Fiction: Bow Wow

Less than a minute ago , by Richard Lutz

by Richard Lutz

Dr Kumar  Kumar heard the rhythmic bumping 15 metres from the door.

The sound was akin to a watermelon hitting an undefined metal object. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Such as a human head slamming into a filing cabinet. 

Which was exactly what it was as Kumar Kumar entered Edward Slager’s office and saw him continually butting his forehead  into an IKEA freestanding office unit.

‘Ed,’ Kumar said, ‘You can’t go on like this. Upstairs is  bound to find out and …’

‘And what?’ Slager continued headbanging.

Kumar shrugged. ‘First, we’ll run out of first aid equipment and, secondly, the blood will stain the semi unique pine effect on the wallpaper.’

Slager stopped. ‘Ouch.’ He dabbed at the open wound. ‘That hurts. Really hurts. And by the way…’

Kumar instinctively grimaced.

‘The CEO has landed.’

Kumar slumped into a chair facing Slager’s desk: ‘Didn’t take long.’

‘They stepped on the pedal.’ Edward Slager went behind his desk, dabbed his stunned head again and slid a forty page document over to Dr Kumar Kumar. It read:  ‘CEO Draft Proposal A2’. 

Kumar smiled: ‘I guess that makes you the CEO of the CEO.’

Slager: ‘You’re a funny guy,  Dr Kumar Kumar. A very funny guy with a dumb funny name and a dumb PhD. But a funny guy.’

Kumar Kumar methodically began reading the document, nodding slowly. Then, he looked up. ‘So, this is what a Canine Extermination Order looks like.’ He continued reading. ‘A CEO is a half decent reason to bash your brains out.’

‘In so many words, yes.’ Ed Slager kept dabbing.

Three hours  later Slager stood in front of 300 of his staff. He wasn’t so much nervous as critically aware of what  happened at the first mass meeting a fortnight earlier when he initially warned about  canine saliva tests and their fatal potential. 

It went something like this: before taking the stage, he had needed  a comfort stop. He re-emerged in a dither without his flies appropriately fastened. As he flew through his power points with their warnings of impending dog doom, full audience attention gravitated quickly from his dire predictions and their impact on human mortality rates, to his open trousers.

Zipgate, cried The Mirror.  Shlongfest, shouted The Sun. What the Boffin Really Revealed, tittered The Telegraph. Pet Food Chiefs Grit Teeth as Senior Scientist Warns of Canine Bacterial Infection Concern, headlined the Financial Times. It was all very embarrassing. 

Still was, thought Slager as he mounted the same stage.

He intuitively rechecked his trousers and then read out the power point over his head:

‘A canine bacterium, usually innocuous, called Capnocytophaga has gone fatally rogue.’

‘Lab tests have now conclusively proved it causes deaths among the population. Even the breath of a dog causes fatal illness in humans. Especially prone are children under five.’

The audience sat stunned. The rumours were correct. Kumar Kumar stood behind Slager. Slager continued. Eleven million dogs were to be rounded up and killed.

‘Either that,’ said Slager, ‘or we all die. Death cycles begin six weeks after initial infection.’ He stopped. There was silence, silence as heavy as a brick. ‘Six weeks and you’re dead.’

There was an audible exhalation of massed breath… a huge balloon slowly deflating, a bagpipe suddenly dying and groaning.

There wasn’t a sound from the  usually glib articulate UK Transferable Disease Prevention Department.

‘There will be no questions.’ Slager said. ‘Unit heads will meet with line managers later this morning. Holidays are cancelled.’ Slager instinctively re-checked the state of his trousers. ‘A vaccine committee has already been set up consisting of three universities and three private medical corporations. The Prime Minister says she’ll address the Commons mid-day.’

Ten minutes later, Kumar and Slagar sat in jaded semi darkness onstage as the last of the audience dribbled away. ‘Thought it went quite well,’ said Kumar. ‘Message delivered, boss, message received.’

‘This isn’t a media training seminar, Kumar.’Slager sagged in his stage chair. ‘So, stop.’

Kumar re-trenched: ‘What next?’

‘Let’s see.’ Slagar said with a slow sigh. ‘We slaughter millions of diseased dogs. I’m the object of hate if I’m not beheaded by a suburban grandmother who watched her yapping Pomeranians taken away. You, Rasheen and your two daughters need 24/7 security for life and exist in a state of constant terror.  There’ll be civil war, mass arrests, fear over fatal diseases, political mayhem, the burning of millions of canine carcasses. Some of us will face charges for some unimaginable crime someone will cook up. Farmers, the blind, seven year old kids and drug dealers will cry havoc.’

Kumar sucked on a vape. ‘Sounds about right.’ It wasn’t working effectively. He tapped it twice on the arms of the rickety stage chair.

By the end of the day , PM Veronica Plummer threatened to stand down and leave Downing Street, then peeked at the polls and 20 minutes later promised to stay on as Prime Minister for the good of the nation. Her government, totally out of character, acted quickly; the lives of millions of voters were on the line. Within 36 hours, the British military daily rounded up tens of thousands of dogs and killed them.  

Naturally, there were minor glitches; for instance, the death hunt didn’t include the Isle of Man. Whitehall forgot it existed. This led to a mass emigration to Douglas, Peel and Ramsay where the immigrants and pets called Tyson, Fluffy, Windrush, Lady Penelope Talbot III and Buggins  sought refuge.

