By the time the Chief Anti-Terrorist Negotiator, the Inspector from the Serious Crime Squad, the Assistant Director of MI6 and Smyth with a Y from the Government Disaster Task Force got to Brompton Cemetery, the world’s TV news crews had already gone live with their various reports of events.
The BBC were reporting that several seemingly deceased people were roaming the cemetery and it was believed, but not confirmed, that the groundskeeper of Brompton was missing.
Sky News were reporting that hundreds of living corpses had risen from their graves in Brompton and that the groundskeeper was missing presumed eaten.
Fox News’ reporter confidently asked ‘were these thousands of corpses classed as immigrants?’ and several million people had already been eaten or are in danger of being eaten if they didn’t watch Fox News.
“What’s going on here?” screamed the Assistant Director of MI6 at a local policeman.
“Go shout at your own officers,” said the Inspector and then himself shouted at the local policeman, “What’s going on here?”
“Well sir, sirs … we’ve locked the cemetery gates and thrown a cordon around the whole place.
“Why?” asked Smyth with a Y.
“Well sir … sirs … it appears that several dead people are roaming the grounds, like that gentleman there,” the officer pointed to the gates where a man with a pale face, sunken eyes, a black Victorian suit and muttonchops hanging down from a bald head was licking the bars.
“It’s probably a prank,” replied Smyth with a Y.
“Junkies,” stated the Inspector, “see it all the time.” He glanced through the bars of the railing and could make out several shuffling figures moving about the gravestones. “Yeah, definitely junkies.”
“I don’t think so,” said the policeman as he ran to another section of the railing, the others following him. They were too late to save the life of the Editor of the National Inquisitor who had scaled the fence to get a picture but unfortunately was currently being eaten by two Victorian businessmen and a long lost Poet whose name no one remembered.
“I think this IS your department’s call, Smith,” spoke the Inspector as the last of the Editor’s organs were consumed in a frenzy.
“It’s Smyth with a Y,” yelled Smyth with a Y.
“Oh fuck off Smith!”
“And anyway, it’s nothing to do with us, this is an MI6 problem,” added Smyth with a Y.
“Bollocks it is, this is local police, or counter terrorism … go on then fuck face!” he yelled at the Chief Anti-Terrorist Negotiator, “talk ‘em out of it!”
“Go stick an egg up your nose. I’ve got to get back to the office anyway, lots of paperwork to be done,” said the Chief Anti-Terrorist Negotiator as he dashed for his car.
“Me too,” said Smyth with a Y, “and it’s almost lunch time.”
“So what will we do ?” asked the local policeman to the rapidly retreating four superiors.
“Write them up a ticket,” was the only answer he could discern as four black cars sped away.