“So you definitely didn’t go to Private School or Grammar School?”
“God no, it was a comprehensive in Sheffield,” replied the reporter, now accentuating his northern accent even more, to increase his chances of getting an interview, with the famously belligerent Footballer while his subject looked down again at the piece of paper in his hand. It was best to make sure thought Lucius, as only a few weeks earlier he had been rather embarrassingly duped by a journalist who produced proof that he had attended a sink school in Birmingham, when in fact he’d gone to Eton and as a result, the prank was splashed all over the tabloid press for days. Even he had to laugh, but, in saying that, he didn’t really want to make a habit out of making himself look like a dick too many times, and so studied the documentation a little more forensically, before handing it back to the journalist.
“Looks genuine enough to me. What’s your first question then, and don’t start it with “So”. That really annoys me.”
“Err, s…, I mean well Lucius, great performance as usual, a wonder goal and 2 assists, but before we talk about the game, can you explain to our audience why you didn’t take the knee again before the kick off?”
“Because it means nothing. Virtue signaling by celebrities who are too thick to realize that they are achieving jack, except maybe a few more clicks to improve their brand.”
“Err, well they might say that’s an unfair summary of their actions and that they are making a valid stand against racism.”
“Yeah they might say that.”
“But, isn’t it a just stand against unfairness?”
“It’s a pointless gesture, that means nothing because it’s costs nothing.”
“But isn’t this just playing into the hands of those fans who routinely boo the taking of the knee?”
“What do you mean? I’d boo as well, if I was them. They know they’re been preached at by a bunch of self interested no marks. Assuming they’re all racist and have to be re-educated, to start thinking the right way. It’s insulting and these fans, you go on about all the time, the ones who spend all the money by the way, they know enough to realize, it’s an empty gesture. As far as I’m concerned, they are no more racist than me.”
“So black lives don’t matter, then?”
“12 years ago they made a black man President, yeah? Did that change anything in America or the world, for that matter? Eddie or Sam or whatever your name is?”
“It’s Simon actually.”
“You sure you didn’t go to Public School?”
“Err, yes.”
“Well Simon, did things change with Obama being president?”
“Err well.”
“You do know he dropped more bombs than George W Bush don’t you? And he kicked hundreds of thousands of black people out of their homes, after the 2008 crash? Didn’t see anyone taking a knee about that, back then, did you?”
“Err, okay, fair enough. Well, I think we should probably return to the game now…”
“No, you started this Simon. So here’s another question for you then? What do the ones with all the money and all the power really fear, other than a shortage of quinoa down their local Waitrose, of course? I’ll tell you shall I? Ordinary people, whatever their color, realizing they have loads in common with each other, and getting together to do something about it. You see, that’s what really keeps them up at night.”
“Yes but…”
“Cos we all know how the world works don’t we, Simon? You got a million pounds, you can make two, two gets you four, four will bring you ten, but earn 30 grand a year, and you’d have to be a fucking genius to make that last without having to bankrupt yourself on loans. Oh and God help you if you’ve got any kids.”
“Excuse me Luciuis but could you…”
“Stop swearing? Not really Simon, I’m on a roll. So here’s another thing. You know the Stock Market is going up, at the moment, but we’re actually in the middle of a Pandemic. How’s that work? You’d think as everything’s being shut down, Corporations might be going to the wall, or at least losing money, but they’re not, are they? It’s because of Quantitative Easing. Free money from their mates in Government and the Central banks, but when they get it, instead of investing it in their businesses, with new technology or heaven forbid, giving their workers a pay-rise, they buy back shares in their own Companies, to keep the Stock Price artificially high, so they can give themselves huge bonuses. You know in 1970, the average CEO was getting 30 times, the wage of his average employee, now it’s 300 times. This is how they work. The Bosses and the Professional Managerial Class. They want cheap labour and no back-chat from anyone without a degree, and heaven help you if you want to build any Social Housing in their area, cos then it’s all “I agree in principle” until they block it in the courts. It’s a stitch up, mate. The 80% are getting crushed. It can’t go on. We can’t keep walking down the old roads anymore, because they just go around and around, going absolutely nowhere. The fact is, we have to build newer ones, straighter ones, so we can all get out of this hateful misery, and so that’s why I’m arranging a March in four weeks time in Trafalgar Square. There you go Simon, big exclusive for you, there. It’s gonna be called Time for a Real Change. I want millions there bruv. Let’s forget taking a knee and all that fucking virtue signaling bollocks and do something useful for a change. March with me in four weeks and let’s show these jokers once for all who’s really in control,” said the Footballer, pushing past the Journalist to speak directly into the camera, while Lady Carswell, pressed her finger on the remote control, as a frozen picture of Lucius Noble in mid rant, now filled the huge television screen on the wall opposite.
