moon zero two

Richard Branson was in his plush London office.
The phone rang.
He answered it.
"Hello."
"Hello Mr Branson, I'm calling to offer you some friendly advice."
"Who is this?"
"I'm calling from the Johnston Press."
"Who?"
"We are a newspaper group Sir. Large one. We own 300 newspapers in Britain and Ireland."
"Never heard of you," said Richard Branson.
"Oh," said the voice.
"What do you want?" said Richard Branson.
"I want to warn you," said the voice. "Someone called James Healy has written on the internet that you laid the foundations for your fortune by providing a network of abortion services to young people, students and others around Britain in the late 1960's. He claims you made your fortune by getting in on the ground floor of the abortion industry soon after abortion was legalised in Britain. He suggests you are nothing more than a glorified procurer of abortions. He derides the biographies about you which have never so much as mentioned abortion. He openly wonders how many Shakespeares you aborted and then he brazenly suggests that they were all Shakespeares. He goes on to assert that you have a death wish because of your guilt about the lives you've taken through abortion. He says this death wish explains all your adventures with hot air balloons and bunjee jumping and such. Mr Branson you really should consider suing him."
Richard Branson was silent for a moment.
He took a deep breath.
"You febrile Johnston Press c***s," he roared suddenly. "F*** off and do your own dirty work. And if you call this number again, I'll have you shot."
He slammed down the receiver.
Richard Branson is normally a softly spoken fellow but when roused can summon up a vehemence which is apt to startle the unwary.