage a few times, waving out into the blinding light. The sound drowned him until even his own thoughts were lost, sacrificed to the mass hysteria in the room. For a few moments, he truly felt like one of them, like he belonged, like he had found his place – his smile never faded, his never stopped flashing and he wouldn’t let his arms drop from the wave.

There’s no greater joy than this, he thought, finally turning away and walking into the comforting darkness behind him. To have a thousand people hanging on your every word, and millions more at home! To have the entire civilised world looking to you, and you alone. To see your work played out!

He moved through the halls back to his room, shaking hands with everyone he passed. He stopped to exchange a few words with those carrying cameras and posed for a picture with more than a few. The maids he passed were silent, staring at the floor instead of looking at him. It infuriated him; especially when he saw how pretty some of them were.

Ah, he scowled to himself behind the smile, I’m not letting them ruin today. This is my fucking victory; this’ll show ‘em.

When he got to his room, he closed the door behind him and, almost immediately, began to laugh. He laughed as he crossed the room to the bottle of whiskey – thirty years old from a small distillery in Scotland – and poured himself a glass. God Save The Queen started playing, and he answered his phone almost immediately.

‘Just saw you on TV! You did fantastic!’

‘Thanks,’ he said absent-mindedly, thinking of the olive coloured skin of one of the maids he had walked past, ‘it’s a good result, isn’t it?’

‘It’s more than that!’ She replied, ‘You’ve been working for this for more than ten years!’

‘Yeah, well, there’s still a long way to go yet.’ He took a sip of the whiskey before placing it on the desk and sitting in the comfortable armchair beside it.

He wondered whether the maid had children but decided against it – she would be too young. But then again, you never knew what these fuckin’ animals got up to. Her father probably sold her to one of his friends for a Netflix subscription and a goat.

‘They’ll still probably try and stop us.’

She’d probably hate me at first.

He used his free hand to unbutton his trousers and slide the fly down.

‘Oh, you won’t have any problems with that – look how far you’ve gotten!’

‘Yeah, but still – there’s a lot to keep an eye on.’ He ran the hand over his crotch, felt the swell of his cock beneath the black cotton.

She’d probably try to run away, but I’d have locked the door. Serves her right – the little bitch. Not even looking at me.

His wife kept prattling on about something or other, and he made sure to listen to her tone of voice so he could answer in vague, complacent sentences. All the time, he was slowly rubbing himself through his underwear, picturing the maid’s face stretched out in terror, desperately looking around the room to avoid staring at him.

Look at me.

Look at me you little bitch.

She looks up at him, straight in the eye, her dark skin gone red with terror, her lips flecked with spittle as he fucked her.

You like that, don’t you? A real man – you should be thanking me, you ungrateful fucking slut.

When his wife hung up the phone, he tossed it onto the bed and spent a minute jerking off until he came on his thighs.

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