“He’s dangerous.”
“Oh darling, he’s just another gobby Sports Star. Only difference is, he’s actually quite good. Saw him play Chelsea last year. Absolutely destroyed us. Such a sweet left foot. Very similar to Messi but puts it about like Roy Keane. Probably get the Balon d’Or again this year. I mean…”
“Oscar. He is dangerous,” interrupted Carswell, with a cold stare.
“But not as dangerous as you my petal. Come back to bed, you’re gorgeous, when you are irritated. Your lip curls up on one side” said Oscar, patting the metal base of the huge double pallet.
“Stop flirting Oscar, this is serious. He is talking about revolution.”
“Oh, he’s hardly Che Guevara is he? He’s a footballer, sweet-pea. It’s all performance with that lot. I mean I should bloody know, we represent enough of them at EVC. They’re complete idiots. Half the time, they just spout whatever their fucking agents tells them, while the rest they prattle on about “Their brand” and “Having a Legacy”,” said Oscar, affecting a generic working class accent.
“Well this one is different. The modern world is perfect for malcontents like Lucius Noble right now, especially with Social Media. Do you think if the Diggers had Twitter, we could have ground them into the dirt, as we easily as we did?”
“Oh, that was years ago, come back to bed petal, my body yearns for you,” said Oscar leaning over for another kiss.
“He’s planning a March,” snapped Carswell, moving her head away and folding her arms.
“So what. They did the same for Iraq and we still did what we wanted.”
“Well not any more. People are wiser this time, and never forget the power a Poet or Revolutionary has over the masses.”
“I thought that was just women” said Oscar, with a slippery grin, as he moved across the bed again.
“Some women. Can’t you see Oscar, the more he talks, the harder, it will be to shut him up? He is unorthodox. Lives on the same wage as everyone else, very clever. Yes, this is new. Very, very new. Before we could always get the Celebrities on our side, especially the poor ones, because they loved the money so much and would do anything to protect it. Look at Richard Burton or Tupac Shakur? Both supposed Socialists but despite their bluster, they loved the lifestyle more. But this Lucius doesn’t care about how many shoes he can buy or houses he can live in.”
“He has his detractors too cup-cake. Don’t worry, I will get Jamaal and Tudor Dee to write a few columns about how he is letting black people down and playing a white man’s game. You know turn him into a race traitor, like we did with Calvin Sewell.”
“Calvin Sewell is religious and a conservative, so he’s easy to ignore, but it won’t be so easy with this Lucius. The dispossessed rarely see the sky, because most of the time, their eyes are fixed on the ground and it has always been our job to keep them there. That’s why I don’t care about loud mouthed Populists like Bane Vulpine, they do our job for us, keeping the Culture War going, keeping everyone distracted. But this Footballer is something else entirely. He represents true jeopardy, like Fred Hampton before.”
“Fred Hampton? who’s he, pray?”
“Precisely. No-one really knows about him. We erased his memory, but, in reality, he was the most dangerous man in the Sixties. More dangerous than Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, and Bobby Kennedy all put together. He was the head of the Black Panthers in 1969, and his idea was to bring poor Whites, Blacks, and Latinos together. And he was getting somewhere, as well. Had a meeting with White Miners in Virginia, and Latino gangs in New York, it was just the seeds you understand, but it was incendiary and could have gone anywhere. That’s why our American allies had to extinguish him. Brother Hoover and his half-crazed FBI were a blunt instrument at the best of times, but they got the job done. We need to do the same with Lucius Noble. He could easily become our Fred Hampton and much worse, if don’t do something.”
“So what do you suggest? Take him out like the FBI?”
“Nothing so crude, my dearest. Deal with him, yes, but in a more English way perhaps.”
“Without fuss?”
“Precisely. Find him, hypnotize him in the manner I showed you, so it lasts for a day and then make him download child pornography or say something extremely vile about women, you know rape is acceptable for a husband, that kind of thing, but he needs to be silenced.”
“Perfect,” said Oscar leaning over for a kiss.
“And tonight,” added the Vampire Leader, pulling away from her lover and walking into the middle of the bedroom.
“But can’t we at least have a little…”.
“No! I have chosen you for greater things my darling boy, because I see your talents, but if you fail…”
“I wont fail” replied Oscar, wiping the smile from his face, before sliding off the pallet and putting on his clothes.
