It's Only A Paper Moon

How did I come to this?

I was a king once.

Not even all that long ago.

I was set to bring order to the world of 2326.

Even since coming back… I had been inches from becoming the CWF World Champion.

And now…

‘Alright, Carlton,’ said Harvey, pulling that ridiculous contraption over his head. ‘Let’s do this.’

I beat this man in an election six months ago.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ he added, his voice now modulated, ‘I’d still love if you’d sign that photo for my nephew. He was so disappointed that you got pipped at Golden Intentions.’  

And that was the other thing – if I weren’t to be King I could at least be a member of Parliament.

But no.

I had been sent by the higher-ups of the Order to…

… no.

It defied my dignity to even acknowledge it.

.

..

…

Sigh.

To help launch the Count Binface campaign for the Clacton by-election.

God help me.

 

TWO DAYS EARLIER

‘Absolutely not!’ I exclaimed.

‘I do beg your pardon,’ said Admiral Spencer with a wry grin, ‘are you defying a direct order?’

‘This isn’t a military operation!’ I said indignantly.

‘A loyal soldier of the Order,’ said Spencer, openly delighted at my discomfort, ‘does what he is told regardless of the scope of the operation. Surely you remain a loyal soldier of the Order?’

‘But… does it have to be this?’ I asked.

‘What would you suggest?’ asked Lord Urquhart, sitting nearby and only deploying slightly less schadenfreude than Spencer. The three of us were gathered in his study, with Spencer and Urquhart on one side of his immense, hand-carved oaken desk; I was on the other, and I couldn’t quite shake the mental image of an errant schoolboy called before the headmaster.

‘Something that doesn’t involve me acting as the volunteer campaign manager for a man wearing a bin on his head!’ I exclaimed.

‘Carlton,’ said Urquhart, adopting a serious tone. ‘This may seem like utter frivolity -’

‘It is!’

‘– but this ought to be taken seriously. Farage has overplayed his hand as it is. If he subsequently loses…’

‘Wait,’ I said, an idea coming to my mind. ‘Why aren’t we having me run in this by-election? I thought the only reason I wasn’t taking another run at Parliament was because there wasn’t a seat open until the next general election.’

‘Because,’ said Urquhart with the air of someone explaining to a five-year-old why one oughtn’t to drink out of the toilet, ‘to do so would dignify the contest, and Party leadership has decided not to do so.’

‘And you’d likely be crushed,’ said Spencer, grinning.

‘And Binface won’t be?’ I asked incredulously.

‘Binface is uniquely positioned to nullify Farage’s claims that he is persecuted by the establishment,’ said Urquhart. ‘You are widely talked about as a future leader of the Conservative Party –’

‘Less so nowadays,’ I muttered under my breath.

‘– and so, your presence in the contest would lend credence to such claims. No. Better that you, not an official member of the Party, offer to assist with -’

‘A comedian’s quixotic campaign to get airtime by relentlessly annoying every major political figure in the nation?’

‘– with the chance to pull off what might in fact be the political upset of the century, more so even than that unpleasantness in America in 2016.’

‘… do I even have a choice in this?’

‘The Count has already accepted your gracious offer of assistance,’ said Spencer, a wicked grin across his face, ‘and is expecting you in Clacton-on-Sea this afternoon.’

… bastards.

---

‘… and so,’ I said, doing my damndest to look like I wanted to be there and not literally anywhere else, ‘I present to you the next Member for Clacton – ’ With a gargantuan effort of will, I managed not to sigh. ‘ – Count Binface!’

A theme song played as the man pretending to be a Recyclon from the planet Sigma Nine walked out onto the makeshift stage we had set up. He thrust his arms into the air, and, the song having concluded, launched into a diatribe about nationalizing Adele. Once I was safely out of camera shot, I indulged myself by rolling my eyes and doing a double-facepalm.

Once again I ask… how did I come to this?

My phone rang, and I answered without looking. ‘Carlton.’

‘Hey mate, how’re ya doing?’ came the annoyingly hearty voice of my manager Steve.

‘I am foisted into duties far beneath my dignity, Steve, how are you?’

Steve guffawed. ‘Same old Mark! Well, listen, mate, you’ll be real happy with me, I got you a match this week.’

‘But…’ I said. I was booked up with Binface events all week, and… wait a minute. ‘Why thank you, Steve, and you’ve cleared this with Lord Urquhart?’

‘I’ll sort it out,’ he said happily.

‘So,’ I said, ‘who do I have?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s a singles match against The Peacock Ki -’

‘Oh, not bloody Holmes again!’ I exclaimed. ‘Isn’t there anyone else in this federation?’

‘You’ve only fought against him once,’ said Steve, a little defensively.

‘It feels like this is the fifth bloody time since May,’ I said. ‘Is it at least for a contendership?’

‘Erm…’ said Steve, clearly looking at some notes. ‘Well, no, just a singles match.’

