“The Magic Money Tree will provide” declared the King.
“It does not exist!” refuted the Queen.
“I use it to purchase all my needs”, affirmed the Unicorn.
“We want a decent, egalitarian society where all the peoples’ needs are met”, implored the People.
“Off with their heads”, cried both King and Queen as they accepted another 8% rise in garnered taxation from austerity ridden subjects.
The Navy, fearing budgets would become restricted, launched a vast vessel costing the earth yet named supplicantly after their Queen in deference to appeasement and gratuitous hope renewed flooding of funding would be forthcoming.
Sniveling, greedy, lying, deceitful ministers of the Crown threw billions torn from a hitherto hidden Magic Money Tree, whose existence had been vigorously denied, into the coffers of lunatic, equally psychopathic terror lovers across waters dividing them from the mainland in vain hope the latter would connive support for weak and enfeebled rule.
Magic was all the rage in the Kingdom of Albion eons ago creating a strong domain of right and justice. Now a mere shadow of its prior glory, its purpose was used to propagandize over painted green pastures, brown field sites and CGI initiated fantasies.
Money, invented for the subjugation of peoples denied it yet forced to use it for trade barter and taxation, became further mystified and marginalized for unique benefit of foreign criminals intent on creating fabricated fortunes and marginal numbers of slaves for selfish and megalomaniacal ends. Its slush funding kept the obsequious tax haven crazies in check.
The few remaining Trees endeavored to supply oxygen to struggling green pastures and slowly they themselves fell parched and starved of nourishment into the sod. Cattle and sheep so dearly needing rich grasslands became toxic on chemical feeds. Forests festered, wilted and wept at how sidelined they had become as mere myth.
It was the Unicorn who, realizing its abused use as propaganda at the hands of the powerful, upped stumps and cantered off into a mist, prepared earlier by a Palace special effects department, at minimal cost.
Even today stories of its appearance and disappearance keeps the chattering classes divided. The peasants, in place of non existent food on their tables, invented tales of its second coming laced with hope, faith and a basket full of charitable donations allegedly able to drag them out of the penury they now drowned in.
The Minister for Future Wealth woke from a dream and rushed to the seat of Governance where a motley crew of other Ministers with and without portfolio, sense or reason muttered to each other under very rancid collective breath.
Said dream inspired Minister called them all together including an errant Prime Minister, ugly witch of a woman whose legitimacy had so long past its sell by date as to have become fully decrepit, enfeebled and barely able to crack open a toothless smile, rarely employed anyway.
“I had a dream!” roared the Minister.
The assembled Party vagabonds hissed sycophantic interest, took in as much breath of unity as they could muster and as one exclaimed.
“OMG, tell us!”
Ears deeply bent towards what was to come.
“We must create War – a War for Wealth is what we must make.”
“Brilliant”, cried a newly elected ex serviceman from the South West. seeing only his own self emolument sure to increase from such tactics.
“Why War?” queried an innocent.
“War makes us money, covers prior insolvencies and affords further containment of dissent. It allows no freedom of speech, no voice of reason and enormous rewards from the Bankers who control it all.”
“Will the people not smell a rat?” questioned a very junior minister.
“We shall make sure all our rats have jumped ship way before that time arises“, assured the Dream Catcher.
“Not before they have all been rounded up and caught!” boomed a voice silently having entered the Chamber while all were thoroughly distracted.
The crowd of disgusting dignitaries swiveled round as one to cast eyes on the voice and its deliverer.
Before them stood an elder, strong, upright and carrying such authority and gravitas as to scare many of the timid crowd before him. His cheeky smile and twinkling eye gave none cause or reason to relax. Some quislings among them saw a Lion in front of them for all the presence he projected. Others noticed the slim penny whistle held firmly in his left hand. The rest stood silent, confounded, confused and confabulating all sorts of indigestible fantasies his appearance heralded.
He spoke again, this time with greater authority and deeper purpose.
