The Nightmare Team

We hear a lot about dream Teams, especially when a new government takes office. If there can be Dream Teams, can there also be Nightmare Teams?
During a snooze lately, I had this nasty dream about a semi-literate Italian of questionable integrity ruling India as the Empress. She believed in chucking freebies to the public lest they get mad. Her private fears were that she might end up as another Empress of foreign import - Marie Antionette, an Austrian export  to France. Unfounded fears, of course, but she had to take certain precautions. Just in case.
She had a stuffed dummy placed on the Prime Minister's chair
The Empress's son, a man approaching middle-age but with no convincing qualifications, would make cameo appearances in a patronising, noblesse oblige kind of manner to try and connect with us masses. We, the dumb masses, were supposed to go ga-ga over his sharing our scraps of food and sanctifying our hovels with his benign presence. But nothing else to improve our lot. Except a promise of more freebies. Promises, promises.
As her chief trouble-shooter, the Empress had a slick Harvard-educated lawyer (Slick Lawyer #I) whose chief talent lay in inventing ever new kinds of taxes, and as a hobby he delighted in framing pictures of Hindu leaders. He ran a private detective agency known as the CBI: Chidambram's Bureau of Incrimination. Slick Lawyer #I aka Trouble-Shooter had a son who seemed to grow prosperous in direct proportion to his father's rise in status.
As her legal adviser she appointed another slick lawyer (Slick Lawyer #II) whose forte seemed to be an ill-timed sense of sarcasm, mockery and well-honed talent for jeering. She relied on this lawyer to seek out loopholes, and also to make conciliatory gestures to opponents. Too bad that his conciliatory statements invariably ended up riling the other party.
As her personal spokesman she fielded a Court Jester who was probably an understudy of Slick Lawyer II.. The more ridiculous he sounded, the more encouraged he became to say just what his Empress wanted to hear. To wit, that a bunch of doddering geriatrics, the RSS, was responsible for each and every ill. He too knew he was purveying hogwash, but what the heck, a Court Jester can't win elections. But he can be appointed a governor of some luckless state. So he tended to keep singing in season and out.
She rewarded incompetence. Economy failed? You're the President now. A monumental black-out? The Home Ministry for you. And so on.
Then there was the small problem of the President's Palace. A huge ornate building of British times. Show the British colonialists just what we think of them: put the wort kind of specimen inside it.
That's about a cameo (ah, that word again) of the Nightmare Team since the details of my nightmare would give you the creeps.
Oh, oh. It's not a nightmare! I'm awake and this Nightmare Team's still there! Please somebody, sing me to sleep...