Meanwhile, in the latest episode of Redthroat, the leaker had still not been found. Dan Hodges lay bleeding to death from his own stupidity on the floor. Only Gove, Dom, and Johnson were left standing. Trust had broken down completely
Somewhere in Heathrow, Cruela Patel stopped wrapping chains round the asylum seeker she was about to deport, looked at her phone and thought ‘this is your chance babe.’
But others also sensed an opportunity. Over on the south side of the river, the Handoncock boys were tired of playing the whipping boys and looking to get it on the action...
The snivelling little shit was getting ready to step out of his s&m club and make his mark
Blood flowed...along the corridors of power. Into the hallway of Carrie Antoinette’s massage parlour, where she sat knitting as the bodies piled up
And where was Fraulein Arcuri in all this? Dancing at the beer hall where the old gang gathered to celebrate the Brexit putsch
In those days they were kings. Got Brexit done. Broke Corbyn. Saw off the EU and the woke cultural Marxists. No border in the Irish Sea. Fuck yeah
They plotted together. Destroyed people together. Wrecked the country together. Let tens of thousands of people die together. No one cared who was Mr Pink then. They were best buddies
And now, this...You and me Boris. Just you and me spoilers, but this is how it ends. Johnson dies and flies up to Brexit heaven
To be serenaded by angels for all eternity
And look who comes back from a spiritual pilgrimage in the Sinai desert to take his place? You see, it was Mr Pink after all. Mr Pink was H.

You heard it here first.

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