“The Many have spoken as you, your rich barons you cower to and the Bankers controlling you conspire in this heinous act. None of you deserve the treatment ordained to be meted out on you, neither have you earned the grace I have subsequently recommended.”
Silence fell heavily, trapping them all.
“It is with the authority of this Many that I am ordered to dispatch all of you, your Bankers, Priests and Profiteers from this House, from the Halls of Avarice, Greed and Self Worship to a small but perfectly formed and fit for purpose island off these coasts of ours. Thereupon you shall work out your days in penury you felt so eased to wage on the good people of this land.”
Not a titter tutted nor a pin dropped as the bard continued.
“To the Isle of Man shall you be banished. Your tax havens already have collapsed their resistance in lieu of the 5% we offered on all funds accrued. The Bankers’ bonuses have funded and will continue to fund the fences round this purdah we collectively maintain and contain you to on Man”.
The Minister who had dreamed shouted from behind the false protection offered by the crowd in front of him.
“War will save us and still defeat your insolence, your free meals and education. It is already in motion. Your threats are as hollow as all your promises”.
His pleasure was palpable.
“You think War your solution?” exclaimed the Peoples’ Lion King. “Your War died the day your fabricated Enemy exposed their own arsenals of Defence. Each weapon dipped in Peace makes them invulnerable. The billions of voices in a world beset by bestiality and barbarity are alone enough to melt your wicked steel.”
“Pitiful Peace Propagator,” the Minister sneered. “Our bombs already speed across the steppes of your allies, along Silk Roads of Eastern Commerce to destroy all that is ultimately good and prosperous. Your Peace, Unity and Accord will melt in our man made atomic suns.”
A visible shiver rippled across the assembled yes folk of Putrid Power.
The bard physically grew before the lot of them. They felt his Wizardry whip across and through the Palace placing furious fear on each and every shoulder of their damned bodies.
“No atomized annihilation can beat the Electromagnetic Pulse of Peace. Hear this you wretched Warmongering liars; those bombs and weapons have already dropped dead and impotent into deserts, oceans and barren lands awaiting to bury their useless, neutralized packages.”
He rose to his own rhetoric.
“Magic is now the Magic of the Many. Money is the equitable exchange for All and the Tree of Life breathes deeper than it has ever breathed living and imparting a long and educative life among us all”.
Sounds of scared scurrying money men, crooks and criminal aristocrats instantly drowned under the final landing of metallic nets catching one and all for transport to their final destination on the Isle of Man.
The Magus lifted his left hand, holding the penny flute and bringing it to his lips began to play.
The crowd outside hearing the familiar strain with one voice began the now emblematic National Anthem of Hope and Glory:
‘Ohhhh! Jeremy Corbyn, Ohhhh! Jeremy Corbyn’
The Unicorn returned, placed the King and Queen under House Arrest, assigned them both to muck out the stables it would soon be occupying and collected dues from global visitors pouring through the Palaces and Castles amazed as to how people could not have realized sooner how much they could all have earned from such an archaic institution.
The sun set on the first day in the future of this Magical Dominion of Albion.
The President Bear from over the waters and steppes of their former enemy smiled as he relished the fun, joy and peaceful co-existence now certain between him and his new BFF.
A self imploded continent across another ocean continued to make digitized fantasies and repetitious Terror Vision of who they thought themselves to be. Now however international law contained and maintained such fantasies for only their own insular and self serving consumption. The virus of unipolar exceptionalism had been once and for all staunched, contained and buried. Export from these shores was indefinitely banned until education, intelligence and critical thinking had been truly and permanently restored.
Read more of my research and the story of uncovering the mechanisms of global control in Dreams and Realities
Capt AH Trapman: aka Toto, has been a journalist for The London Telegraph, author of several well received books include The Dog, Man’s Best Friend, The Greeks Triumphant and Straight Tips for Subs and co-founder/creator for the British Army, the Bicycle Battalions. As a researcher and investigative reporter he was responsible for uncovering hidden pathways to the Global Deep State following the global financial crash of 1929.