Satiricus was impressed. These big powers didn’t just plan for one year or two years: they were always prepared for the long haul. And so to make sure they remained “big” they didn’t leave things to chance. “Take the British,” thought Satiricus. “After they were laid low by WWII, they knew things had to change in their Empire on which the “sun never set”. But by Jove!! They just couldn’t let all those natives mess things up, could they?”
But how the heck to keep the facade of “independence” while keeping control? “Hey!!” remembered Satiricus, “One way would be to pay off the fellas who were willing to play the game. Like BurntHam.” Only thing BurntHam had gone to school right there in Britain and had learnt his lessons well. And not only Latin and Greek. Machiavelli wasn’t in the curriculum but it was in the library – and BurntHam made that book his Bible. He soon turned on his erstwhile paymasters. “Ah…What a rogue that BurntHam was,” reminisced Satiricus fondly.
But the British had been around for a while and had other cards up their sleeves. One of the most popular would be to insert moles in the society that could steer things their way, if the “bought native” became restless. As an old newshound, Satiricus knew you didn’t just have moles hanging out in street corners. The never-say-die big powers created new centres of power that these fellas could burrow into. One of these was Human Rights Groups.
“This was a master stroke,” marvelled Satiricus. “Imagine denying for hundreds of years some people were even humans when they were ruling, now convincing those same people they had to keep their own leaders on their toes about “human rights”!!!” And who would run these Human Rights groups? “Why people who had human rights to begin with – or were blessed by those people,” Satiricus answered himself.
And so as BurntHam started to act up after reading too much Machiavelli, Satiricus remembered this rat-like fella from Britain who suddenly turned up in Guyana to form a Human Rights Group. He’d originally been posted in Peru where he helped to make sure the copper mines kept sending their precious ores up North. Fella’s name was MookKoomak. Funny name, but then those Scottish names were all funny. While there were also Irish MookKoomaks, Satiricus knew this fella didn’t drink, so he couldn’t possibly be Irish.
Trouble was MookKoomak just couldn’t keep his nose out of politics – and so in the process, blew his cover. It was an open secret to Satiricus and all the other newshounds that the ferret-like, squeaky voiced, MookKoomak was being paid by MI 12. That was the top secret outfit in Piccadilly Circus that handled “assets” who’d made the ultimate sacrifice by going native so deep, they actually picked up native spouses and ate strange things like cassava bread.
Satiricus sighed as he read MookKoomak’s latest missile, sorry missive, against the PPCEE government. “Fidelity to a cause, defined these chaps,” thought Satiricus. “And a stiff upper lip.”