Apocalypse Pending

‘The tide is turning gentlemen, the national press are onto us – I can control those pathetic insects in the Scottish media but when it gets as big as this and hits London then it’s outwith my purview. Damned Green Brigade, we turned a blind eye to them singing sectarian songs, even excused them by claiming their filth was political and it was to be in exchange for them launching a campaign of intimidation against their own club that would be blamed on Rangers thus turning the whole of Britain against them. The problem is though, they’ve gone too far; didn’t know when to stop. Last night they attacked the police, treated the whole country to their IRA songs and then sent some more packages to Neil Lennon again this morning. That’s the thing about opening a can of worms, if you spill it then you’re going to need a whole bigger can to get them all back in.
‘Gentlemen, I want you to see my big can.’
Lawwell chuckled and two panels in the wall behind us separated to reveal the biggest screen in the room and it showed a missile being fuelled.
‘Lawwell you maniac,’ exclaimed Findlay. ‘Where do you think that’s going?’
‘Oh Donald, I think you know where we’re putting it, just be glad you came sneaking around here instead of sitting in the Blue Room drinking tea with your friends. It wasn’t our first choice of course, we had Dominik Diamond ready to drive a truck laden with explosives through the gates of Ibrox but he shat it at the last minute and told us he’d take care of Rangers in his own personal way and promptly ran off to hide in shame for a few more years. So we had to change plan and this is it…’
‘The Inquisition 5!’ shouted Peter Kearney, appearing from a door behind us.
‘Aimed straight at your field of dreams and about to put paid to this season. Let’s see you win the league now!’ cried Tom Devine, twirling round in a swivel chair, previously unnoticed to our left. He spilled a half pint of port over himself but it was still an impressive move.
‘You’d do anything to stop Rangers win this year, wouldn’t you Lawwell?’ muttered Findlay, taking a pipe from his pocket and stuffing it with tobacco.
‘What if we just gave it to you, eh? What if we just lose to Kilmarnock on Sunday then you don’t need to launch that thing and devastate Ibrox?’
‘Oh Donald,’ tutted Lawwell. ‘ The Inquisition 5 is big enough to devastate your ground but believe me, it is small enough to leave the surrounding area standing – we just want rid of you, not to create any lasting damage to Scottish society as a whole’
‘Well you could’ve fooled us,’ interrupted Cosgrove. ‘All season you’ve been so intent on winning a damned sporting event that you’ve caused immeasurable damage to this country – we’re a laughing stock all over the world thanks to you and your behaviour…’
‘Silence!’ screamed Lawwell, producing his riding crop and whipping it across Cosgrove’s face.
‘But Peter,’ offered Findlay, taking a pull at his pipe. ‘Surely this has gone too far, even by Celtic’s standards? You’re just about to launch a missile at a heavily populated area and don’t expect innocents to suffer? Come on man, it’s time to give it up, time to just start getting on with life in harmony with each other – Rangers have no truck with you and your people, we just want to play football.
‘Honestly Findlay, ‘just about to launch a missile’? I’m not some comic book serial villain, did you honestly expect me to tell you my plans if there was any way you possibly affect the outcome? No, I launched the missile five minutes ago.’