Keen readers may find themselves wondering what happened to Orkney's stoats? You remember the essay, in May 2019, when Virtuous Missy and her Shuffly colleague visited mr ishmael to request permission to lay stoat traps on his land:
if someone has decided that the stoats have to die, in desperate agony,
alone, poisoned in a box, in order that the birds may flourish, well eradication takes on a newer, higher meaning than when Europeans decided that the Jews must be poisoned so that the Aryans may flourish.
I wish I'd asked Virtuous Missy if her stoat eradication plan was a whatchamacallit, a Final Solution.
Animals, peoples, oceans, doesn't matter; some I-Know-Bester, like today's doorstepping halfwits will shit all over Creation and say it's for the best, no, really it is.
No, mate, yer fucked, it's Zyklon B for you.
It's the birds, they need lebensraum.
Wossat? No, mate, you don't need it just as much as they do.
Listen, mate, we're the master race around here, alright, the Devil, if you like, and what we say goes. And that's why the planet is in such good shape.
Yeah, thousand-year EuroReich,