by 
Rishi Sunak, known to his friends as ‘Tex’, gets out of his Pontiac Firebird and strides into his ranch. He pours himself a generous slug of bourbon.
“Goddamn limeys,” he growls, as he stares through the window, across the savannah.
“Goddamn limeys and their fair goddamn tax practices.”
He pours himself another slug.
“Well, tarnation! I ain’t gonna be pushed around by a bunch of pencil-neck asswipes who think that just because they got a Queen, somehow makes ‘em better ‘n anyone else.”
He spits tobacco into a spittoon by the fire.
“Coming after me, and my damn woman, just cos we earned ourselves a little old nest-egg. That’s our goddamn nest-egg, and if them damn limeys think they can take cent one, then they’re going to find they got a fight on their goddamn hands.”
He opens the display case in which he stored his Daddy’s old Winchester rifle, takes it down and loads it.
“Oh yeah, they’re gonna have a big ole goddamn fight.”
Finishing his drink, he marches out to the stable and saddles up Tallulah, the piebald stallion he’s had since he was a boy. He throws his big bag of loot over her hind.
He opens his wallet, kisses his beloved green card and mounts Tallulah. The horse rears up as, in the distance, the distinctive sound of British police sirens can be heard echoing through the night.
“You’re in ma country now, limeys. Come get me.”
