(complete) Sex, intrigues, lies - the Game is like normal politics, just that now people lose their brain over it. Macbeth meets House of Cards and Game of Thrones in a fantastic ride to the Brexit referendum battled out in the reality TV show envir...
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A thunderstorm had been raging all afternoon over the headquarters of the Tortoises near St. James Park. The Tortoises was next to the Carnations one of the two major UK teams, participating in what was simply known as The Game. The Game was a competitive TV show of such importance that it filled the newspapers and news of most of Europe and the world on a daily base.
It created enough to report on, not even counting the feasts, receptions and balls that were part of it, too. Somewhere some fractions of teams always went man to man in one of the many, often gruesome tasks that asked everything of the competitors, and that not seldom damaged and eliminated them permanently.
As plentiful and exciting as the tasks were, crucial were in the end votes in which the voting public had a chance to evaluate the teams' performances and their proclaimed strategies for the future. The votes, held in regular intervals on the different levels, didn't just secured the right of participation on the next higher level, but also gave the council of the winning team the right to set the direction of The Game for the following term. Hence, voting days, like the present one, on which the national performance was up to appraisal, were highly anticipated, often overshadowed by the fiercest and most bloody fights, and not seldom feared. They were stressful at the best of times, and currently the best of times were not the times the Tortoises was experiencing.
All preliminary polls had pointed to the fact that the Tortoises' reign would be coming to a close in a rather spectacular way that night. The best indication however, that things weren't looking well for the Tortoises, was that team members had shifted their focus away from The Game. Internal fights over policy and positions had started. Several players were plotting and scheming to exploit a defeat that hadn't happened yet.
David, the leader of the national council of the Tortoise had still spread his message of confidence into every microphone that had been extended into his direction whenever he had opened the headquarters' bloody red door. Giving statements and speeches, spinning tales in his favor was what he had always excelled at. From day one of his rise the press had celebrated his charisma, eloquence and keen mind. It had played in his favor, too, that he wasn't ancient, was tolerably looking and stemmed from a good, well-connected family.
But even David had flinched at every lightning bolt, seemingly aimed right at the red brick house, as if each one individually carried the bad omen of what was inevitably to come. In the rain and noise his words and tales hadn't wanted to flow as usual.
As the afternoon went on, David's trips to the door had become sparse. Even now, as the rain lightened and stopped, what encouraged more reporters to gather, the door to the headquarters kept shut. David had withdrawn to the cozy common room with its bolted-up fireplace, thick carpets and leather sofas. As so often, the brothers William and Ed, two of his council members who all had titles naming them the National Chair of something or the other, were sharing some sherry with him in contemplative silence when the door to the room opened.
