8: Ride on a white horse

For once in her life, Rebecca Banks kept her word. Her whole career had been built on a web of Machiavellian scheming, lies, gossip and denigration. As Newscorp uber-editor she had been responsible for lives destroyed through shameless scapegoating, decent people brought down by regular witch hunts which served only to destroy opposition and strengthen the powerful, and Brexit Britain adored her for it.

Her latest campaign was to announce a march through London, in tribute to Lady Godiva, a symbolic discarding of past ills to welcome a new dawn for the broken country. She would ride the white unicorn naked through the streets to Buckingham Palace, and take her rightful throne as Millennial Queen of Black Hearts.

She stood barefoot before the unicorn, that Hennessy had sourly delivered to the underground Docklands car park, and threw off her overcoat. She was naked underneath. Pale white skin contrasted with her shocking red mane of ginger hair both top and tail.

“No saddle,” she told her underlings. “He will be as nude as me. We will ride honest today.” She loved lying, even when she told the truth.

The horse knelt in dutiful understanding before her, and she slipped atop it’s white back. The beast purred slightly as they rose together, it’s heat rising through her loins. The warmth rose in her, a powerful cloak against the brisk winter day as they trotted proudly up to the street, traffic parting for the perverse spectacle. The madness had begun.

News of the march had attracted thousands to the streets of the capital, some to see the mythical horned beast, to believe that fantasy was real, some because they believed this was a historical moment to join the other greats in the British Empire, some for the voyeuristic frisson of a naked chick on a horse in the flesh, some because everyone else was, and didn’t want to miss out.

The interest had been fanned to fever pitch, Newscorp predicting riots if the authorities tried to ban the ride. Police succumbed to the pressure, instead providing cordons to control the expected hordes descending on the city, bowing to the true media authority of the country.

Crowds lined the streets, waving the promotional unicorn flags sold by Newscorp, or given out free to subscribers. Mothers, fathers, children, perverts, bonded by the hysteria that made the masses so easy to control. Behind her walked the white cloaked figures of the unicorn cultists, heads bowed, holding their silver horn replicas before them, a one month religion more powerful with each step.

Rebecca wanted to throw her head back and scream with laughter as they cheered her past. Instead, she held her head high, permanent smirk now regal and pert as her nipples, as they crossed Tower Bridge, heading for the Palace.

She was moist against the unicorn’s hot flesh, the sheer power arousing a lust greater than she had ever felt before. Her subjects cheered, and their adoration made her hotter. The crowd stirred around her, men and women alike began masturbating where they stood, bucking in the lustful throng, as one under the unicorn’s magical spell.

A small boy screamed. “Bloody hell, this is really happening.” A cultist ran from the pack and shoved the silver horn through his blasphemous mouth.

Burning, Rebecca’s cheeks flushed. So hot, too hot. She looked down and her eyes widened as she saw the juices flowing from her groin down the flanks of horse were red.

With the hot shock, her egotistical delusion melted away. The burning heat emanating from the horse was not lust, but rage. Pure, unadulterated hate. For Rebecca, for Britain, for humanity. It hated them all, and Rebecca had unwittingly brought the demon into the limelight, right where it wanted to be, so it could kill as many as possible.

A cult member spun round and stabbed his silver horn into a pram, skewering an infant boy in front of his aghast mother. Other cultists similarly dashed into the crowd, stabbing at random onlookers with their sharpened phalluses.

“Oh, no.” Rebecca began to scream. With one momentous leap, the horse bucked it’s rider into the air. She flew up legs akimbo, and the unicorn raised it’s head to greet her as she fell. The horn skewered her perfectly between the legs, the silver bone flowing all the way inside.

The cheers of roaring adulation turned to screams. People turned from beating themselves to each other. The unicorn bucked again and again, each thrust propelling it’s spike further through her stomach, her chest, but still it would not let her die. Around her, the pain and suffering she had meted out for much of her life took physical manifestation in the violence that exploded around them.

The streets ran red with blood as the great and good of the country ate themselves. The unicorn bucked, laughed and galloped through the slaughter. Rebecca’s limbs fell away in gory chunks, until she was but a head and flapping spinal column atop it’s horn. The demon revelled in the infernal chaos. A car exploded, but tawdry fireworks would not stop it. The stallion leapt through the flames, catching Rebecca’s hair alight, so she blazed in a plume of magnificent flame atop the charging white steed.

As the burning equine demon galloped into Buckingham Palace, spreading the fire through the historic building, in her final moments Rebecca finally understood what she had nurtured in others for so many years. This was karma, just retribution for a life of destruction. She had achieved her unconscious plans.

This was Hell on Earth.



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