As the sun rose on the empty, barren strip of land that straddled Russian and Lithuanian-owned pieces of the Earth, so did the Third World War commence. Well, it didn’t start there and then, but the match was struck that lit the fuse that…

It wasn’t a Russian who drew his firearm first; that particular honour was held by one of Boris Johnson’s party. His name was Michael Princip; a remarkable coincidence, given that it was Gavrilo Princip who gunned down Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914 to set in motion all the treaties and pacts and silly, egostistical ambitions that ended up with millions of men and horses being slaughtered in thick mud, sand and on the waves.

Michael saw that his charge was gaining the upper hand against the Russian poligarch; in fact, Boris had his hands clenched tightly around Pudding’s throat. Tsar Vladimiriovich’s flailing arms were trying grapple his foe but his already crimson face was starting to turn mauve and purple. He didn’t have much oxygen left.

Michael saw this and knew that if Pudding died, World War 3 could well result. He took a rather strange but, to him, logical decision; he would shoot Boris Johnson. He would save the Russian president. He would prevent World War 3. It was a tough shot; Boris and Vlad were grapplingly entwined but he was a dead-eye dick, a true Annie Oakley of his day. He could wing Boris and save the world. He drew his pistol and took aim.

It all comes down to your kids. That’s where it ends; with your kids. Me? Who cares about me? An apocalyptic asteroid could strike the Earth tomorrow and so I’d die; so what? I could do with a good rest actually. But my kids? They must survive. They have to survive, no matter what. I know kids die. They die of leukemia, of abuse, in car accidents, at school gunned down by warped human beings. Why so young? Shouldn’t everyone get a decent innings on this Earth? Why do some get only a fleeting glimpse of life?

No, God does not move in mysterious ways and it is not simply “the Will of God” – that’s a cop-out? Simply a way of saying “Errr, yeah it’s really unfair and unjust and unexplainable, so God knows why.” This is where judeo-christian-islam leaves us floundering for answers and for things to make sense. But they don’t, so we reject these maxims and become nothing-but-darkness atheists or we adapt and distort the truth to suit our own egos.

People die because they programmed themselves to do so with their previous thoughts, words and deeds. Simple as that.

So, Alexander Sebrov saw Michael Princip draw his firearm and, being a reincarnation of Billy the Kid, he was pretty goddamed fast on the draw; the fastest this side of the Carpathians. He whipped out his Beretta and put two slugs into Michael’s head. There was an all-too-brief lull in the struggle, but when everyone saw Michael’s head pumping out blood, all hell broke loose. Boris’ anger gave him that last jolt of energy; enough to squeeze the life out of President Pudding. Bullets whizzed through the chilly air.

A duel of champions is meant to resolve the issue without thousands of soldiers dying for the vanity of a king or emperor. This duel, however, was soaked in irony.

Oh well, at least the Earth rid itself of the virus that afflicted it. The animal kingdom recovered as the destruction of their habitats ceased. The oceans stopped receiving their daily ration of plastic. The polar ice-caps stopped melting. The world got a bit cooler, put a comfy, old sweater on and opened a decent bottle of wine to celebrate…again.

Perhaps Michael Princip was really the hero that he wanted to be.

Vladimir Pudding was not one to shirk a fight. When he saw the bulky frame of the ex-Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland hurtling towards him, he let out a bellow, opened his arms into the grappling position and launched himself at his assailant. Seeing this, Boris employed his rugby-playing skills to feint to his right and then shimmied to his left, raising his right leg to trip the advancing Russian president, who went sprawling to the ground. Boris spun around like a 70s disco king and he fell upon the back of the Pudding, pinning him tightly.

Lapdog and Punt looked at each other, mouths agape and wondering what they should do; separate them? Join in? Fight each other? Lapdog’s jowly features, for Jeremy Punt, were like a red rag to a bull. He couldn’t help himself. He clenched his fist and swung it, rather girlishly, at the Russian Foreign Minister. Belying his outward appearance, Lapdog reacted pretty damned quickly and the blow glanced off his shoulder, with Punt’s fist carrying on into thin air, leaving him off balance and exposed. Lapdog seized the initiative and aimed a kick in Punt’s general direction, connecting with his thigh.

Meanwhile, Johnson had put Pudding into a headlock, with the Russian ex-KGB man struggling and wriggling like a struggly, wriggly thing. Boris had his arms round this opponent’s head rather than his neck, simply because there was no neck to lock onto. Pudding’s gargantuan head proved to be an advantage and Boris found it hard to get a good, firm hold on it.

