Katie Hopkins: witchfinder general. Scourge of the North.

(Katie Hopkins: Witch-finder General) CELEBRITY DEATH-CAMP.

Screenshot from 2015-04-16 17:59:11

“I can’t die, this is soooo much harder than it looks. I just don’t want to die.” The grotesque bag of bones pulled it’s sickly form up from a decrepit hunch. Bones and sinew- her head turned towards the black gleaming wall- with it’s two way glass. Fixing her eyes beyond the barrier, the two camera men and coffee carrying production assistant smirked. Typical drama queen behaviour.

“I quit” she spat, voice cracked and dry…her shackles clinking against the hard concrete floor of the chamber. Her grey pallid skin looked terrible in the raw feed on the screens, thankfully for the audience this was corrected and tweaked before the final stream. It was getting harder and harder to keep it natural though- they were using terrabytes   TERROR-BYTEZ of processing power just making her look almost human without compromising the rest of the set, she looked like some kind of alien entity now- she was a spectacle of human suffering. A wonderful work of death-art. A living mausoleum to the cult of celebrity.

That sounds like complaining to me giggled Rostrum Overhead, glowering at the banks of monitors. -“Cut the last bit of dialogue- we’re still running the two minute delay?, right?”

The skeletal ghost of a glamour model was covered from all conceivable angles- even a long lingering shot from the compounds ornate Garden area. There was no question of cutting the transmission- this was it- the fucking money shot……..

Rostrum prepared himself, they were prepared as much as they could be- the pre-recorded section were ready to roll, the graphics ready and tested- all the lines of communication were open to the electorate. Soon, when they were ready Britain and huge chunks of the world would grind to a halt, hypnotised by the images on their smart tablets, implants, workstations and communal see-scapes. This was it. Their finest hour. The greatest mystery explained and broadcast live. Death writ large for the masses….

Visual editor, and general mouth for hire Guss Bretheren grinned at Rostrum-

“She’s nearly gone man, just look at her….all skin and bone, she’s never going to survive another round of Crucifixion, even the tyre will fucking kill that whining bitch”..he banged the main vision mixing panel with glee. Rostrum knew that already, she would be the first to go and the first test of the empathetic circuitry that had cost so much. The tests during the daily tasks had worked well- the audience had experienced directly the feelings of pain and degradation of the tired and emotional contestants- but the real test was the final reel. That would close the show- the first augmented death live on air- in five dimensional ultra-real reality.

“Yeah, but we can’t help her. Contract is water tight. All the money goes to her kids, even the giant one on Jupiter. She’s going to be the worlds lightest, most disgusting looking saint. – is that idiot ready?- get someone to make sure he’s still in the presentation studio, I don’t wan’t him running off again”-

“We tagged him Ross, he can’t even step near the gates without getting a massive jolt of eaustrogen- instant limp dick, once he gets a non-boner he looses interest in getting near his public…” muttered Guss absent-mindedly, all the time watching the mixes. Checking the live stream for glitches.

She used to be pretty I suppose, but this is something else. You realise that this kind of thing will catch on like cholera among the drones? Diet like Thamarah, the whole thing- get an arse like her in just one week, set up you’re own death camp at home….it’s going to be incredible.

Yeah, well…lets get it rolling- light up the legal team as well, we need to keep this above board: this isn’t Switzerland yet…”


“Legally, this is a nightmare. I can’t see how this will work Gyre.”

Parson shuffled his stack of papers, huffing. His usual approach was to play it cool with all of the chairman’s enthusiasms- some times they wore off quick smart. He killed time with signing paperwork with his exquisite fountain pen. Needs must when the devil drove. Mindlessly he approved the requisition of 10,000 pairs of sterile gloves. If he had been in his right mind he would have thought it over for a few hours over cocktails.

“That’s the whole point of this meeting. I want you to make this work- I want all the legalities ironed out at this early stage. I want this to work. I have a gut instinct about this.”

Chairman Gyre stared emphatically at his team. He was serious about this pilot. The idea was solid gold, he could smell the advertising revenue already, and he imagined the fuss the left wing press would have with the show. This would be bigger than Gladiators in Zero-Gravity, he just knew it. Maybe, he thought it would be bigger than the Scottish cross-over Russian roulette with contaminated needles- I HIV THE H.I.V MIN!- which made Gyre and his production company a cool 20 million clear profit.

There was a pause, they stood around idling. There was no arguing with the chairman when he had set his mind on something. His track record was impeccable- he had great instincts with the forthcoming projects, a sixth sense about what the great public would warm to. Very few of the projects made it into pre-production without his royal seal of approval.

“We’ll look into it G- theres a lot of work to do. For a start how do we pitch this to the victims? Can we get them to sign a waiver.” Parson said, sensing that G’s level of commitment had risen during the last few minutes. He was confident that the team would find enough suitable candidates, even if they had to scrape the bottom of the barrel of D list celebrities. They had a list of names a mile long. It was a tragedy.

“Surely you mean contestants? Victims is a bit strong Parson- a little too close to the truth”

Quarrelled Gyre- it was important to keep the troops in place.

Parson Esquire computed quickly, “You of all people should know about how this works. They are what they are, and we always need fresh meat for the machine. The public demand it. We can’t argue with the public. They break the bread in here dude.”

lATER: art carbunkle’s OFFICE.


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