Sentence The Fivehundredandtwentyseventh 

And without a backward glance, the President-in-Waiting, the lodestone which attracts all manner of loose screws and nuts, declaimed as he marched, surrounded by his entourage, and his dictation secretary recorded for later transcription, a speech about freedom – not necessarily Freedom of Speech, which is something he feels should be denied to anyone differing from him in three separate points or more, nor many other freedoms which he also believes are sacrosanct for people who are like him in at least 15 aspects but no-one else – but rather the Freedom, as an inalienable right, in the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave, to repel all boarders, pull up drawbridges, flood tunnels, close all airports (recognised as the route of choice into the country by Mooslims and others of a sallow complexion) and lay a wall of land-mines the length of the North and South land-borders, guaranteed to deter zika virus carriers as well as suicide bombers and terrorists from anywhere in the known universe - "and make sure it's broadcast to the entire world in every language, do we have enough impressionists to give the impression that it's me speaking my actual words?" and Big John edged closer, to reply: "sure thing Mr President, there are 311 languages spoken in the US of A; 149 of them being immigrant tongues and 162 native," and Duck glared at him: "do not ever let me hear you describing citizens of this God-given State of Grace as either 'immigrant' or 'native' for that is an insult to decent ordinary folks like me – so only 149 for the rest of the world, eh? okay for now but I want my Inaugural Address to be available in every other language as well: how many's that?" and Big John tapped his watch and said: "we make it 6,909 if we include the rest of the world in with the US of A," and the Man of The Age nodded sagely, and said: "you can't make duck soup without killing a few ducks, so round it up to 7.000 and that way we know nobody won't hear me speaking to them in their own language: it's gonna be the Media Coup of the Century," as he climbed into his

Chopper and took to the skies, hair ablaze in the morning sun, red face getting redder as he sank a few glasses of his favourite Single Malt, and fell promptly asleep, while far, far below, a small group of his Security carried the struggling figure of a prominent Edinburgh lawyer to the top of the dunes and rolled him down into the fast-approaching sea – but wait, he is still handcuffed, come back, you can't leave him to drown, not even Martin Elginbrod, please; but the reply floating in the wind is simple: "the Boss said he's a Slav, so we threw him out, not our problem any more!"