Assassination attempt on President Barack Obama foiled. Deadly plot in London. Killer in Buckingham Palace.

Planning the Obama assassination.

Scouting out the venue for the Obama assassination.

Obama assassination. Any minute now.

Launching the Obama assassination.

The assassination attempt on Barack Obama foiled.

Assassination attempt on Barack Obama. The assassin escapes.

Greeting The Obamas at Buckingham Palace. The assassin is disguised as The Duchess of Cornwall's hat.

During his recent state visit to The United Kingdom, President Barack Obama came very near to assassination. I am writing this now, as my personal account of the assassination plot on Barack, and Michelle, Obama, and as a constant reminder to me of how the assassination plan went wrong, and also to help me in formulating my next attempt.

When I last "put pen to paper", I, Larry, the Downing Street Cat/Julian Faversham Cannibalistic zombie, was looking forward to the State Visit of US President Barack Obama to the United Kingdom. Most particularly, I was looking forward to snacking on his presidential brain.

Read.

http://hubpages.com/hub/10-Downing-Street-Cat-His-secret-revealed-Not-Wikipedia

The plan to dine off the grey matter of "The Leader of The Free World" was well advanced, and indeed came within a hairs breadth of succeeding, If it were not for that wretched feline, The Cheshire Cat, I would be enjoying happy memories of the taste of "Obama Soup". I shall have to wait for another opportunity now.

Everything was going so well. I had changed the venue for my attack on the president from 10 Downing Street to Buckingham Palace. I had discovered that Barack Obama would only be visiting the Prime Minister during the day, but that he would be staying overnight with Her Majesty the Queen. The President and his wife were scheduled to stay in The Belgian Suite, a very opulent set of rooms on the ground floor of the palace. All I needed to do was to gain entry to this suite during the night, and then put my particular stamp on the furtherance of Anglo American relations.

To put this plan into effect, it was first essential that I had a good notion of the layout of Buckingham Palace. You are talking "Big House" here, and the last thing I needed was to be wandering lost down endless corridors, when my dinner was sleeping soundly with his fragrant wife Michelle.

It was easy enough to get into the palace. There is a constant stream of traffic between the office of The Prime Minister, and that of The Queen. All I had to do was jump in with a load of paperwork at Downing Street, and then jump out again when it was being delivered at Buck House. Also The Prime Minister had weekly meetings with The Queen, and it was a simple enough matter to hide in the back of his car. Nobody ever seemed to notice a cat, probably the last thing they expected to see with all those corgis around.

It was one of those dammed corgis that almost gave the game away. I had managed to smuggle myself aboard one of the vans that plied between the palace and Downing Street with the endless paperwork. I was following the footman to see where he would go, and to get a feel for the place. He was about twenty paces ahead of me. I rounded a corner at the end of a very plush corridor, when what should I bump into but one of those awful little welsh dogs that Queen Elizabeth II is especially addicted to. This one was on his own. He must have escaped from the pack. Needless to say, when he saw himself faced with a black and white tabby in Buckingham Palace, he straightaway started barking like hell. "The little scutter" probably thought that Christmas had come early.

If that was his thought, it was most likely the last one that he had, as I immediately shape shifted into my mouldy zombie body. The canine brains made a nice, but rather small snack.

Fortunately, the footman was listening to his i pod and appeared to hear nothing.

I popped the remains of the corgi into a big Chinese vase, and continued my exploration of the palace. He must be starting to smell around now, but that is not my problem.

A couple of days later I was back at the royal residence. It was the day after Barack Obama had arrived in London. He stayed one night in The American Embassy, and he was due to be formally welcomed by The Queen at the palace the following morning.

I had managed to hide myself in The Belgian Suite. Oddly enough, I had only managed to get in there because the presidential security detail had been going over the place, with a fine toothcomb, looking for bombs etc. As if The Queen was going to blow up The US President. If George III had blown up George Washington, there might be some sense in it, but it is a bit late thinking of such an idea now. Anyway the presidential goons left the door open, so it was very easy for me to sneak in and hide under the bed.

That night there was a big banquet for the American guests. The usual toe curling speeches were made, and much food was eaten and wine drunk. About midnight Barack Obama and Michelle came back to the suite. They must have had a fair amount of wine to drink, as they were both giggling, and they started bouncing on the big four-poster bed. I thought I would get squashed.

I said to myself that I would soon put a stop to this carry on. The giggling would end once I got started on eating their brains.

Around one o clock everything went quiet in the Belgian Suite. My "supper" had gone asleep. The only sounds to be heard were the ticking of an ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the room, and the snoring of, surprisingly, Michelle Obama.

