Sentence The Sevenhundredandfirst 

And while the girls were missing the entertainment on-stage, being pre-occupied behind the curtain which shielded the antics in their box from prying eyes, exactly 150 years forward in time (ha ha, the concept which was a sign of mankind's conceit and amused The Creator no end) in Washington DC, Hyman Z Kaplan sat in a booth in that same Diner, with his two friends, colleagues and former students at Mr Parkhill's English for Beginners Evening Class in New York, all those years ago; thanks to the daily bread provided by the magnanimous proprietors, originally named Irma Grese and

Lisa Volkenrath, former SS Concentration Camp Guards but, since arriving surreptitiously in the USA, known to all their loyal customers – each greeted with a welcoming "Shalom aleikhem," on entering and a genuinely warm "mazel'tov" on leaving, as Lola Goldstein and Lulu Finckelmann, Ashkenazi Jews – and who could prove otherwise? - respectively; the three great friends, bosom buddies and life-long pals were feeling anxious, as they mused over the unexpected events which none of them had expected, and were united in their compathy for the poor children returned by DC Children's Services on the orders of the District Court following an affidavit lodged by a sleaze-ball lawyer – who had previously represented the legal interests of Bonaventure Bambona until his sudden demise from an acute case of lead poisoning (Bambona was a nephew of Dan Bambona, corrupt Glasgow lawyer last seen falling off his luxury yacht into the Corryvreckan Whirlpool, between the Isles of Jura and Scarba just as a Police Scotland cutter rounded the headland, and sadly,

particularly for his devoted daughter Dolores, his body was never recovered though his signet ring turned up last year in a Swordfish Steak being eaten by a customer of Don of Dons' Fish Parlour in Kelso, seven years after the disappearance, and the entirely unjustified rumours that Don Donaldson, owner of the popular Chippie, was none other than Mr Bambona alive and well and living under an assumed name) which occurred as he was reaching into a waste-bin in Central Park when a loaded handgun hidden under a Pizza Box in the bottom of the bin accidentally fired six rounds into his head, heart, stomach, liver and genitals – contesting the arrests on warrants invalidated by the President's winding back of the clocks; and on their tablets, they observed the raging of Sir Parlane MacFarlane, the belligerence of Dominic Doubleday and the suppressed fury of his wife Marie at the harm done to her bawdy house business, The Dolls House; for though all residents in the child-brothel (there really is no other term for it) were temporarily safe from persecution, in the case of the adults, and rescue, for the children, there were no more clients a-knocking at the door and Marie AKA Mrs McOgle, saw her income plummet, for now that the activities carried out within were common knowledge throughout the city and beyond, none of her regular paedophile friends were keen to be seen entering or leaving, for they all had professional lives to protect and political ambitions to foster, and to be observed and identified would seriously mar their reputations; "what's Doubleday up to now," asked Hyman, as he watched the images flickering from the basement as the burly Scot tinkered with the gas boiler: "you don't think he's planning to gas the occupants, do you?"

whispered Rose, "he just came from the 13th Century, will he have any knowledge of the properties of Natural Gas, the dangers to life and limb?" and Hyman shook his head: "maybe he's just trying to unblock a valve – if the heating isn't working the house must be damned cold in this weather!" and Sadie pointed at her screen, look, he's fetching a candle, I don't believe it, he can'#t see what he's doing because of his own shadow, so he's going to light a candle, OMG I can't watch, this is madness, look: MacFarlane and Mrs McOgle have come down the stairs and Doubleday's wife is rushing towards him, but he's just struck a match. . . . ." they heard the BOOM not from their monitors which went blank simultaneously, but from outside and saw the great cloud of black smoke rising through the Washington morning and heard the beeping, buzzing, chirruping and tweeting of car alarms as the whole world seemed to come to an abrupt stop. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .until, from the booth behind Kaplan, a familiar voice intoned: "while you dilettantes muse on the relative values of a necrocracy such as North Korea, a referendum in Turkey to vest the President with sole and absolute power in all matters thus turning a fragile democracy into an autocracy, or as the cynic might say, Turkeys voting for Christmas, and then our own pittance of a democracy where the system is rigged so that the winner of the popular vote loses in the Electoral College (who came up with that name for it anyway? cesspit comes to mind as a better alternative) and by the use of Executive Orders can shut Congress out and treat it as Herr Hitler treated the Reichstag: oh he's a sententious windbag, with that descending cadence as he talks about 'a Beautiful Wall,' and 'a Beautiful Baby,' or 'a Beautiful Bomb,'" which was when Hyman looked round and found himself face to face with Gordon Giddy,

arch-interpreter of Conspiracy Theories, "OMG Gordy," gasped Hyman," except that he actually said 'Oh My God!' and followed up with: "I thought you were dead, Gordy, what are you doing now?" and Giddy rose to shake hands with each of the three in turn, then stepped round to their booth and sat beside Kaplan; "you do realise" said Giddy, glancing around to see if anyone was recording this private meeting, "that there was no gas supply in that house, that pink Doll's House, you do, surely?" and then asked: "do you want to see it from outside?"