“YEAH, I’m destroying them as we speak… relax, you made the right decision,” a calculating Phil Hogan told an unknown voice at the other end of the phone, while caressing an official document confirming his new promotion, “the one with the gimp mask too, yes, and the ball gag one, they’re all gone, I’ll do you all proud, big Phil’s got your back, front, middle and insides”.
Hanging up the phone, the European Union’s latest Commissioner for Trade sealed a large brown envelope packed with compromising black and white photographs, before writing ‘in case of my death’ on it and placing it neatly in his office safe.
“Everything is falling into place, Phil, they’ll all bow down to you soon, every single last one of them doubting bastards,” the 59-year-old muttered to himself, now twitching manically in an attempt to tame the beast within.
“You need to complete Irish Water – the bastards are getting it for free, Philip,” the now wild Hogan shouted at his reflection in the mirror, before slapping himself hard in the face with his right hand while squeezing one of his blood hard nipples tight with the left, “arghhh, finish what you started, Philip, just finish it!”.
Part climaxing to the soothing pain and thoughts of a fully functional billion euro water company, the EU Commissioner for Trade sat back in his office chair, trembling from head to toe before smelling his left hand.
“Oh yeaaah, baby, that’s the sweet smell of success,” he exclaimed, before nodding off to sleep.