London, St Pancras. 5 days before Christmas
Hunched, hands pressed deep into their pockets they shuffle along. Dragging their belongings behind them as they try to hide from the unrelenting, biting, cold. A wind whips up snow and ice and children cower next to their parents, eyes wide with a fear of being separated. Their tiny hands tightly grip the torn and ragged overcoats which cover their parent’s painfully thin bodies.
The queue moves with glacial speed and cars slow down to watch their progression amazed by the sight. A refugee trail as far as the eye can see.
Riot police quietly herd them in the right direction, the only direction. They have come prepared for a violent outburst, but it never comes. They are too weak to rebel, compliance is now the only option. All hope has been lost, every turn they took was blocked by a bureaucratic brick wall and they all end up in the same place, the queue. Across the country the scene is repeated, blanket TV coverage ensures we are all aware of what is happening in our country. Politicians condemn everyone except themselves, the guilty make excuses and run from roaming reporters.
London, somewhere near Heathrow
“What happened, why can’t you resolve this?” a devil horned reporter thrusts the snow covered microphone into the face of a scared and panicking young media-relations manager
“We were surprised by the ferocity of it, it caught us unawares” he mumbles back.
“With your pants down?” the cloven hoofed one replies.
“Well I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, but we were surprised, yes”
“You don’t care about your customers”
“You didn’t invest in infrastructure”
“Well, that’s not entirely…..”
“It’s true!” he cuts in forcefully “You are making money hand over fist, millions, no billions, but you invest nothing!” pushing his tripod into his chest.
“Well, no, not really, last year the profits of…..” The demon cuts him off again, switching tack
“What do you have to say to all the people out there watching this going on?”
“What do you have to say, WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY?” goatee-beard is now standing with a foot on the throat of the ill prepared young man.
He looks defeated and with a hopeful tone he replies “Sorry?”
A pause and then he continues “But it was, it was, well, umm, the wrong sort of snow you see” His jugular is now exposed in anticipation of the killer blow.
Pausing, Satan glances at the camera. Aware the whole country is watching he savours the moment. He smiles knowingly and his eyes glow a deep dark, blood red. You can almost hear the cries of Kill him! Kill him! from behind the camera which silently blinks red.
“I presume by that you mean the cold kind of snow?”
The queue shuffles onwards, never stopping, never reducing and the mercury drops another notch.