Rating: PG-13 if you don't mind the Devil
Genre: Humour, Parody
Disclaimer: This is all sheer fiction with absolutely no connections to the real life people mentioned. My intention was not to insult anyone - everything has been written for entertainment purposes only.
Summary: The past few months had't exactly been the climax of Tony Blair's life. Until he got an offer he couldn't (literally couldn't) refuse.
A/N: I've been lurking this community for ages, and finally seemed to have something nice to give you. Or funny at least, I hope. This is the first chapter of a parody I started writing a while ago. Please R/R, that would be great :) Thank you.
And Happy Valentine!
Even though the electric fireplace was making homely cracking sounds and the inside temperature was as low as in any British house, Anthony Blair was feeling quite awful. All the bad publicity was getting on his nerves, not to mention the fact that he was apparently being more or less forced to to leave his post as the Prime Minister.
”I should have descended among the mundane more,” he mused. “Got my picture taken with children and cute animals as often as possible.”
Even the people in his own party, his former supporters, had turned against him. It seemed to poor Tony that everyone in the world had turned their back on him.
”Even George doesn’t love me anymore! Bloody Israelis, I bet this was a part of their cunning plot,” he sniffed, painfully aware of the fact that President Bush still hadn’t forgiven him for backing up, albeit late, the EU instead of him. The old row, just another context. This time Tony was afraid George had finally had it.
Sighing, Tony put away his unfinished glass of whiskey that he would have liked to finish but was afraid that the remains of his political career would be washed away if the media started talking about him having a drinking problem. He put on his pink pyjamas, briefly wondered where the hell his family was and went to bed.
As he switched off the lights he had a distant feeling that somebody was staring at him. He also felt an aching pressure inside his head, the kind of pounding that makes you think you might start hallucinating any moment. But because these symptoms are very common among politicians and people who took more LSD than grammar classes during the seventies, Tony didn’t think much of it. He fell asleep faster than you can say “gay bar”.
He dreamed of dancing on a field full of cauliflowers. It was sunny and nice in the dream, and he was a baby eagle. Baby eagle Tony. Unfortunately, there was something strange in his left wing, and it was preventing him from flying. It actually seemed that his left wing was becoming more and more powerless as the minutes passed. It also started to smell, as if it was rotting or something. That didn’t bother Tony much, though, and he kept pouncing happily around until something happened.
The mother eagle came. She was angry that Tony had left her. The mother eagle’s name was George Bush. Little Tony started to weep.
”Why are you disobeying me?” Mother George insisted.
”I am not disobeying you!” Little Tony cried. “You don’t love me anymore!”
Emotional issues were difficult for Mother George, so she just kept looking very dissatisfied and uncomprehending. Little Tony felt sad and abandoned. So sad and abandoned, actually, that he woke up from his bed, still weeping and sweating like John Reid in a press conference.
When the weeping stopped, Tony realised he was sweating more with every passing second. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes. Something was wrong. He was still wearing his pink pyjamas, though, but they clashed horribly with the red walls.
“What the bloody hell?”
“Indeed," came a voice from the door. Tony jumped into a sitting position just in time to see the stranger step into the light. He had a long blond hair, scary looking cane, ignorant frown on his face and gloomy eyes that reflected nothing but anger and irritation.
“Are you Madonna?” Tony asked.
The stranger seemed even more irritated. “Why does everybody have to ask me that? No, I’m not Madonna,” he unkindly informed Tony. “I am Lucifer.”
“I am Tony Blair.” Tony stood up an offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr Lucifer…?”
“Lucifer the Devil,” the Devil said and shook Tony’s hand.
Finally, Tony’s two brain cells connected accidentally and unexpectedly like his and George’s hands in an international seminar. “Whaa?” he asked, sounding terribly lower class.
Lucifer smirked. “Your career was going down anyway.”
Tony wanted to remind the Devil that at least three and a half Labour Party members were still convinced that the public hated him remarkably less than Jade Goody. But he was still overcoming the shock of waking up in Hell, and found himself at loss of words.
“You were brought here because I’ve got a new job for you.”