Dr Kumar Kumar was then personally handed the delicate process of invading the island to kill the animals and arrest the fugitive owners. American airborne extraction squads slapped boots on Manx ground and added Extreme Prejudice muscle to the raid.

Dr Kumar was also given the onerous task of pushing through emergency laws to confiscate bank accounts, businesses and homes of dog owners who  refused to hand over their beloved dogs. Slager promised this tricky task, if successfully handled, would end up with a knighthood, maybe a seat Upstairs, Lord Something or Other.

‘They’ll even let you choose your own name, your own bleeding title, for god’s sake. That’s how they do it, honestly.’ Slager promised. Kumar Kumar stared blankly at his boss. Slager blankly looked back at him: ‘Honestly, Kumar, that’s…. how…it is….done.’

Slager, as head of The UK Transferable Disease Prevention Department, set up a mass cremation centre with immediate effect. He chose Derbyshire after intense internal research found no one really cared about the county. Lanarkshire, Wales and the Orkneys were close contenders.

Riots were quickly and forcefully dealt with in Sheffield, Norwich and Falkirk. The 6 million who marched down The London Mall were electronically profiled. The tabloids took great issue when the 86 year old Vandermeer triplets, who jointly owned eleven Jack Russells, barricaded themselves inside their local Doggie-Deli self serve takeaway and warned they’d self immolate rather than give up their ‘wee darlings.’  Hardened SAS units, using Tazers and Mace, defused the standoff. The elderly sisters, one wheelchair bound, were led away to holding pens. A mandatory press black out meant they were never heard of again.

More difficult, Slager found, was a particularly truculent West Midlands biker gang that threatened to take out their neighbourhood  with flamethrowers. After three policemen were barbecued, soldiers used North Korean ballistic drones to neutralise the problem. It was at this point  that Edward Slager began to actively hate dogs. And their owners. 

Dr Kumar has his own doubts: ‘I’m not happy with Plummer personally escorting her two labradoodles from Parliament to the Derbyshire crematorium to show solidarity with the masses.’ He took a deep cherry flavoured hit on his vape. ‘A bit tacky.’

‘You voted for Veronica, for god’s sake.’ Slager said.

Kumar said a bit too quickly: ‘Yes, but only because she supports Spurs.’

‘And was on Celebrity Traitors.’ said Slager.

‘She almost won.’ Kumar said.

‘Speaking of which, what’s this rumour about Claudia Winkleman buying a helicopter to fly her Dalmatians out to Iceland?’ Slager asked this as he touched his injured temple. It still hurt. ‘Ouch…’

‘That’s bollocks.’ said Kumar.  ‘There was a YouTube  of her chucking her dogs into a Surrey fire pit.’ He said this through a vale of vape.

Slager prodded his head wound. ‘More worrying is the Archbishop of Canterbury absolving all royal dogs of disease.’ Another prod. ‘Smacks of the church getting a bit above itself.’

Kumar relit his vape: ‘Marine snipers took care of the corgis this morning. Extrajudicial decision.’

’What about MI-5 sighting royals loading dogs into a destroyer heading for St Helena? Bit naughty, that.’ Ed Slager gave a final tentative prod to his head.

Kumar shrugged: ‘Ed, it’s taken care of. Anyone spotting these alleged unfortunate discrepencies will be given a million bucks in Trump crypto-coins and strongly advised to sign a super injunction non disclosure agreement.’

Slager scratched his wound: ‘And if they don’t agree?’

‘Oh, they will, Ed, they will.’ Dr Kumar inspected the inner workings of his new vape.

Slager nodded: ‘You’re learning, Dr Kumar. You’re  really learning.’

Within a month of the CEO, 12,000 people had died. Politicians called it good news.

Millions of dogs were eradicated. Whitehall called it a success. 

The Vaccine Committee reported cautious good news on a prevention programme. Prime Minister Plummer once again threatened to gallantly step down to return to her thriving macrobiotic mushroom farm. But on advice from her tax advisor, it’s said, she did an about turn and announced with much pomp that it was her duty to stay in power.

Two months after the cull began, Dr Kumar approached Slager’s office and heard that clunk clunk clunk again. There was that terrible rhythmic pounding. He opened the door.

‘Please stop, Ed.’ Kumar said, ‘It gives me a headache.’ He gently pried Slager away from the filing  cabinet. It was decorated with flecks of blood.

‘CEO A3 has landed.’ Slager said.  He was in in a panic.

Kumar frowned. ‘That quick?’

‘We go after cats tomorrow. 12 million. Cat Extermination Order. The bacteria has transferred. Army’s on standby. There’s a press conference at 11. Veronica walks out of Downing Street at noon. This time for real.’

‘She’s a cat lover.’ Kumar said. 

Slager dabbed his bloody forehead: ‘Me too. I love the little devils. We all love cats.’

Kumar Kumar lips tightened. ‘Not  me. Hate ‘em.’ A smile emerged: ‘Always have.’ He took in a vape hit. And then exhaled a long grey funnel of smoke into the still office air. He waited for Slager to respond. There was no response.

‘Cats aren’t normal.’ he inhaled more smoke. ‘You see, Ed, they look at you funny. And, Ed, that’s not right.’

Slager’s eyes became as thin as a pauper’s wallet. ‘You really get twisted about cats, don’t you.’ 

‘Not really.’ Kumar said. ‘But, Ed, one thing. One wee favour, if I may.’

‘You may….what’s on your mind?’ Slager bit his blooded lip.

‘Just don’t get me started on gerbils.’

ENDS

Next week: The canine vaccine scandal and the world turns upside down