Geoff deplaned a Virgin Atlantic redeye, his blazer flapping in the wind. Fresh off a successful U.N. law of the sea negotiation with Argentina, his suit still smelled like hot trash and he could still taste a little thin crust pizza between his teeth.
Geoff's aide rushed to his side with an umbrella and ushered him to a black car waiting on the Heathrow tarmac. While shielding the backseat with his umbrella he handed Geoff a briefing memo with all the latest goings on in Parliament. There was a sticky note on top, where someone had scribbled:
LATE BREAKING LYNCH VOTE
3 Capital
2 Geoff
1 VHB
As Geoff settled into the warmth and relative dryness of the car, something crackled through on his driver's radio. "The... Falklands...." a voice echoed out of the static. "The...FaaaAAAaaLllklands.."
Suddenly Margaret Thatcher's face swam into focus in the backseat. Geoff wondered if he was delirious.
"Save me!" the woman screamed as her head started disappearing. "I am the Iron LAAaaaDY!"
Geoff could only shake his head, mute with fear, cowering behind a plastic bag that said I <3 NY.
CAPITAL has been lynched. He was
THE GHOST OF MARGARET THATCHER.
It is now night. Day will break tomorrow whenever night caucuses are complete.