Black Pitch

It had been a long meeting for the chief of the intelligence service. The Prime minister had brought a list again. There was little sign that he might be nearing the end of it.
“OK if we can’t do that what about if we coated let’s say packets of playing cards or dirty magazines or cigarettes with I don’t know anthrax no Ebola and then airdropped them on these terrorist johnnies what’s to stop us doing that?” said the Prime Minister.
“Morality, sir?” said chief of the intelligence service, the word strange in his mouth. He was not used to being on the side of the angels. His every synapse was white hot with the effort of keeping weary disdain from his voice. “Children may find the items instead.”
“Morality. I’m always forgetting that, aren’t I?” the Prime minister said with unmalicious honesty. He grinned stupidly and reddened. In the long years of his premiership he had not once thought of an idea that would not have seen them all either imprisoned for life or possibly publicly and horribly murdered. This failure had not depressed, deflected or discouraged him. Rather, he saw it as some kind of continuing intellectual challenge. He found it fun and stimulating. Whatever else, he certainly thought his ideas worth sharing. He picked up another scrap of paper.
“Apronknickers. Now your lady can be a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom without any of the fuss!”
“I beg your pardon, Prime Minister?”
“Sorry, sorry, that’s something else. I’m thinking of going back to advertising when this is all over. That’s a slogan I came up with all by myself.”
The chief of the intelligence service was torn. He had not been able to decide which was more dangerous, the Prime Minister getting re-elected or being released back into the wild. It was quite possible that, unsupervised, the man could be a pain in his service’s arse for decades to come.
“I’ve received a very interesting letter from a man who says he can make terrorists infertile,” said the Prime Minister.

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