"The body is starting to stink" said Ted, Blair's enigmatic CIA chum and head of station in Uzbekistan. "Karimov was a good client" replied Blair "and will be hard to replace". The two men ducked to avoid the splash of blood and entrails from a rebel being torn apart by wild horses as a warm-up to the weekend's soccer match in the country's new $2bn stadium (Blair's cut was 7%). Blair glanced round to see Philip Green's wife wince as she picked a piece of rebel spleen from her Hermes bag. The new British ambassador cleared his throat. "They can't keep news of his death secret for ever. Sitting him on the throne during the day and popping him back in the meat fridge at night. He was never exactly an animated man but people are starting to notice"
Blair looked thoughtfully at the ambassador. When in office in the UK he had to replace Britain's previous representative when the man complained about having to watch Karimov's enemies being boiled alive in butter. A gentle man who affected red socks, it was the agonised screaming that upset him. That and the guiltily delicious smell that took roast pork from his menu for the next four years.
"So how about it, Blair? You ready?" asked Ted. "I can feel the hand of destiny on my shoulder" replied Blair "Cherie can redecorate the Presidential Palace. We'll have to cut down a little on the butter-boilings, of course, with Cherie being a judge and everything, but I can't deny the money is a key attraction." he gazed wistfully at the horizon, past a section of bowel hanging from the corner of the VIP stand. "as of course is the lack of an extradition treaty with the UK."
"Congratulations, Mr President" growled Ted.