Carnival of Pandemonium

 Blondson hung up the phone and sighed. He'd cancelled the party poppers. He slugged some Blue Nun. Straight from the bottle. Then poured the remnants over his head. Karen was watching. This wasn't the time.   "I wanted my party. I wanted Chequers. I wanted it to be called Checkmate. Everyone was coming as chess pieces". She flounced off mumbling words like 'solicitors' and 'I'm going to mummy's'.  Blondson shook his head. Time for a shit. The bog groaned under his weight. His tumultuous gut billowing over the edge of the seat. Trousers soaking up piss from the tiled floor where he'd missed.  Was this the end? Stabbed in the back like Caesar. Ricki Sundeck, Dom Saab, Penny Maudlin, Nathan Swahili- the list was endless. Even that ape Jonny Gullet. All vying for Big Dog.  Maybe it was time to launch a leadership push?

 Kat Burnley stood in Downing Street- centre stage, pride of place. She's been there since midnight. Pawing down her hair, she was camera ready, Spy TV badge gleaming after a fresh splash of pledge. Her predatory eyeballs focused in on the black door ahead- also pledged- fangs extending by the second. Her mouth and fists still stank of whiskers despite the hubba bubba. The door opened. Someone threw Larry out. Burnley hissed something inaudible and scratched her clipboard. Out came her handbag. Gucci. Tenner in Ibiza. Thrifty. She examined her fangs in the compact. Sharp. Ready. Soon enough a blonde man was thrown to the baying, waiting wolves. His fingers were in his mouth. His whole fist was in there. Cameras clicked. The crowd surged forward. Kat snarled, "World king? World king?" Wallace Blondson ignored her. It was his moment. The lecturn was still shiny. Pledge. A crowd stood behind Wallace, their hands stuffed with tenners, clapping wildly. Some could even cry on d...