While all this was happening, the bodyguards now looked at one another, wondering what the hell they should do; separate them? Join in? Fight each other? They had guns. This could get ugly. This could start a war.

Boris Johnson looked at his body, half-expecting to see blood oozing out of an orifice, but no…nothing.

Vladimir Pudding looked, too, at his body. Nothing.

What happened?

“I heard something,” said Jeremy Punt. “A metallic clang,”

Sergey Lapdog looked down at the ground between the duellists and announced: “I think I know what happened. The bullets hit each other – look, there are pieces of them.”

“Oh my great Aunt Bertie!” exclaimed Boris. “What are the chances?”

“The bullets hit each other?” Vlad groped for confirmation. “It’s a miracle! I truly am the Chosen One.”

“What?” countered Boris. “What are you drivelling about? I survived as well, you know. So, I’m also the Chosen One?”

“Oh, you’re nothing. You’re a has-been. An ex-PM.”

Boris’ cheeks reddened and his tousled hair stood on end, as if a bolt of electricity had coursed through his body.

“You obnoxious, fat-headed little runt,” and with that, Boris launched his chunky body at the Russian dictator.

Boris and Vladimir stood back-to-back with their pistols held at attention. The Russian president’s armpits were sweating, despite the parky air of daybreak. Now that it was go-time, he was truly regretting his nonchalant bravado. “I should have got a double to do this for me,” he thought. “Why have I only thought of that now?”

The soon-to-be ex-Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland had other thoughts on his mind as he ruffled his hair (it was far too neat) and puffed out his ruddy cheeks. He was nervous but exhilarated, the adrenaline coursing around his chunky body. He thought: “If I take this humungous-headed butcher out, I’ll be a bally hero. I’m going to make SO much money from the sale of my memoirs. The job offers will be flooding in as well; head of NATO or even the UN. Just keep calm and take steady aim.”

Lapdog and Punt cast nervous glances at one another. Sergey could see that his man was nearly pooping himself and was afraid that he was on the point of a humiliating back-down.

Punt was more worried about what would happen if his man won. Would the people clamour for the return of Boris? Would the Tory Party be riven by discord? Would HM the Queen intervene?

Vlad the Pants Pooper had an almost uncontrollable urge to get the hell outta there. He called out: “Come on, let’s get this done already!”

“I’m more than ready!” affirmed Boris

“Very well, gentleman,” intoned Lapdog. “I shall count to ten and with every number, you take a pace forward. On the count of ten, you will turn and fire your pistol.” He repeated it loudly in Russian, just in case his president’s expanding head had affected his hearing.

Jeremy Punt said: “Can I make the count? I’ve always wanted to do it.”

Lapdog rolled his eyes to the heavens and answered: “Really? Now you ask me?”

“Oh please,” pleaded Punt. “You can pronounce the loser dead or incapable of continuing.”

“For God’s sake!” bawled Vlad and Boris in unison.

“Okay, okay,” Lapdog capitulated.

Punt started the count: “One…” the combatants took a pace forward. “Two…three…four…five…six,” President Pudding stumbled a little and nearly dropped his pistol. “Seven…eight…nine…ten.”

Both men turned and pulled their triggers. The gunpowder in the pans was ignited, the explosive force impelled the round bullets down the barrels and out into the chill, morning air.

Sergey Lapdog looked at General Getyouroksov and enquired: “Did you, by any chance, arrange your duel with Jens Stoltenberg?”

“Whaddayanutz? Why would I do that? We’ll see what happens here first.”

The time had come; the duel was nigh. In the time-honoured tradition, it was dawn and only the duellists, their seconds and around 80 security personnel were present.

President Vladimir Pudding looked nervous. He was sweating profusely and was fidgeting like a schoolboy with a sugar and additives addiction. He addressed his team: “Anyone who records this on his cell phone will be sent straight to the Kherson front line with “I want to kill Ukrainian babies” tattooed on his forehead. Capiche?”

Boris ‘Jovial’ Johnson, on the other hand, was in fine fettle, chatting and joking with his team: “I’ll get the first round in after this is over.”

“It is only 7am, PM…”

“7am, pm? What are you blathering on about, Punt?”

“Never mind.” Punt wondered is all this was just bravado; would Boris match up?

“Ok Pudding, let’s see what you’re made of!” harangued Boris.

“Flour, eggs, milk and sugar,” murmured Lapdog, with a smirk on his lips.

