Foreword by the Green Arrow
Yes I know, I should just copy a piece of work from another fellow blogger site and link back but this story posted on the truly superb British Nationalist site should not not be spoilt by having to be interupted to be be track backed to source. But please do go here and leave a comment if you enjoyed the story....
3.00AM: In an expensive hideously white neighbourhood, a phone rings at a detached Georgian town-house, always on duty, the leader of the troops Weyman takes the call. “Hello Weyman, it’s Comrade Gerry here, are you alone?”
Weyman, having become used to the late night ramblings of his elderly commandant , responds: “Yeah, go ahead boss,”
“Ok, I’ve just received some intelligence about the BNP, they’re planning to construct an intergalactic Nazi space station, from which they will broadcast never ending loops of Nick Griffin’s victories to every house in Europe, we cannot let them get away with this Weyman! I have phoned Harriet Harman but she’s busy preparing a case against Sean Connery, for slapping women in his Bond films, WEYMAN! are you listening?”
An exasperated Weyman dutifully informs Gerry that he is indeed listening.
“Good, because gender reassignment surgery doesn’t come cheap, and you’ll be stuck shagging your Tara’s arse instead of a nice new front bottom, if you don’t remember who butters your bread, boy!”
Thoughts of plumbing those depths for the rest of his days snaps Weyman to attention, “Y y yes sir, what do you want me to do?”
Gerry’s lowers his voice to a whisper, “They’re planning to use their new ethnic minority members as guinea pigs, to man this Nazi space station, I want you to join the BNP and apply to be the pilot?”
Silence greets the instructions. Weyman is now certain of the dear leader’s unstable mindset: “Umm, sir, I can’t ride a bicycle, let alone pilot a space rocket, maybe you would be a better candidate? I mean you were part of the soviet space programme”
Gerry smashes the phone on the table, “Do you enjoy buggering me with my past failures Weyman!? You will report to the UAF-bunker tomorrow at 9am for your briefing, Ketlan will be giving you a full going over.”
Weyman stifles a protest, “Ok boss, I will be there.”
He slipped into fond recollection of his time with Ketlan at Lancaster University, he had been a lowly septic-tank cleaner, until Ketty raised him up to the role of personal token ethnic, he even allowed Weyman to polish the head of his beloved Stalin bust.
He is awoken from his revere by the ringing of his phone, “You forgot something sir?” Guessing that it’s the boss;
“Yes, don’t bring Tara with you, he stirs feelings in my loins that I’d rather not act on, we need to focus!”
He slowly waddles his vast bulk up the stairs, to where his Tara awaits, he finds him sprawled across their four poster, provocatively positioned, and clad in a leather corset, he begins to feel himself stiffen, but he must tell him,
“Tara, babe, I’m to fly the BNP’s Nazi space shuttle,” A wicked smile stretches Taras stubble stained cheeks, “Good, I like a man in Uniform.”
To be Continued.