The Martyrdom of the Colonizer

After my wife killed me, Lady Hester Stanhope stood on the stage and unrolled a table-sized portrait of Sir C. Donald Gaston Hammami-Disraeli III. In a periwinkle Afghani burka, my wife held her baby in front of the portrait, the spectre of the father, and squeezed his tummy.

The doll burbled into the microphone: "Dada! Dada!"

Sour horror blood still trickling from my mouth, I was lying dead on the grass somewhere among the bare feet of the audience. They splashed some vodka tonic on my face, half-laughing at the whole affair.

Aborting what had the potential to become a deliciously awkward silence, the DJ chimed in with a drowsy transitional beat. I quickly rose from the dead and bowed with my wife and Lady Hester, bringing the colonization campaign to an end.