Sentence The Sevenhundredandthird 

On this balmy Spring morning in 2067AC/DC, Barron Trumpet-Trousers sat in the cramoisy splendour of the Round Office in Washington's Trumpet Tower, official residence of the President of the United States of North America since 2018; he was hate-watching the Morning News on CBS and occasionally throwing small darts with suction cups, many of which had successfully adhered to the TV screen – oh, how he loathed News programmes, News reporters and Newscasters – in fact anything with the word News attached to it, Newspapers, Newsagents, News International! anything with International in it's name, and pondered on the uncanny mind of his father, whose brilliant idea it had been to put a Door in the 20' high Wall! what a stroke of Genius! and then to annexe Mexico from South America and run the Wall between Mexico and it's neighbours Guatemala and Belize – though Barron doubted that they were really the names of countries: he only had a smattering of Geography, it wasn't really a useful subject at school, unlike hockey and netball, and wasn't Guatemala a dip? he'd been nicknamed Dewey after one of Donald Duck's nephews, had succeeded his father just thirty years ago and still felt he had a lot to learn from the Old Coot, which was why Duck himself lay in a hospital bed on the 17th floor in a suite dedicated to keeping his brain alive while machines had replaced his heart and all the other vital organs needed to keep his brain functioning, and Dewey still enjoyed their evening chats, when his father's voice came out from the speakers which synthesised his brain-waves into the voice which had persuaded America that it should go down the Revolutionary Road first travelled by that Turkey-Cock whose people had voted in a Referendum to hand over the rule of their democracy to his safe-keeping; that had given Duck the idea and once the take-overs of Mexico and Canada had been achieved, uniting the entirety of North America, the vote had been overwhelmingly in Duck's favour, as had been the clause enabling him to choose his own successor in consultation with the Electoral College and he had chosen Barron! what a Great Dad! what a great Father of the Nation; if only for that infernal News, he preferred Cartoons and his mother – Milkshake, as he called her – still read him his favourite, Goldilocks and The Three Bears, while he sucked at her breast before he went to sleep and dreamt that he was Goldilocks and the Three Bears were Russia, Great Britain (which he called Engeland, after the old Roger Miller song which still wormed it's way through Brian, his name for his brain) and San Marino. these were still the three flies in his ointment, the stumbling-block over which he might trip. stumble and fall, but today his thoughts were interrupted by the knock and entry of his Chief of Staff, Dolores Bambona who stood minuscule and uncertainly in the doorway; "come over," he invited her to sit in his lap and tell him what was worrying her: "oh, it might be nothing," she began

diffidently, as he stroked her hair, then she kissed him, which he reciprocated, and said: "the guards found three people in the lower basement, no-one knows how they got in, it's like they just came out of thin air, but they said they needed to see the President, and it seemed like they were talking about your Pa, they didn't know he was dead, not dead as in dead, but alive in the Intensive Therapy Suite and that you are now President; they say they are Sir Parlane MacFarlane, Dominic Doubleday and his wife Marie, and they seem to think it's 2017!" and Dewey looked at her, and almost whispered: "that's when they disappeared in the explosion. down below, when the Pink Doll's House stood here!"