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Sunday, 17 July 2011

image for Rupert Bear and The Nerds Of The Wold. Part 1 Ernie the Earhole listens in

Rupert sat behind his huge desk, and wondered what orders he could give next. He had only been in the office an hour, and he had sacked fifteen people, closed four newsagents, employed a mate of Daffid Cameroon, for a consideration, and sold his mothers house without her knowing.

"Ms Book, why do we have no black people working here?" Enquired Rupert, into his speaker phone.

"You a racist Mr Bear, and therefore we do not employ them". Answered his secretary.

"Oh, well, I've changed my mind, can you arrainge for some black people to be seen around the building, its good for PR, and at the moment, we need it". Ordered Rupert.

"Right away Mr Bear, I think I can get some from the high street in Dalston Junction". Replied Ms Book.

Rupert let the phone ring for a couple of seconds, and lifted the reciever. "Hello!...Oh, its you mother, what do you want?.........Yes I did sell the house, I need the money for a new extention on my garden shed!....Stop blubbing and be out by the end of the week, bye". Rupert slammed the phone down.

"Ms Book, send a couple of henchmen round to my mother, and give her a bit of a scare will you". Asked Rupert.

"Will do Mr bear". Came the reply.

Rupert turned on his computer and checked the stock market.

"Mmmm, oil good, gold good, offshore good......wait a minute, Nerds of the wold falling?...what the fuck is going on?....". Rupert slammed his hand on the desk, and rose to his feet. "MISS BOOK! GET ME PETER O'PAN HERE NOW!!" Rupert roared. "Yes sir!" quivered Ms Book.

Ten minutes later, Editor in Chief, Peter O'Pan walked into Rupert Bears office. He could tell his boss was angry by the look on his face and the dead bullet ridden body of the cleaner, bleeding at the bosses feet.

"Hello Guv, you wanted to see me ". bleated Peter

"See you!". Screamed Rupert. "What the fuck is going on you fuckin dirt bag? We have lost a quater of a point on the stock market this morning, and you better have a fuckin good excuse you scum bag!!!".

"It must be the car we gave away on last sundays prize draw"

explained Peter.

"What fuckin car? you cunt". Raged Rupert.

"Ms Book said it would be okay, you were in Africa buying Ethiopia, and I could not get hold of you, so we went ahead"

"What! you gave a fuckin car away! who got it?!". Screamed Rupert in Peters face.

"A Mr and Mrs Windsor from Berkshire"

"Tell the wankers we made a mistake, and go and get the fuckin car, sell it back to the dealer, and if he dont want it, shoot the cunt".

"But the Windsors are not your ordinary run of the mill people sir, they are big in the tourist industry and they have connections, it will be impossible". Pleaded Peter.

"Really". Snided Rupert. "I dont give a fuck how big they are, if they wont play ball, then we dig up some dirt on them and make it front page news, get Eric the Earhole to have a listen at thier windows, see what he comes up with".

"It could all backfire on us Guv, what if Eric is caught?".

"We deny any knowledge of him, and kill the prat before the old bill get thier claws in his back, better still, send Keyhole Kenny along as well, that way, we are sure to get something for our troubles". Mused Rupert.

"What if they give us the car back?" Asked Peter.

"Fuck it, lets see what we can get. If they are connected, you never know who might be in the frame". explained Rupert.

"Okay Guv, I'm straight on it, do you want me to empty your colostomy bag before I leave?". Asked Peter.

"No thanks Peter, I'm emptying it over the balcony into the lunchtime crowd in Fleet street". Replied Rupert.

Rupert sat back in his chair, and pondered on the mornings events, no one was big enough or tough enough to touch the Nerds Of The Wold, or his other worldwide empire.

Just before heading home, Rupert spoke to Ms Book.

"Sack all those black people, if anyone asks, they are all illegal immigrants, and if they are not, get Fred the Forger to do the paper work, good nite, see you tomorrow".

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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