A private home for the relics of the
establishment. They wander the corridors shouting out half-remembered
things and attempting to adhere to protocols from days gone. Doddery
TDs roar for imaginary Ceann Comhairles. Their minds suspended in
battles yesteryear, they emit non sequiturs. 'Don't interrupt me, I
didn't interrupt you,' they protest to no one in particular about
nothing in particular. Senility clutches to the remnants of instinct.
It's an attempt to make sense of what never made sense.
A spoon is raised to Sir Anthony's
gaping mouth. The most ancient of them all. Vacant. The train has
left the station and the stop long since terminated. The
comparatively sprightly Denis giggles and
hides Sir Anthony's slippers. Then Denis can't remember where he hid
the slippers or even that he hid them at all, so he looks for the
slippers so he can hide them again and wails when he can't find them.
His memories redacted, he can only be calmed by a little treat.
Lobster bisque or something like that. Then he scurries to the corner
and whispers legal threats into the ear of a husk that was once a
leading journalist. The husk weeps and pleads for mercy.
Undead ex-ministers cut deals with
dementia afflicted tycoons. Brown envelops are exchanged but there's
only shit in them. Speaking of shit, along come Joan and Enda,
collecting water charges with their bedpans. Buttons are dropped in
with a clinking sound and they shuffle on, droning about the future
of the nation and muttering some vague legislation.
There's a large fence with snipers all
around. Whether the guns are there to keep those seeking vengeance
out or keep those who killed the future in, no one is quite sure.
Perhaps it's a bit of both. The situation is being contained, that's
all that matters. That's all that ever mattered. Actually dealing
with situations was never the aim. It was all just a perpetual crisis
management game, with some money made on the side. The profits of
chaos for those presiding over that chaos. They felt it their due.
'You'd do the same,' was their internal excuse and cognitive guilt
inhibitor.
Their time long passed, their power in
the past, they are now put out to pasture. Rendered harmless and
bovine, they await slaughter. Night falls and along comes the Reaper.
A soul is collected and another shameful cadaver is left for
inclusion in the annals of this home for society's failures.
