I simply said, "This… Richards problem… needs to be permanently resolved before he causes irreparable damage."
Blackwood merely replied, "Understood, Prime Minister."
I didn't want to know the details. History teaches that a wise dictator always maintains a distance from the dirty work. He simply creates the climate in which such things can happen.
So, I focused on the public stage. I announced a "Moral Revival Initiative," a carefully crafted campaign designed to appeal to the country's Protestant Christian base. I began speaking not just of economic and border security, but of the "soul of the nation."
"For decades," I said in a speech before a large congregation in Canterbury, "a liberal elite has waged war on our values. They have tried to tell us that the traditional family is an outdated concept. They have pushed confusing and dangerous ideologies into our schools, poisoning the minds of our children with LGBT propaganda and moral relativism. They call it 'progress.' I call it decay."
A rumble of approval went through the ancient cathedral.
The next Executive Orders followed. I didn't ban free speech, of course not. I merely "protected the children." I passed the Child Digital Protection Act, which banned apps that promoted "inappropriate sexual or ideological content" from being accessible to minors. This effectively firewalled most LGBT dating apps and radical activist forums. The act also placed strict time limits on mobile gaming for children and mandated strict age verification—using government IDs—to access most of the internet.
The liberals screamed "censorship." I called it "state-backed parental responsibility." Most families across the country, tired of seeing their children glued to screens, quietly agreed.
The deportations continued. Charter planes took off daily, carrying thousands back to Pakistan, Nigeria, Somalia. When some countries began refusing to take back their "citizens," my diplomats came with offers. "We'll forgive a portion of your debt," they'd whisper, "or perhaps you're in need of some new surplus military hardware? In return, just take your people back."
Most agreed. For those who didn't, there was a Plan B. Secret deals were signed with a few cash-strapped Latin American and African nations. For a fee per head, they agreed to accept unwanted deportees into "immigrant processing centers" on their territory—effectively, remote camps where the men would disappear from my problem list. It was expensive, but worth the price.
…
On November 6th, 2024, the world held its breath. Across the Atlantic, America voted. I watched the results in COBR with Blackwood and a few trusted advisors. The liberal news networks were projecting a narrow victory for Kamala Harris. The faces in the room were tense. A Harris administration would be a disaster for me, a constant, ideological thorn in my side.
But then, the results started coming in from the Rust Belt. Pennsylvania. Michigan. Wisconsin. All of them flipped razor-thin red.
At 2:30 AM London time, it was called: Donald J. Trump had been elected the 47th President of the United States.
A broad smile spread across my face. "Simon," I said, "get a call arranged. I want to be the first world leader to congratulate him."
The global chessboard had just been upended. A powerful ally, a fellow destroyer of the old order, would now occupy the White House.
…
A week later, while the news of Trump's victory still dominated the cycle, the tragedy struck.
I was in a meeting with the military high command at the Ministry of Defence—a crucial meeting to ensure their loyalty. I was speaking to the generals and admirals about my vision for a "leaner, deadlier, and more audacious" British military, with an emphasis on our nuclear deterrent as the ultimate guarantor of sovereignty. I promised them a massive increase in the defense budget. They were listening intently. A dictator without the military's backing is a joke, and I had no intention of being a joke.
In the middle of my presentation, Rottington entered, his face pale and grave. He handed me a note.
I read it. Kaelan Richards. Car accident on the M25. Multi-vehicle pile-up involving a lorry. Dead at the scene.
I felt my heartbeat not change by a single beat. I calmly folded the note and put it in my pocket. I looked up at the generals.
"Gentlemen," I said in a steady voice, "I have just received some very sad news. The Leader of the Opposition, Mr. Richards, has passed away in a tragic accident."
I let the shocked silence fill the room.
"It is a grim reminder," I continued, "of how fragile life is… and how dangerous the world we live in can be. It only strengthens my resolve to ensure this nation is strong and secure. Now, let's continue our discussion on the modernization of our Trident submarine fleet."
The generals looked at me with a mixture of shock and… new respect. In the face of personal and political tragedy, I was showing steel-like composure. They saw a commander, not a politician.
That night, I delivered a solemn eulogy to the nation, praising Richards as "a passionate patriot, though we often disagreed."
No one suspected foul play. It was an "accident." The lorry driver, a man with a history of drunk driving, had also died. There were no clear witnesses. It was a neat, untraceable tragedy.
The Labour Party, now leaderless and reeling, fell into disarray. The resistance to me had been decapitated.
In my quarters that night, the System delivered its reward.
Task Completed: Eliminate the Internal Opposition.
Reward Received: Full loyalty of the domestic intelligence service (MI5).
I now controlled the eyes and ears of the state. There were no more secrets from anyone.
The board had been cleared of the opponent's pieces. Now, it was time to change the rules of the game itself. It was time to remake the Conservative Party into something else. Something new. Something entirely mine.