This Mourning: A Phillip Schofield Fanfic

This Mourning: A Phillip Schofield Fanfic

OwenPhillip Schofield climbed the stairs slowly. This was by far the least glamorous part of his job. Making sure the Dan Wesson M119 ACP pistol was loaded, he let out a sigh and entered the room. It was bland as ever, the ITV clean-up team having done an excellent job as usual. The room’s sole inhabitant was the man Schofield had interviewed just forty minutes ago, who was still embracing the slab of stone he proclaimed to be his husband. He gave the slightest glance as The Schoth entered the room before returning to the beautiful rock he called his own.

“Martin.” Schofield’s voice remained melodic as ever. Martin turned to face The Silver Fox. The Schoth extended his gun arm, the pistol pointing straight at Martin’s head. Breaking character for just a moment, the king of daytime TV let out a whispered “I’m sorry” and, before his poor guest even had time to say goodbye to his sedimentary lover, Phillip Schofield pulled the trigger.

“Phil Vickery will be making a delicious pot roast and the stars of new action blockbuster Calvary will be on the sofa” “But first,” Schofield’s current TV trophy wife had already kicked off the show when The Schoth finally left his pre-show blur. He hadn’t paid attention to a warm-up since his Gordon the Gopher days. Thankfully, Schofield on autopilot is still better than 78% of other daytime TV hosts on top form.

“This crime-fighting couple claim that running around your house pretending to be a cat for three hours a day can give you psychic powers.”

“All that and more, after the break!” The Schoth only returned to his usual, prevalent self as the camera panned to the guests on his sofa.

“So then, you claim to have psychic powers?” asked Schofield, eyes engaging his filler-slot guests.

“Yes.” Replied the male one.

“OK, so if you were to look into me and my co-host’s minds, what would be the darkest secret you would find?” He had this. TV gold.

“Well,” replied the female one “You are a serial killer and she really, really fancies you and only did the show in the first place in the hope you’d sleep with her and she could find a way out of her sodding, miserable marriage and feel like a human again, rather than a vast, fanciable lump of skin.”

The blonde woman beside Schofield turned a shade of bright red before attempting to laugh it off. Her husband, a producer on the show, stormed out of the room, which was hard considering there were no doors on set. Schofield didn’t fluster, though. He was a pro.

“Hahaha,” Laughter was the best medicine. “So who have I killed?”

The male one gave an inconsequential smile and gave Schofield a brief glance, but chose not to hold eye contact.

“It’s not who you have killed so much as who you are going to kill.”

“Oh?” Schofield wasn’t going to let him have this. He had to make his guest appear as absurd as possible, as per usual. “And who would that be?”

“Us.” The female one wasn’t messing around. She made the eye contact her fiancée could not. She could hold it as well. The Bubbly Blonde was still embarrassed out of commission, so this was now a solo project for The Schoth.

“Well,” Schofield said with his best charm and smile “Should I just kill you now?”

“You might as well.” The male one said, confirming that they were taking it in turns to speak.

Schofield reached into his suit trousers. He kept his pistol in such a position that he could pretend he was just pleased to see people. He whipped the gun out with the speed and efficiency of a man who had spent his formative years as a semi-professional assassin. Gasps rang around the studio. The shocked tweets were already coming in. The insignificant figures before him, those who would not be remembered in the pages of TV Choice Magazine, were probably begging for mercy. Maybe they were struggling back. All Schofield knew was that he had the power of life and death in his hands, and this was something he relished.

He would get away with it. There was no doubts over that. His National Treasure status secured him legal immunity. There had been seven witnesses when he abducted Madeline McCann, and yet the public never suspected a thing. Even shooting a man live on TV wouldn’t be a problem. After all, Alan Partridge got away with it.

Through the superior gaze being on TV brings to you and the crazy haze holding a gun presents, Schofield heard something. The male one and the female one were both chanting. He couldn’t quite make it out, but he was sure the ratings had just gone up dramatically. He listened closer. ‘We love you Phillip Schofield, you are the best. We love you Phillip Schofield, active the cube’. Yes, that’s what they were saying. ‘We love you Phillip Schofield, you are the best. We love you Phillip Schofield, active the cube’. A lovely reference to his popular catchphrase on his other hit ITV show. They clearly were true fans. This, Schofield knew, was what they truly wanted. To be killed by their all-time hero, by the man they, in their heart of hearts, knew was better than Edmunds. He was already a legend. Now Phillip Schofield could be a hero.

He pulled the trigger.

Then he pulled it again, because there were two of them. This made it slightly less dramatic, but if Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway had taught him anything, if something makes good television, do it again and again and just never stop. His blonde compatriot had a broad smile over her face. She had enjoyed what was happening. If what the feline psychic freaks had said was true, this woman would also feel the same way about dying at Schofield’s mighty hand. He pressed the gun into her pregnant chest. She moved in to kiss him, snarling for a warm embrace and Schofield gave her what she wanted.

Holly. Yes, that’s it. Her name was Holly.

Nick Clegg apologist.

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