The First Incognito Pose

Incongnito on Planet Hy Man is another thing all together

Mar 03, 2025

Spring is almost here although you would not believe it when I was swimming in the loch. It was baltic but so beautiful and we had a seal watching us.

I’m funny with animals. I don’t eat them yet, the mere whiff of a tail or something moving beneath my feet in the water and I’m screaming like Jaws himself is coming in for a bite.

The Downfall Fall Of Manifesto The Great started as a short story that led to the three Prequels. The Rise of Manifesto The Great, The Downfall Of Manifesto The Great and The Legacy Of Manifesto The Great.

Here is the original short story…

The Downfall Of Manifesto The Great

Manifesto the Great was working on his incognito pose when Beryl appeared. Poised like a starfish with his pot belly pulsating in and out he looked anything but the intellectual leader he used to be, and Beryl was impressed.

She was watching from the doorway, clutching his tray of coffee made from beans ripened under Earth’s sun and ground between the legs of five Earth virgins—their origins unknown.

Well, so she told him.

In truth, she made his coffee from a packet in her shed where all the other working girls made coffee, except it was served in a mug so precious it could only be cleaned with silk.

Manifesto the Great had no idea his coffee was as cheap as a worker’s loo roll. He was old, senile, and too busy trying to remember what he did yesterday to have time for coffee. By the time he sipped his coffee it was cold, and with a quick sniff followed by a toss; flying out the window splattering on the heads of masses below.

Three tosses and Beryl a frugal woman had changed the coffee to something cheap, of recyclable origin and, thinking of the masses, good for hair.

Beryl watched her leader struggle with his balance. Every man without one question listened to him even though he said the same thing he said years ago they never questioned, the status quo suited them.

Beryl had spent her time trying to find what made her leader tick, and over the years of silent service, she realized there was no tick to discover, just no choice.

Now Planet Hyman had a choice…

She watched the so-called great leader struggle for balance.

“Why don’t you try it on tippy toes?” she said.

“What? In these shoes?”

“Sir you have no shoes just now.”

She gestured to his bunions.

“Ah, yes, forgot about those little blighters”

He eased onto his toes.

“Steady…steady.”

He wobbled, fumbled, and grabbed his desk.

Beryl looked at the cleaner lurking about the doorway with a not long now nod. The cleaner mid-brushing of a cobweb nodded, pressed her hoover to shag pile, and whispered into the nozzle, “Tippy toes in operation.”

Beryl stared at her leader, his balance resumed with his arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. He smiled at Beryl.

“See, it works, incognito.”

He wobbled again.

Any minute thought Beryl with a quick survey of her nails. He grabbed the desk and missed, sending the Leader of the Year paperweight ball skidding across the desk- straight for his manifesto notes…

Beryl, fanning a save the leader dive made for the paperweight as Manifesto the Great tumbled to the floor.

“Noooooo…” he shouted, as Beryl mouthed a “come and get him” to the cleaner.

“Go go go…” hissed the cleaner into her hoover nozzle.

Like a swat team in aprons, the cleaners descended into the offices, the corridors of power, and the canteen. They grabbed men in the room with a view, sipping illegal beverages, men in their sheds tinkering, and the men in the corridors strutting to god knows where and headed for footmen’s locker room.

Manifesto the Great didn’t stand a chance.

The oaf of a footman charged into the locker room.

“They’ve got him,” he shouted.

The footmen, mid changing, stopped.

“Who?” said one with a toss of his uniform.

“Manifesto the Great.”

“Shit,” said another.

“We’re done for,” screeched a voice from the shower.

“Head for the Outlands,” shouted another. “And don’t look back.’”

The men emptied the locker room quicker than a bomb scare. So terrified were they, they took nothing, some were still in their underpants . . .

By the time the women entered, there was no one, just the odd shoe, the lockers ajar, and the lingering aroma of something mannish: liniment, aftershave, with a hint of shoe polish.

They stripped the lockers, tossing silk pants and jackets into the air laughing like crazy as shirts and trousers fluttered about them.

A middle-aged woman ripped off her apron, her shirt, and finally her bra.

The others stopped, silent, as the bra plopped to the ground like a pair of elephant ears.

She slid on a silk shirt with an “oooooh,” stepped into a pair of trousers, and, with a wiggle, pulled the zip.

“Does my bum look big in this?” She glanced at a mirror.

The women were ecstatic; silk was as new to them as a man’s groin. For years they had frumped around in aprons and itchy, floppy skirts, scrubbing things that required breath-holding.

The silk smelt of aftershave, the trousers of something unfamiliar; inhaling was as pleasant as a decent cup of tea.

Soon they were strutting about. ,

“This is way better than an apron,” said one.

“I feel like royalty,” said another.

“A new look,” yelled another.

Apart, that is, from Beryl.

She appeared mid-locker upturning and yelled, “What the hell is going on here!”

The women stopped, caught sight of Beryl’s beehive, and carried on.

She watched as cleaners pulled on the footmen’s outfits, slid on their wigs, and charged to the back alley, yelling, “Burn—burn!”

They piled their aprons about the garbage bins and, squealing like banshees, set the pile alight.

“Burn, burn!”

They taunted as mechanical rats, squealing at the top of their lungs, raced from the bins.