‘Dammit, Steve!’ I exclaimed.

‘Hey mate, title shots don’t grow on trees, and besides, you just got a shot at the big one! I mean, if you really want to go for a title, I can talk to Amelia, see about getting you in this Chaos Tournament she’s putting together…’

It would be a way of gaining some notoriety… but a different stipulation every week sounds exhausting. ‘Let’s put that as a solid “maybe”,’ I said.

‘And the match with Holmes?’ he said hopefully.

I sighed. ‘Bring him on.’

 

---

We cut to Mark Carlton in his usual promo space, wearing a full three-piece suit. He sits in a comfortable armchair, but he does not look comfortable; his expression is pensive. His fingers are interlaced, and the faintest hint of whiteness can be seen on his knuckles.

‘Well then. Here we go again.

Although, as my manager points out, we have only “gone” the once – notwithstanding the shot at you that I was denied by the last-minute rule-change in the End Games match.

You’ve had quite the run here in CWF, haven’t you, Holmes? Undefeated until last week – and even then, not the one pinned.’

He looks directly at the camera and releases his fingers to his side.

‘That ends next week.’

Carlton puts on an atrocious California accent, sounding like a surfer-bro stereotype.

‘Yeah, but like, I already beat you and Dan once, bro, like, I’m totally gonna take you down again because I’m the bloody Painted Peacock Popinjay.’

…okay, the accent devolved back to his regular British one towards the end there.

‘Perhaps your brain is too deeply marinated in the weak, near-frozen gnat’s urine you Americans call “beer” to remember, but your victory came after I left ringside – and after your now-absent hypnosis powers hoodwinked me into attacking my own partner.

Now, not only do you not have your powers, but you don’t have any backup – unless, of course, you plan on hauling that embarrassment-even-to-Florida you call Wade Moor down to ringside to bail you out.’

He looks directly at the camera.

‘But of course, if you felt the need to do that… then what would it say about your view of your chance of winning?’

He adopts a contemplative expression.

‘I’ve been doing this for a long time, Holmes.

I’ve seen dozens like you.

Loud.

Brash.

Convinced that the world is theirs for the taking.

Sometimes… sometimes they can even back it up.

And make no mistake, Holmes, I know that the evidence is there that you can back it up – even if you can’t adequately back up your lummox of a tag team partner – you are, indeed, a cut above most of the loudmouths who burst their way onto this scene. I make no doubt, you’ll point out your victory over me as evidence of your ability to back it up.

But you might notice that when I speak of these people…’

He leans forward.

‘…it’s in the past tense.’

He leans back into his chair once more and smiles.

‘I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been one of those people in the past, Holmes. Like you, I spent years chasing fleeting thrills, experiencing piece by piece the diminishing returns of unmitigated hedonism. One indulgence after another, convinced of my own immortality… though you and I both know it’s just emptiness in the end.

Because that’s the difference between me and the others. That’s the difference between me and you.

I found a purpose. I found a meaning. I found a reason to get out of bed in the morning that wasn’t just the endless pursuit of sex, alcohol and EDM. And it’s that purpose that gives me the clarity, the staying power to still be here sixteen years later, while all those around me – who burnt so very bright while their light shone – eventually burnt to ash.

At the end of the day… you’re just like the rest of them.

You’re not special.

Oh yes, you’ve shone brightly, Holmes.

But a flame glows brightest right before it burns out.

And I look forward to being the one to snuff out your candle.

I have nothing more to say. Thank you, and God save the King.’

Fade.

 

I emerged from the studio and checked my phone – oh, bloody hell, ten texts, five missed calls and two voicemails.

Skimming through them, the gist seemed to be that Steve had not “sorted it out”, and that Lord Urquhart was rather miffed that I had “abandoned my post” in Clacton; I was to make my way up there immediately and begin establishing the Binface-for-Clacton voter mobilization headquarters.

… there are times when I really hate my life.

The drive back to Clacton was uneventful, although several more messages came in while I was driving; apparently, I was to draft a memorandum to the Speaker of the House arguing that Count Binface ought to be allowed to continue wearing his head-covering; presently, if he were to win his signature costume would violate several elements of the Parliamentary rules and oh dear God this was all so utterly ridiculous.

I had dignity once.

Don’t get me wrong, there’ve definitely been points of my life that in retrospect were far more humiliating; but I thought I had left those in my twenties where they belonged.

… maybe I should have just accepted AnHellica’s offer and signed on with the Amoralists.

I outwardly sighed, glancing at a road sign and noting that I was ten miles from Clacton. No, Mark, you would have been brought back in time when Amelia pushed that contemptible button and brought us all back anyway. And you would have had to live with being a sellout.

My phone rang. It was Harvey – better known as Count Binface, who had apparently been given my number.

… more of a sellout.

‘Carlton,’ I said, answering the call through my car.