“So, if this goes pear-shaped, who will take charge?” whispered Getyouroksov.

Lapdog answered: “I don’t think it’ll be me, if that’s what you’re asking. I have a plane waiting to fly me and my wife to New York.”

“Very wise,” agreed Getyouroksov. “Mine will head to Little Rock, Arkansas; I’ve got family there.”

Jeremy Punt called over to Lapdog.

“You’re up,” said Getyouroksov.

Lapdog and Punt met in no-mans-land and wished each other good day.

“Shall we proceed with the request for an apology?” asked Punt.

Lapdog looked puzzled. “Apologise for what, exactly?”

“For invading the sovereign nation of the Ukraine, of course,” declared Punt.

Lapdog smiled and shook his head: “Ah, I see. I don’t believe that President Pudding is sorry for anything he’s done in his life.”

Punt replied: “So, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Boris and Vladimir were handed their flintlock pistols. Boris grabbed his enthusiastically and said: “Make sure you cock your pistol, Pudding.”

“No worries, mate. If you’re lucky enough to survive this, I’ll treat you to a few stubbies,” answered Pudding, in a strange mix of Russianised English and Kiwi twang.

“Strewth! The rumours are true. You were stationed in New Zealand during your James Bond days.”

“Let’s git this thing done and git outta this wop wop’s,”

With the niceties over, the two protagonists stood back to back, pistols held upright.

“Now, let me get this straight, Jeremy. We stand back-to-back; we walk 10 paces and we turn and fire. Is that right?”

“That’s right, Prime…PM.”

Boris looked at the pistol, a relic of the early 19th century and guffawed: “I’m told that you’d be hard-pressed to hit a barn door from 20 paces with one of these things.”

Jeremy skewed his face and remarked: “A barn door would be well within its accuracy range but, in the trembling hands of a novice [he thought it best not to add “such as yourself”] it is a reliably unreliable weapon.”

“That’s a rather disheartening turn of phrase, I must say.” Boris stroked the lovingly crafted pistol. “It certainly is a beautiful…gun. Can I call it that?”

“You can call it ‘Susan’ if you wish,” replied Jeremy.

“And, presumably, my mortal foe will not be well-versed in its use?”

“There is no evidence that Vlad the Pudding ever fired a weapon…in anger. However, his KGB training must have required him to learn to fire a pistol.”

“As I thought,” Boris pulled a face. “But ho-hum, Gott mit uns.”

On the other side of The Great Divide, Tsar Vlad the Duellist also pulled a face…it was the face of his long-suffering personal servant, Igor. I’d like to say that Igor was a hunchback…so I will. He was a hunchback. Vlad loved to pull his face into different contorted positions.

“Igor, you’re old, Exactly how old are you?”

Igor looked puzzled, as if he didn’t understand the question.

“You want to know my age? Phuurf…I have no idea. Why?”

Vladimir Pudding held up the flintlock pistol and asked: “Ever fired one of these?”

Igor looked and the pistol and guffawed: “I’m old, not prehistoric. Why?”

“I’m going to fire one in a duel.”

Igor looked at his master and let out a huge belly laugh. When he finally recovered his composure, he enquired: “Why?”

This type of insolence from anyone else would’ve been punished severely, but Igor had an other-worldy quality about him. He was tolerated, like a court jester. His hump gave Pudding the willies.

“Who’s your opponent?” Igor asked.

“A chubby, tousled-haired English knobhead.”

“Duelling is in their blood, so you could be screwed. Stand side on and keep that big, fat head of yours out of the way.”

Vladimir Pudding thought: “One day, I’m going to have that hump removed with a hacksaw.”

Jeremy Punt, Boris Johnson’s second and PPPL (Posh Private Personal Lackey) was in a pensive mood.

“What perturbs you, Punt?” asked the LDPM (Lame Duck Prime Minister).

“Was it wise to choose flintlock pistols? Couldn’t you have just challenged him to a bicycle race or a game of chess?”

“Admirable activities, Punt, but we need drama ingens, not something that Jack Slackpants does every day or would bore the boxers off of most people.”

“But you could die, or be seriously injured.”

“Ach, I’m sure Vladimir Pudding’s people are telling him the same thing. That’s exactly why I chose traditional duelling pistols. It maintains a sense of tradition, and tradition is what this country stands for. Besides, after being PM, the only way is down, so what is there for me now except to be a 17th Lancer; a Death or Glory boy. Alea iacta est.”

Jeremy Punt puffed out his cheeks and said: “So be it. It’s off to Lithuania we go.”

