The End of the World As We Know It
By Farrell Winter © 2004
Weather extremes. Extreme weather extremes. Volcanoes erupting. Earthquakes quaking Earth. Landslides sliding land. High winds blowing. High tides flooding. Unceasing heavy rain. Soon, most of the coasts became flooded. In Washington, President Kerry W. Bosh held a meeting of his closest advisors. It was decided that he would take most of the White House staff back to the Western White House, his home town of Crows Foot, Texas, just outside Galveston. Meanwhile, Vice-President Prick Chaining would remain in Washington.
The rain continued. In Texas, Corpus Christie was under water. Gone. Galveston Bay flooded all the way up to Liberty County, and threatened Houston to the West.
“But he’s the president, we have to get through.”
“Sorry, it’s all under water.”
“Look, I know the highways are flooded out, but aren’t there some back roads….”
“No. Just the sea.”
“Maybe if I called him on my cell phone….”
“There’s nothing there except the Gulf of Mexico.”
In the White House, Chaining declared Bosh dead and himself in charge. “I’m in charge,” he said, echoing Alexunderhanded Hate of an earlier administration. The rain continued. All the White House basements and sub-basements flooded. Chaining and entourage moved to the second floor. The water crept up to the first floor. Chaining etc. moved to the third floor. Food and liquor were not a problem; covered speedboats brought more than they could consume once a week from Bethesda.
The Vice-President fell into the habit of getting as drunk as possible, as often as possible, which put him in a foul mood. He called for his aide, a man in his forties, short brown hair, clean-shaven, in a dark elegant suit. “Goddammit,” said Chaining, “I want women. Bring me something to fuck. Bring me some fuckables.”
“But, sir,” responded the aide, “you didn’t like any of the entries on the list I gave you yesterday.”
“You little fuck,” countered Chaining, “don’t argue with me. Find me something to fuck!” With that he grabbed the aide by the neck and threw him against the wall.
“Yes, sir, yes, sir, right away, sir,” the aide managed. He stood up and straightened himself out, then left and went to his office, the rain continuing to beat down. After a moment he punched a button on his phone and said, “Get in here.” His aide came in, an older, fatter version of himself, in a cheaper suit. “The old man is really on it. Take one of the boats; go find a flooded high school or something. Go.”
The aide started to salute, then caught himself. “Yes, sir,” he said, “will do,” and left.
The phone rang. “Anything yet?” asked Chaining.
“We’re working on some hot leads now, sir,” asserted the aide.
“Bring me what you have. Pronto.”
“But, but, sir….”
“Don’t talk back to me. Get up here.” With that, Chaining hung up. The aide sighed and listened to the rain. It seemed to come in sheets of water flinging themselves against the walls of the White House. Millions and billions and trillions of individual raindrops, maybe more than all the gold coins rumored to be at Camp David. He wondered what it would be like to be a raindrop. He sighed and got up to go.
At the outer door to Chaining’s suite he ran into Kindasleezzee Ice, the Secretary of State. “Good afternoon, ma’am, how are you today?”
“It’s morning and I don’t answer to you.” She started to go in.
“Uh, ma’am, I think the vice-president is … indisposed just now. Indisposed.”
“Are you telling me what to do? Go fuck yourself.”
“Get out of my way, boy.” She continued on to Chaining’s outer office. He followed her, almost begging her to leave but not daring to stop her. He looked down at his feet. The floor was seeping. Ice opened the next door and walked in. The look on Chaining’s face froze her where she stood. The aide stumbled in after her.
“Jesus fucking dammit what is the matter with you?” offered Chaining by way of greeting.
“Mr. Vice-president,” the aide began.
Ice cut him off. “Shut up,” she hissed, then turned to Chaining and in a kinder, gentler voice, said, “Mr. Vice-president….”
Chaining looked at her as if she were a cockroach, then turned to the aide. “You know I don’t fuck niggers. Are you crazy, bringing this here? I want something to fuck, and not no damn nigger.”
Ice opened her grey eyes wide, her face flushed. “Mr. Vice-president!” she shrieked.
Chaining cut her off. “You shut up.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and disgustedly threw her backwards. She slid on the wet floor and fell onto a small sofa so hard she bounced.
“Oh,” she said, and sat there stiffly, rather like a block of ice.
Chaining was bellowing at the aide. “I told you to bring me something to fuck, and you brought that. Now I’m going to fuck you.” He pulled down the aide’s pants and underpants and spun him around. No one noticed that the rain had intensified. Ice opened her mouth to say something when a wall of water crashed thru a window and flooded the outer room. Chaining turned to look at the sound, then down at his feet. The water was up to his ankles. “Shit fucking dammit,” he said, “shit shit shit. Let’s get out of here. Take the elevator.”
The aide stumbled in the rising water as he pulled up his clothing. “I don’t think the elevator is working, sir.” Chaining was too distracted by a slowly growing fear to make any reply. He pushed the elevator button. Nothing happened. He entered the manual code to open the door. The elevator car wasn’t there.
“Shine a light down there,” he barked at the aide. The aide kept his flashlight in an upper pocket, so it wasn’t wet. He shone it into the shaft. Filled with water, and slowly rising. “Damn. We’ll have to take the stairs.” Ice stood up to go with them. Chaining looked at her blankly and headed for the staircase.