I see the sleek lines of your impeccably polished helmet. I hear your booming and resonant voice, that of a true leader, the only sane one in a room full of squabbling idiots. I see your capital ship gliding among the stars, dark and ominous, a spacefaring cathedral of gothic spires, bristling with twitching plasma cannons, humming silently through the abyss. It’s time for your return, isn’t it? In the grim darkness of the near future, there is only war.
Your servitor drones have been working quietly in the dark, obsidian skulls skittering on insectile legs, scrabbling up walls and listening in on the latest developments. For millennia you’ve scoured the galaxy for a worthy opponent, desperate for a foe who can match your legend. The drones have heard panicked voices in the corridors of power, nervous, tremulous whispers of one who cannot be named, lest his ire erupt and engulf his critics. Could it be, Lord Buckethead? Could one finally have risen, an opponent to stand eye to bucket-slit with you?
The humans weren’t ready not so long ago. They weren’t prepared to listen to the flamboyant ambitions of a dark autocrat with a ludicrous head, not then. Now they seem to be falling over backwards to accommodate one, clapping their hands as he shits on procedure and seeks to undermine the parliamentary sovereignty that just ten minutes before they were all obsessed about. They’re a curious breed, aren’t they? Squabbling, gibbering mon-keighs, simple and brutish in their actions and machinations.
It’s inelegant, isn’t it? Two squabbling factions, the less savage of the two never quite getting the point. It’s the same either side of their oceans – the conservatives grab for results, while the liberals quibble about process. They’re bringing prayer to a gunfight, expecting decency from opponents that have none. All the while, the strongman fires up the supplicant, turning the peasantry on each other with talk of treachery. This is why democracies never work, Lord Buckethead. Far better to annihilate your enemies and park your bucket on a golden throne, demanding devotion and tribute.
I see the skies above London boil as you approach, the prow of your ship emerging from the crackling pink of the warp-storm’s thunderhead. I see the black clouds part, plasma cannons surging, blasts of white-hot energy blasting buildings into dust and incinerating the panicking masses on the spot. How is it this easy, Lord Buckethead? You’d heard so much about this terrifying legend, yet you’re slicing through the resistance like a hot government through convention.
I see your shuttle disembark from the hulk of the capital ship, its engines roaring as it descends through the newly formed and glowing heap of slag that was once central London. I see the ramp disengage, your overcoat swirling around your ankles, your boots hammering across the concrete as you stride into the hole blasted into Downing Street.
I feel the leather of your gloved hand creak as you clench your fist, towering above the gibbering figure at your knees. Gone is the bluster and bravado, the blonde hair now mattered with ash and debris, his lip quivering as he begs for his life. There’s no power in this one – he’s a ratling, a servant, a nobody. He’s not the one you seek, Lord Buckethead, and I see the relief wash over his face as he points to the desk behind him and scurries past you on his way to freedom.
In the silence, the eddies of atomised brick and flesh swirling around you, I hear the feet of the desk screeching their protest against the floor as your hand twists. Caught in your telekinetic grip, it turns with you, revealing the pitiful figure cowering beneath its questionable shelter.
This is the Lord Baldemort you’ve heard so much about? The authoritarian, the visionary, the mon-keigh’s new, unelected God-Emperor?
He’s just another snivelling wretch, Lord Buckethead. A swivel-eyed ideologue, a school bully with no mandate, too cowardly and afraid to ever test the people he claims to represent.
Oh well. No need to put it back to the people now. You’re here now, and soon all of Earth will know what it feels like to kneel under a true leader.
I see you, Lord Buckethead. I fucking see you.