‘All right, Mark?’ he said. ‘Listen, I really appreciate you doing this, but it’s really not necessary, it’s…’

Ah, if only that were true. I allowed myself one grinding of the teeth before returning to my business-voice ‘It’s entirely my pleasure, Harvey. Now -’

‘Jon’s fine, Mark.’ Mark’s not fine, Jon! ‘Listen, what would you say to grabbing a pint and talking about exactly what we’re trying to do here?’

… I could use a drink.  

 

‘So what are we trying to do here?’ I asked, once Harvey had brought the round of ale. He had mercifully left his bin-helmet in his car; hopefully no hooligans made off with it. The pub we had met at looked like… well, like every other bloody rural pub in Britain, if I’m honest. I was fairly sure they assembled them in a factory somewhere and just airdropped them into the countryside.

Certainly, it was a little less gaudy than the establishment Holmes hung around in all the time. But then, I was a good deal less gaudy than Holmes.

I continued. ‘I mean… look, at the risk of being unprofessional, do you think you actually have a chance? Because that will affect how we go about this…’

He looked at me. ‘I was rather hoping you’d tell me whether I actually have a chance. Look, Mark, this… I mean,’ he took a sip of his beer, ‘it all seems too bloody ridiculous for words, doesn’t it? Both Farage’s ludicrous gambit, and… well, I mean, somewhere down the line satire breaks down, doesn’t it? I’m wearing a bin on my head and presenting as a Recyclon from the planet Sigma Nine and somehow I’m the second-least-serious candidate in the race.’

‘Don’t forget the fox,’ I said.

‘Oh, Rob?’ said Harvey, taking a sip of his beer. ‘He pulled out. Nice fellow. Decided that the race was beneath his dignity.’

‘Well, there’s the other Fox,’ I said.

Harvey chuckled. ‘You know what, Mark, you’re right, I’m the third-least-serious candidate.’

There was silence for a moment. ‘You know,’ I said after a hearty sip of beer, ‘you’re not quite what I expected.’

‘You weren’t actually expecting me to be an alien warlord from Sigma Nine, were you? Because if you were, I have some things to tell you about Father Christmas…’

A brief flash of future-knowledge jolted into my mind; intelligence from the 2326 Order that Father Christmas, aka Santa Claus, had survived the Apotheosis and was currently the leader of a resistance cell based out of the Yukon. I shook my head. ‘Well, more I didn’t expect… you’re… ’

‘Self-aware?’ he said with a wry grin. ‘Mark. I wear a bin on my head. I don’t know how much more openly satirical I can be.’

‘More I meant that you’re actually taking this somewhat seriously.’

‘It’s an election, Mark, I take all of them seriously,’ he said. I looked askance at him. He met my gaze. ‘I do!’

‘You wear a bin on your head.’

‘And then I stand right next to the Prime Minister as the votes are tallied,’ he said. ‘It’s British democracy and it’s wonderful. I mean, it’s not that long ago you and I were on the stage together!’

‘Don’t remind me,’ I said through gritted teeth.

‘Incidentally, what happened? You just kind of… disappeared.’

‘It’s a long story,’ I said, ‘but the brief version is that I was snatched through time and space by a dark ritual that summoned me to the year 2326 and turned me into a vampire so that I would be strong enough to rescue the King from an apocalyptic death-cult, but then he went mad with power and I ended up king, but then I got pulled back through a different ritual and now I spend my afternoons drafting memos about why the Parliamentary dress code needs to be suspended so my client can keep wearing his bloody bin.’

There was a brief moment of silence as Harvey contemplated. ‘I mean, I pretend to be a 5900-year-old space emperor and even I find that a bit much…’

‘It’s what actually happened!’ I exclaimed.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Look, I gather from our past conversations that you watch CWF? Or at least have a nephew that does?’

‘Indeed,’ he said, a little suspicious. ‘I thought the whole 2326 thing was… what’s the term? Faykabe?’

‘Nope, real. But,’ I continued, trying to regain some form of professionalism, ‘I am now back in the present, and I have two goals: help you defeat Farage, and defeat Jared Holmes.’

‘… those are in order of priority, right?’

Rather than answer, I took a deep swig of my beer, finishing the pint.

‘Well,’ said Harvey, finishing his own, ‘don’t sweat the old Bin too much, Mark, it’s a lark at best. I have no plans on actually winning, although I’m touched that someone as experienced as you would volunteer to help out.’

‘So you’re saying I should focus on taking down Holmes?’

‘And leave old Nigel to me,’ he said.

‘Jolly good,’ I replied. I contemplated a moment. ‘It’s… been nice talking. I need to get ready for my match, but… I think I actually will come back and help out once this week’s Infernalia is done.’

Harvey grinned. ‘That’s the power of the Bin!’

And with a handshake, we parted ways.

… okay, perhaps my life isn’t altogether awful.

 

[To those who don’t follow British politics – yes, this is actually happening! I’m just putting Carlton at the center of it because… well. How could I not?]