I could feel the brain hunger rising to take over my entire being. It wasn’t every day that I got to slurp the grey matter of one of the most famous couples on the planet.

Things happened rather quickly then.

I crept from my hiding place under the bed.

I shape shifted into my old familiar slavering zombie body, and prepared to leap on the sleeping couple.

Just before I could put my dastardly plan of enjoying my own banquet of "American Pie" into deadly effect, Barack Obama sat up in the bed.

He had his back to me, and didn’t notice my mouldering form, about to leap on his lithe body.

His long stripy tail was protruding out from beneath the covers and twitching in the night air. Although I knew about the appendage of Barack Obama, (the result of him being one quarter cat), It had never been revealed to me in all its splendour before. Normally it was hidden away in his trousers. But it was to be expected that his wife would be well acquainted with that throbbing state secret. There would be no need to hide it away in the privacy of the marital bed.

He shook his wife.

"Michelle. Will you turn over and stop snoring. You will keep half London awake, let alone Buckingham Palace" he said in a querulous voice.

Michelle Obama kind of grunted, and turned to face her husband in the bed. She opened her eyes, and then she screamed a long and piercing ullulation. The bitch must have seen me.

I tore across the room, intending to silence her, before she could raise the entire palace.

But then, in one of those most dammnable things that sometimes happen to spoil the highpoint of the career of even the most deserving of cannibalistic zombies, I tripped over one of those male stilettos, that Barack Obama wears when he is in public with his statuesque spouse, ( ah, the vanity of the vertically challenged politician); and sprawled ignominiously on the carpet.

Of course The President turned round in the bed as well, and when he saw me on the floor trying to galvanise my decomposing legs for another attempt at leaping on his, oh so tasty, brainpan he started to shout and scream as well.

"Grandfather! Grandfather! I'm being attacked. Help me! Help me"! Barack Obama was screaming like a demented elephant, with "the dreaded mouse" running up his leg.

The door to an inner room shot open, and a large grinning cat appeared at the entrance.

The newcomer opened his mouth in a snarl, and immediately morphed into a six foot graveyard maggot.

I knew that I was in deadly danger then myself. If that monstrosity started to chew on my rotting body, it would be goodbye to Julian Faversham/Larry the Downing Street cat.

I guessed my adversary was the famous Cheshire Cat. I had overheard David Cameron, and Barack Obama talking about the president's unusual relative, and his special powers, as I frequently listened into the telephone calls at Downing Street.

I was aware of the role that The Cheshire Cat had played in the dispatch of Osama Bin Laden.

http://hubpages.com/hub/The-truth-of-how-Osama-Bin-Laden-was-killed-Why-the-pictures-of-his-body-can-never-be-shown

Against the "Hero of Abbottabad", I stood no chance.

All I could hope to do was try to escape.

Suddenly there was the most ferocious knocking on the door of The Belgian Suite. It was accompanied by the sounds of many yapping corgis, and some Labrador barking as well.

A voice that I had often heard reading The Speech from The Throne, at the opening of Parliament was shouting outside the door.

"What in Heaven's name is going on in there? It's bad enough that I can’t get to sleep in my own palace, with the snoring, but now I have to listen to this demented screaming".

It could only be Queen Elizabeth II, and she sounded like she was in a really bad humour.

A male voice cut across the irate sovereign. It sounded very like Prince Philip.

“I’m nearly ninety years of age, and I need my sleep. I told you we shouldn’t have invited those dammed Americans. They are always trouble".

The door was burst open by a royal kick.

The Crowned Head of The United Kingdom was wearing the most enormous set of hair curlers I have ever seen, and she was looking seriously annoyed.

Behind her, her royal consort was looking equally fit to explode. Incidentally, he was wearing a full length blue dressing gown, with gold embroidered horses’ heads.

I didn’t wait to hear how The President of America was going to explain to The Queen Of England the presence of a six foot graveyard maggot, and a stinky rotting zombie in the middle of the floor.

Quick as a flash I resumed my Larry the Cat body, and shot for the open door.

"Get him boys" The Queen shouted.

The last thing I can remember of that night in Buckingham Palace is running down the corridor, with about ten corgis and several Labradors, snapping at my heels.

Luckily for me, I managed to find a way out, and I vanished into the night.

That was my one and only shot at assassinating Barack Obama. He only stayed a couple of more days. At Downing Street I could not get near him. He was too closely guarded.

I thought it better to stay out of the way anyhow. I don’t want my cover as The Downing Street Cat to be blown. If Barack Obama saw me that would be bound to happen.

Now that I have got access to Buckingham Palace as well, my opportunities for feasting are vastly improved, and with some of these world leaders, you wouldn’t notice whether their brains were eaten or not.

I can’t wait for the next state visit.

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