Author Notes: This is some crack, inspired by the ad for Old Spice, "The Man Your Man Could Smell Like". I recommend watching it before reading this, it may make more sense that way. Type that up into Youtube and it will be the first video, I promise. If you've already seen it, then proceed.
Acknowledgments: Casey, for being an amazing, grammar blood hound.
The fall of Harriet Jones was convenient. Britain was looking for a man they could trust after having a prime minister whose judgment was questionable. They were vulnerable, their minds more than willing to accommodate the hidden four-beat in their Archangel networking. It was the perfect setup.
And as far as opponents went, who was he up against, really? No one important, no one with status and certainly no one with his looks or charisma. It wasn't even a competition, but he couldn't help but take part in Earth politics. Who was he kidding, he just loved being on television. In fact, the best thing about Earth was its media coverage and its television broadcasting and he felt it was his gift to people everywhere to have his face on the demographic box.
He had seen the work of prime ministers before him and, sure, they pulled their stunts and tried the sympathy vote, some even had jazzy slogans, but the most intriguing to observe was the advertisements. A little TV time between people's favourite programs and you were set. Humans' pathetic attempt at brainwashing techniques, he figured. Naturally, he hadn't been able to resist.
And with a smile, he loaded up his ad on his laptop.
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"Citizens of Britain," Harold Saxon began his spiel, dressed in his suit as he stood at his address, his hands clasped in front of him as he created the mood of a man you could trust. Now it was just a matter of establishing what he wanted from them, and that was easy enough.
"Look at your Prime Minister," he began, "…now look back to me, now back at your prime minister, now back to me. Sadly, she isn't me. But if you stopped voting for her and started voting for me, she could become me." He knew how humans were, needed everything spelled out, their attention kept with something shiny.
Saxon began his walk across the screen. "Look down," he said, his expression unwavering as the backdrop behind him was replaced with an ocean setting, his formal suit torn away to reveal a more casual, holiday attire, a jumper placed around his shoulders. "Back up," he instructed before continuing, "Where are you?"
"You're on a boat with the man your prime minister could be. What's in your head? back at me. I know!" he exclaimed, holding his palm open to reveal an oyster, its shell promptly opening. "…It's an oyster with a bill promoting that thing you love." As it fell from his grasp, it was replaced, "Look again!" diamonds started to pour from his palm, spilling over his hand in excess,"…the bill is now diamonds!"
As the camera smoothly zoomed out, he stood proud, exuding calm and confidence. Why wouldn't he? He had everyone's vote; it was merely a matter of playing the part. And oh, how he loved playing it. "Anything is possible when your prime minister is me and not a lady. I'm on a horse."
Placing his hand at his hip, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as a full length shot revealed the white Equus Ferus Caballus he was mounted upon. Subtle metaphor? Achieved. The horse whinnied as his slogan appeared at his side, drawing curiosity and attention.
Saxon Is Your Man.