*
Oscar quickly exited the bedroom, and deciding to ignore the comfort of the internal lift, raced down the stairs of Vampire Palace to the car park below. This was serious, he thought, sliding into the front seat of his Tesla and putting on his seat belt. The one thing he didn’t want was a disappointed Carswell and although she had as much affection for him as any Vampire her age could be expected to have, in reality, she was absolutely ruthless, and so if he didn’t come up to scratch, he could quite easily find himself back in the shallows paddling about with all the other losers. That’s why she had ruled for so long, and that last look she’d given him just before he left, confirmed he was probably hovering close to something quite unpleasant.
Of course, he didn’t need the Vampire Leader to tell him, Lucius was a danger, any fool could see that. However he’d decided a few years ago, when the footballer had first started to make his pronouncements on social issues, that it would be more judicious, to play the long game. Death by a thousand compromises was usually the best solution, where he either conformed and started to behave like a proper celebrity, a la John Lennon preaching “Imagine there’s no possessions”, whilst swanning around multi-million-pound mansions and being best buddies with Ronald Reagan, or found himself on the margins, ridiculed. Anything else was completely off the menu and as it seemed, early on, that the young Lucius wanted to be some kind of working class martyr, he had decided that “the silly little boy” would have to learn the hard way. A well-placed article here, some innuendo there, maybe the odd prominent black voice decrying Lucius for letting down his race. Uncle Tom, was always a reliable assassin, and he was pretty sure, given time, he would have eventually gotten his man. But now, Carswell, wanted results yesterday, he would be forced to shelve his original plan and drastically change tack. “Blast” mumbled the Vampire to himself and grimaced again, while he tapped an address into his Sat Nav before making his way out of the underground car park.
Not that finding Lucius Noble would be difficult.
The whole world and his cis-gendered wife knew that he lived in a council flat on the 12th floor of a tower block which he had inherited since he was eighteen from his single mother, who’d died from cancer. It was all part of the mystique, and when he burst onto the scene a year later, scoring a hat-trick in his very first game against the League Champions , no -one believed for a second that a Premiership footballer would be staying for long in an Estate notorious for drugs and gang violence. In fact, even after a year, of remaining in the council flat, everyone still thought it was some kind of a hoax, until Lucius showed the Local Authority, who had been busily trying to evict him at the time, and everyone else incontrovertible proof that he was, in fact, living on the average wage of his local area, whilst also donating the rest of his multi million contract and boot deal to a Trust, dedicated to promoting true equality in British society. Of course, the Mainstream Media, certain he was as fraudulent as themselves, had ferreted around his financial details like demented auditors, looking for a crack in the ice, while older rock stars, from similar working class backgrounds, like Conor Fitzgerald, sneered from their North London mansions that he was just a “Do-gooder and a stupid twat”. However, nothing stuck, and after a few more years when the footballer, continued to take the bus to work and even made his own sandwiches, “Cos no-one who works for Primark gets free travel and lunch, do they?” a modern-day legend was born. The Pandemic, further elevated him to God-like status, and after rapidly establishing Social Clubs in working class communities all over the country, and distributing free food to nearly five million of his countrymen, badges with “Lucius speaks for me” started to be worn by everyone from Supermarket workers to those on the front line of the NHS. Predictably his fellow professionals, scrambled around to get in on the act, quickly declaring their support for his initiatives, whilst making financial contributions to various Local Charities, only to find themselves, condemned by the man, himself, on his regular podcast, Noble Endeavour. “These are the same so called Role Models, who kiss their badge when they score a goal to make the fans think they love the club. But, if they were to be really honest, they should have their bank account numbers stitched on their shirt instead, because that’s what they’re really kissing. Don’t trust them, they’re fucking frauds and will always let you down.” Destroying this paragon of Prole virtue would be an absolute pleasure, thought Oscar as he pulled up outside the tower block, before nimbly crawling up its walls and letting himself in by an open window to find his way towards his prey.
However, “I’m having some oven chips, if fancy any,” soon halted Oscar in his tracks, as a light in the front room, suddenly came on and Lucius stared back with a big grin.
“McCains?” replied Oscar, coolly, placing his hands in his pockets, whilst desperately trying to disguise the shock of being caught in the act.
“Supermarket brand, I’m afraid. Bit broke this week, but they’re very good.”
“Think I’ll pass,” replied Oscar before flying across the room to stand in front of Lucius and stare into his eyes.
Nothing.
“I picked up your stench, as soon as you hit the roof, Vampire. That cloying mustiness of Orchids mixed with dried blood. Never forget it,” said Lucius edging past Oscar’s astonished face to remove a tray from the oven and empty some chips onto a plate.
“Lycan.”
