Downfall
The following takes place following: A Government Out Of Turn
BOAC Department, The Citadel — Sep 13, 2024, 16:45
The atmosphere is grim. Fiona Malone sits at her desk, staring at a pre-written resignation letter. Outside her office, Clive Weatherby, Derek Flint, Imogen Carter, and Sheila Parkin stand in heavy silence, knowing what’s coming. Jamie MacDonald paces the room, radiating impatience.
Fiona Malone’s Office – BOAC Department, The Citadel
Jamie: “Well, don’t just fucking stare at it, Fiona. Sign the bloody thing. This isn’t a creative writing seminar — it’s quite simple: ‘I resign,’ sign your name, and fuck off...”
Fiona: “This isn’t fucking fair, Jamie! Why should I be the one to resign? You’re the one who decided to go after the press! We were doing good work here before—”
Jamie: “Oh, that’s nice. Very fucking nice. I go out of my way to try to protect you and this department after that colossal fuck-up of yours, and now you want to throw me under the bus?”
Fiona: “I–I… No, I mean—”
Jamie: “And ‘good work’? Good fucking work? You mean the good work where you pissed away £30 million of taxpayer money into the fucking ether? Or was it the part where you lied to me and the entire bloody government about it? You didn’t just screw up, Fiona — you took incompetence to a whole new stratosphere.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter how you feel about it. The PM’s agreed with my recommendation… The upshot being: you’re done.”
Fiona picks up the pen, her hand trembling.
Fiona (tearing up): “Jamie… please. I don’t want to go. Becoming a Minister was the proudest moment of my life. I haven’t even had the chance to— Look, is there any way out of this? Could we kick it into the long grass somehow? An inquiry, perhaps? Maybe shift some of the blame onto the Treasury. It wasn’t even me who lost the money — it was those bloody civil servant clowns out there.”
Jamie: “Sorry, love. There’s no way. Not now. The people are demanding blood. And even though they fucking deserve it, firing those clowns out there won’t satisfy the press.
This is your chance to go with some shred of dignity. If you hang on, you’ll only delay the inevitable — and drag this government down with you.”
Fiona takes a deep breath, nods regretfully, and signs her name at the bottom of the page. The weight of it crushes her. She drops the pen and sinks back into her chair, utterly defeated.
Jamie: “There we go. Good girl. The PM’s office graciously accepts this. Now I suggest you take a long holiday somewhere far, far away — somewhere no one knows what a colossal fuck-up you are.”
Fiona: “Jamie… do you think there’s a chance they’ll ever… forget this? Maybe I could come back in a year or so?”
Jamie: “Forget? Oh, no, Fiona. You’re going down in history for this. You’ve fucked it so spectacularly, people will be talking about you for years. Your days in politics are done, sweetheart. You’ll be lucky if they let you run a bloody parish council.
But cheer up — at least you’ll be remembered for something.”
****
The Waldopolis Chronicle — Sep 13, 2024, 20:42
Travers holds up the front page triumphantly.
The Waldopolis Chronicle: “MINISTER RESIGNS AFTER £30 MILLION SCANDAL: Fiona Malone Out After Financial Mismanagement Exposed.”
Brian pops open a bottle of champagne and begins pouring glasses.
Travers: “That slippery snake McDonald will slither his way out of this, I suppose. Still — how does it feel to have claimed your first Reform scalp, Master Devlin?”
The Master lights a cigar, inhales deeply, and speaks through the exhaled smoke.
Master Devlin: “It feels fantastic… I’m in heaven.”
He sips some champagne.
Travers: “I almost feel bad for the minister. Whatever her name is. She’s kinda hot... Perhaps you could send her some flowers.”
Master Devlin: “We could, but where would we send them? She’s unemployed.”
Travers: “I’m sure Wally could find her home address.”
Master Devlin: “Waldo would send her poison ivy, lily of the valley, some kind of highly potent hallucinogenic mushrooms, or whatever dreadful thing Goblins put in their bouquets. We wanted to expose her crimes, not have her killed.
Anyway — when do you think it’ll be a good time to see the Prime Minister?”
Travers: “He can come crawling back to me. Travers! I’m like a father to that boy. He should pay tribute.”
Master Devlin: “…I don’t think that will happen. He’s more important than you. Exceptionally.”
Travers: “Don’t speak out of turn, Master Devlin. Not on such a glorious day...”
The Waldoverse continues in The Gang Goes To Waitrose