A gravedigger stalking amongst the tombstones at midnight, beneath the knowing leer of the sickly full silvery moon. His shovel hoist over his shoulder, still grubby and muddy from the digging done.
Unsanctioned clandestine digging done in secret.
He, snickering and tittering to himself because the dead ones whisper him secrets no one else but gravediggers know.
No. Not really.
Immaculately manicured men with clean scrubbed healthy skin, dressed in very fine, beautifully tailored suits. Perfectly respectable looking men with pristine white starched collars. Eminently capable men adept in the fine art getting on in the world in the cold clear light of day.
Sound men. Discreet men. Reliable men.
Men who know exactly what’s going to happen next, because they arranged everything very carefully. Meticulous men at the height of their powers. Men who know what’s best for everyone.
Indeed, our grubby gravedigger with his grim secret knowledge, is a sympathetic and relatable character. In comparison to those men who know the date and the outcome of the next coup, and the results of the next two elections.
Fully informed, calm and calculating monsters operating in secrecy and concert. That’s real horror.