Nick Clegg took a drag on the oddly shaped cigarette, and coughed up some phlegm. Feeling nauseous, he offered it back to David Cameron, who blew out a twisted ring of eloping smoke. It rose entangled to the ceiling, crashing around a chandelier and splintering into a million disparate factions, much like his party threatened to do in the coming months, I reckoned.
"I feel really sick", Nick said, as the faces of the surrounding circle spiralled above him, cavorting with the nauseating fumes, much like they had cavorted with the bankers and Rupert Murdoch of the past.
"Don't worry about that", David reassured, passing the doobie to George Osbourne, who only pretended to hold it in; "You're one of us now, and that's what counts".
Nick Clegg got sick a bit. It went on his tie, staining the yellow with shame and excess. George Osbourne laughed, nearly choking on the weed-ciggy. He didn't though, because he was only pretending to hold it in. That's not a metaphor for anything, he genuinely didn't like the taste. William Hague was also there.
"It's alright", Dave said, "It happens to all of us at some point". He offered Nick a silken handkerchief from an inside pocket. Nick took it between bouts, and tried his best to get the sick off. He only rubbed it in further though, and spoilt the nice hanky which had been a present from David's father who was dead now, the stupid git.
David accepted the hanky back off Nick, and gave it to Theresa May to clean for later. She looked unimpressed, but no one cared. Politics was no place for a woman. History had shown that now.
"So, am I one of the gang now, like you?" Nick Clegg asked hopefully, trying to avert his eyes from Cameron's piercing glare.
"Not quite yet, Nick", David said, relishing the moment. "First I'm going to need you to take the helm on some of these new saving cuts we've got coming up. We're going to need to cut the money given to elderly war heroes, and also to homeless cats without legs".
Nick looked unsure.
"I'm not sure", he said, unsuredly. David Cameron looked down at his shoes. As in, his, not Nick Clegg's shoes.
"That's a shame", Dave said, looking at his, as in, his own shoes, "and just when I thought we were friends…"
"Okay. I'll do it", spluttered Nick Clegg through a pickle sandwich. He'd had it in his hand for ages, but hadn't had a chance to eat it till now.
"Good", said David Cameron, giving George Osbourne a look that could've meant anything, but actually meant "Good".
"Good. Then I'll see you at the press conference tomorrow".
Suddenly, everyone except Nick got up and left the room, leaving him alone with the still burning embers of the illegal hippie-stick lightly igniting a small glow on the carpet. Nick looked down at the floor and quietly stubbed it out with the heel of his shoe. He then tidied the ashes into a small pile, and left a note for the cleaner explaining how sorry he was. How sorry he was, indeed.
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