“Wolves of the Night if you please, and we do like a beard. I often think, it must be awful for you Vampires these days. All that skin like a baby’s arse, while everyone else is sprouting whiskers and getting mental health counseling from their Barbers. You must feel very excluded?”
“Never really went for that look myself. Bit too Bronze Age, for me. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have a drink, anywhere around here, would you?” said Oscar, regaining his poise, while he looked around the council flat with increasing distaste.
“Bottle’s over there.”
“Thanks,” replied the Vampire walking over to a coffee table and picking up a cheap bottle of Scotch to pour himself a drink.
“I was half expecting a call sometime from you lot. What was it? Not taking a knee? Annoying Channel Four, Pissing off the Guardian?” said Lucius, placing a chip in his mouth.
“Amongst other things. You’ll have to stop, you know. It’s unsettling the order of things.”
“The order of things? Of course. Yes, best keep the order of things, or all hell will break loose, won’t it? Hardly fair Bloodsucker.”
“Neither is competing with mortals. All that latent strength.”
“Thought you’d approve. Trans men competing in Women’s Sport and all that” said the Lycan with a grin.
“They are women.”
“You don’t believe that for a second, charlatan. But for your information, I am the same as mortals, except when I change, which I’m hardly likely to do in the middle of a game am I? Think of all the hate, I’d get from the Mascots. No, the talent is my own, you can check my Testosterone levels if you wish.”
“Still unfair, I’ll have to talk to Keevan about this. It’s against the Pact.”
“Keevan doesn’t rule me.”
“Well, you need to stop.”
“Why don’t you stop?”
“We’re not doing anything.”
“Priceless. Tell me Nosferatu? Do you get chosen for your bullshit, or is it something that naturally occurs, when you are turned? You have a perfect plan, don’t you? Keep the attention on identity, keep people at each other’s throats, while no-one sees the sleight of hand?”
“You have us wrong dear boy.”
“I think not, but, don’t worry, a change is coming. But this time, the pitchforks will have black, white and brown hands on the shafts. The 80% are rising up and when they do, it will be so beautiful. I am Aufidius, motherfucker and I will haunt bastards like you for as long as it takes.”
“Shakespeare, by God? Aufidius? Didn’t he betray Coriolanus?”
“You can’t betray your oppressor, Demon.”
“Really? Anyway, didn’t you know? Shakespeare was a fraud, old chap. A failed actor, who could barely read or write. Everybody knows it was Edward De Vere,” grinned Oscar, taking a sip of his whiskey.
“The Earl of Oxford? Another Vampire lie. He was a Lycan, as well you know. That’s why pricks like you have been trying to discredit him, for years. Still can’t believe something that incredible didn’t come from your own stinking class. Does it annoy you Bloodsucker? Answer me you privileged dog!” replied Lucius, now suddenly transforming into a Lycan, before bounding across from the kitchen to pin Oscar’s neck against the living room wall.”
“Aagh, I can’t breathe.”
“How very George Floyd of you. Nice to see one of the Elites struggling for air for a change. How does it feel? Frightened? Embarrassed? Humiliated?”
“Aaghh, yes, aagh.”
“Welcome to our world, Deceiver. I could squeeze the life out of you now, but a Black Lycan killing a Tier One Vampire and white to boot, would be too much trouble, even for me. Don’t come here again, because the next time I may not be so hospitable,” spat Lucius, letting go of Oscar’s throat, as the Vampire staggered back with terror in his eyes, before quickly hurling his body towards the ceiling and then scuttling to safety through the window he had entered by.
Oscar had encountered Lycans before and although incredibly strong, it usually didn’t take that much for a mature Vampire, like himself to defeat one. His kind were an older form, so their ancient DNA made their muscles much denser than the average Werewolf, but, there was no doubt, that Lucius could have killed him just now if he’d wanted to. This thought slightly unnerved the Vampire as he clambered down the side of the tower block, and feeling a rare moment of vulnerability, which he only really experienced when talking to Carswell, he suddenly lost his grip, and tumbled from 40 feet to the ground below. A few yards away, a local fox looked on in quiet bemusement, until a hand shot out, and Oscar brought the animal’s neck to his mouth. The blood brought a little optimism to his mood and he continued to feast on the unfortunate animal’s neck, until he sat up and stared blankly at the pale moon floating above his head. He couldn’t tell Carswell about this, she could reject him, and after centuries, of being her lover and confidante, all his plans of becoming Chief Imperator of the European Alliance could crumble into ashes before his eyes. No, he would have to sort this out himself, thought the Vampire and although Lucius might be immensely powerful, even he, would be no match for more than one Vampire and so dropping the limp body of the fox on the frozen tarmac, he pulled his phone from a side pocket and started to text.