October 19th, 2014

Downing Street. The most secure street in the United Kingdom, perhaps even the world. Closed off to the public since the 1980's by former-Prime Minister Margeret Thatcher, the only people who now walk it are politicians, policemen and petitioners. These petitioners would be allowed limited access to Number 10, the PM's residence, to submit a petition for immediate review by the PM. They were often just pieces of nonsense, such as making cabbages illegal to consume or to make it obligatory to undergo voodoo, but sometimes, something meaningful got through.

13:46

The last group of petitioners was allowed through the gates of Downing Street. Among them, was a scruffy young man, a bright, yellow shirt adorning his seemingly weedy figure. Denim shorts showed his slender legs, a sheen of hair showing he had recently shaved them. His galsses were dirty though, caused by his unbelieveably greasy hair. His ridiculous attire was completed by sandals and a huge backpack. He had come dressed for a entirely different season, but here he was, wearing summerwear in late Autumn. No sunny October days here. The group of five gradually made their way to the doorstep of Number 10, the scruff trailing behind. A burly cop greeted them with a steely glare and knocked the door.

It ws opened by the greeter, professionally dressed, but friendly.

"Good Afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen," he said in a well-mannered, but obviously false tone, "The Prime Minister is due to leave in ten minutes, so if you would quickly come and sign your petitions please." He gave the scruff a gaze of dissapproval, but it was within his training and moral not to make any snide or sarcastic comments. The four better-dressed individuals signed their petition forms and one-by-one, handed them to the greeter, who accepted them graciously. Scruff however, was dawdling. He kept looking around, at the guards, places he shouldn't be rather than doing what he was supposed to be doing. He made eye contact with a bald bodyguard who kept staring him down, before stepping through a door.

As if on cue, Scruff cringed, his face contorting strangely. The greeter noticed, mystified until the man let out a shrill fart. Wide eye, he resisted the urge to retch. Another fart, this time audibly 'wetter'.

"Aw crap," Scruff groaned, "Ah can't 'old it in!" his cockney rang around the halls. He stared at the greeter pleadingly. The Greeter grimaced, but pointed to the door the bodyguard had walked through.

"Cheers Mate!" he said as another fart escaped his bowels, his 'ohhhh'-ing following him down the halls of the building. Everyone was looking on, horrified. It was hard to believe such disgusting people existed.

13:49

Scruff burst through the door and took a moment to look around, his urges suddenly gone. A small three-cubicle toiletroom. The bald guard stood at one of the urinals and he gazed blankly at Scruff. Scruff nodded in acknowledgement and took the only other urinal available. He turend his head and found the guard, still staring.

"Don't ya know it's rude t' stare mate?" Scruff glowered. Guard just kept staring, zipping his trousers up, before stepping away and making to leave. He never reached the door.

In a split second, Scruff tripped him up, turned around and slammed the guard into the floor, knocking him out cold. He had to work quickly. He ripped his pack from his shoulders, unzipping it as it fell silently to the floor. He pulled out the speaker system that had created the 'farts' and placed it on the floor carefully. He ripped off his wig, revealing his waxed scalp underneath, a perfect imitation of the floored bodyguard, blemishes and and scars all in the correct positions. He removed a suit identical to the guards and put it on over his original clothes. Taking the guards earpiece and putting it over his own, he dragged the unconcious man into a cubicle and sat him on the seat. He chucked the speakers into the bowl and switched them on via the remote on his wrist, before shutting the cubicle door and externally locking it with the penny slot. In less two minutes, Scruff was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had transformed into the very man his superior had ordered him to obtain information about. To imitate him. To gain access to the most secure personal laptop in the country.

"Where have you been?" Prime Minister Cameron asked sternly.

"Sorry Sir. Didn't expect to take that long." The gloomy bodyguard responded. Cameron rolled his eyes, but didn't take the matter any further.

"Are those blasted petitioners gone yet?"

"No Sir. There's still one in the lavatory."

"What is he doing in there?" The bald guard grimaced.

"Something that ruddy stinks." Cameron returned the expression.

"Great! Now I've got to cope with that before I go."

"Beg pardon Sir?" Cameron didn't respond, instead, he glowered. The guard got the point.

"Keep that laptop in your sight. I don't want anyone going near it."

"You have my word, it won't be touched." The PM smiled as he stood.

"Good. I knew I could trust you Mike." He patted the guard's shoulder before walking out of the room into his personal WC. He felt kind of bad about for a split second, but quickly dismissed it. This man had wronged his superior and he would pay.

He sat down, taking out a 30 Terrabyte Intelligence Issue hard-drive and plugged it into a USB slot. The Drive's programming quickly installed itself, before it asked for instruction. There were just two options: Obliterate Data and Copy Data. The guard, actually the scruffy man chose the latter. Immediately, the Drive's instincts took over, finding all the standard computer operating files and removing them from the equation. It traced and located every file that had the word's 'Top Secret' or the likes and copied them into itself. The sophisticated device, whilst copying every national secret in the Prime Miniters Computer and external hard-drive's also made sure it couldn't be traced, erasing the fact it had ever been there from the operating files and history data, effectively resetting the machine. It took just 30 seconds to copy every single piece of sensitive information in that computer. Smirking, Scruff removed the Drive, pocketed it and stood up, briskly walking to the door and stepping into the corridor. The greeter was loitering outside the lavatory, waiting for the scruffy cockney man to exit. It didn't seem liekly to happen anytime soon however, seeing as there were very audible farts coming through the door. Unwatched and unbeknownst to every man in the building, the real Scruff was walking out the front door, towards the gates of Downing Street. Five minutes later, he had dissappeared into the throng of people.

"Minister," Scruff spoke into his phone, "It's done. I've found some very interesting infomation. Read Eagle. I repeat, Red Eagle."

David Cameron looked at the cubicle in digust and curiosity. The PM had taken a few minutes to do his business, wash his hands and dry them, but the entire time, the man in the cubicle next to him had been farting and dropping clinkers. But it hadn't taken Cameron long to realise there was some sort of 'pattern' to it. Another fart. He swore it sounding exactly the same to one that had occured a minute or so ago. In fact, it was the same! This was a sheer impossibility.

"John, get in here." he called out. The greeter, John, entered the room.

"Yes Prime Minister?"

"Something isn't right here. There's no way that man can have been farting that much." John nodded in agreement.

"Shall I?" He asked, holding up the key to unlock the cubicles externally.

"Yes, but be careful," Cameron said as John set to work on the door, "I'll get Mike in here." The door clicked and it swung open, creaking on it's hinges. John took an involuntary step back in shock.

"That won't be necessary Prime Minister. He's already here."

I know this will get a lot of flames and complaints and whatever, but it's a story. Forget the impossibilities of it and read. It's fiction for a reason, so stuff that doesn't happen in the real-world, can happen. :D