“On the border with Russia, I take it?”

“Not exactly. With Belarus…same thing really,” said Jeremy.

Boris was almost hopping with excitement. “If I pull this off, I’ll challenge Sir Queer Self-Harmer to a duel.”

“So, he accepted?” asked Tsarpresidentovich Vladimir Pudding. “And what type of combat did he choose – eating cream cakes to the death? Glugging wine to see who passes out first?”

Sergei Lapdog, Foreign Minister and Head of the Joseph Goebbels Institute for the Truth, smiled wryly and replied: “If only. No, the ex, or soon to be ex-Prime Minister of the UK has followed a more traditional route and has chosen duelling pistols.”

“What?!” Vlad Pudding whirled round to gawp, open-mouthed, at Lapdog. “Pistols? Are you serious?” Vlad looked anxious; he had been expecting boxing or a bicycle race or some bizarre, upper-class, English game involving silly hats or smelly underpants. Pistols? He could be killed!

Lapdog couldn’t help but smile inwardly; he may ‘only’ be the Foreign Minister, but what seemed like centuries of diplomatic dealings with the West had left an ambitious taste for power in his ample, wobbly jowls.

“He chose pistols…fuuuu…he could be bluffing, couldn’t he?”

“He a big fibber, but I don’t think he’s a bluffer.” Lapdog looked at his leader; his head seemed to be swelling before his eyes.

“What can we do? asked Swellhead. “Can we poison him before the duel? Get some Novichok into his system maybe?”

Lapdog shook his jowls and protested: “A duel is a matter of honour. If we poison Johnson and then we get found out, it would have serious consequences.”

Vlad the Poisoner blew out his cheeks and said: “We’re fighting a country supported by the West; could that be any more serious?”

“Your personal honour is at stake, and the honour of Mother Russia,” said Lapdog, wanting to make some chicken noises.

Vladimir Pudding blew out his ruddy cheeks and said: “What are the rules of duelling with pistols…hold up, what type of bloody pistols are we talking about, anyway?”

“A duel?! A bloody duel? What with; flintlock pistols, sabres, bottles of vodka?” Boris exclaimed.

“He didn’t actually specify, Mr. Prime…errm, do I still call you Prime Minister?”

“You most certainly do, Jeremy. For that is what I am until HM orders me sent to the Tower.”

“I do believe that, under duelling rules, it is up to the challenged to choose.”

“Hmm. he’s older than me, is he not?”

“69, but he looks pretty fit.”

Boris pondered and said: “I could challenge him to a bike race. I’m pretty damned sure I’d win that. Where is this supposed to take place?”

“On the border between Lithuania and Russia,” Jeremy replied.

“If I win, I’ll be a bally hero. I might even get re-elected as Tory Party leader. Accipio.”

Sergei Lapdog was perplexed. He had heard the news from the UK, that Boris Johnson was facing a revolt from many of his ministers. How was he going to arrange a duel with his Tsar…sorry, President?

“Actually,” he pondered, “this could work in Johnson’s favour. He can hardly turn the challenge down, now that he’s in such deep doo-doo.” He spoke: “Yes, President Pudding. I’ll get it arranged. How soon could you be ready to rumble?”

“I’m ready now,” answered Vlad the Imploder. “It’ll be like Brad Pitt in ‘Troy’; we’ll be champions, fighting for our country’s honour.”

“Something just occurred to me,” piped in Getyouroksov. “What if Johnson sets a condition on the outcome of the duel?”

Vladimir Pudding narrowed his piggy, little eyes and hissed: “What kind of condition?”

Getyouroksov suddenly wished that he hadn’t opened his big, fat gob.

“Well, you just mentioned about champions and, instead of the armies fighting, the champions decided the outcome…and errm…”

Lapdog came to his aid: “And Boris might demand that, if he wins…”

“You mean you think I could lose?” said Pudding. “No way, José. Nah, Boris will have to accept, without any conditions. If he doesn’t, his people will call him a chicken and then he really will have to resign.”

Lapdog advised: “That could happen anyway, so we need to throw down the gauntlet immediately.”

“What?” said Pudding. “No, we need to challenge Boris right now. Make it happen, Lapdog.”

“Peasant,” thought Lapdog.

Lapdog and Getyouroksov got up from the UBER Table and left the room. They looked at each other and Lapdog asked: How do you fancy your chances against Stoltenberg?”

“I hope he means the Secretary-General and not the Supreme Commander,”