Tag Archives: action

THE SECOND BIG BANG. CHAPTER 19

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

elon-musk-01

The roof of Elon’s mansion folds back, revealing a magnificent launching pad. The countdown clock hits zero and the rocket containing the PSA fires them into space, propelling them away from the cradle of mankind in a fury of rocket fuel and human ingenuity.

Elon takes a moment to consider that in the next 30 minutes he will be the smartest man alive. And also the tallest.

As the violent atmosphere rocks their ship, Michelle pukes into her space helmet and Barack has a powerful spiritual out of body experience.

Bernie suffers a stroke and dies while passing through the final layer of atmosphere into outer space. They don’t discover it until it’s too late. His body is placed in the freezer and they plan to take care of it as soon as the proper opportunity presents itself.

Joe feels like he’s lost his father.

As they rise up, they see the great and glorious expanse of space open before them. “The cosmos,” Elon says mystically before unbuckling himself and doing weightless somersaults towards the fridge. He snaps open a vitamin water and thoughtfully sips it. “Well, I suppose I should ask. Are we planning to watch the explosion or should we kick it into Tesla Speed?”

Elon plugs his stereo in and begins to play Amazing Grace. Then he plays Highway to Hell. Then he plays Rocket Man. None of them feels right. Finally he just turns on white noise and listens to its calming hiss as the missile, which they can now see, moves slow motion through space and time towards Pale Blue Dot.

Elon begins to recite a mantra from memory, spoken by one of his heroes.

“That’s home. That’s us. On it, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever lived, lived out their lives. The aggregate of all our joys and sufferings, thousands of confident religions, ideologies and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilizations, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every hopeful child, every mother and father, every inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every superstar, every supreme leader, every saint and sinner in the history of our species, lived there – on a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and in triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of the dot on scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner of the dot. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturing, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light.

To my mind, there is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly and compassionately with one another and to preserve and cherish that pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”

Elon stops talking and the group sits in silence as they watch Kim’s Power House missile slam into Earth and kill everyone they’d ever known.

Their planet was gone.

 

images

 

Tomorrow is our EPILOGUE part 1 followed directly by EPILOGUE part 2.

 

 

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

JOHN McCAIN’S FIRST THOUGHT. CHAPTER 18

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

1028502065

John McCain awakens in a golden room, tied to a golden chair with, what appears to be, a golden lasso. He squints against all the shine.

“Mister McCain.”

John opens his eyes fully and allows them to adjust. It’s just he and Donald (in Kardashian form) and Melania in the room. Donald is making love to Melania on the desk. “Love” was a strong word. From John’s perspective it looked more like Donald was making hate to her.

Melania looks like she’s been drugged. She isn’t even blinking.

John’s body is broken. Everything is broken. All he knows is pain.

Donald pulls his green penis, covered in boils and slime, from the inside of his robotic wife.

“She came here to kill me.” He wipes his wet dick on her dress. “Did you know that she was created by Bernie Sanders?” He throws the soiled dress over her soiled face. “Many years ago I found this out. I’ve been waiting for her to make her move. In the meantime I’ve been -” he signals to her robotic vagina.

He glances at her. There is no emotion in his face but within his eyes there is sharp hatred and a shadow of hurt.

“She’s not asleep, if you’re wondering. She’s dead. If she was ever even really alive. I destroyed her charging station.” He touches her face and then pushes her off the desk and onto the floor like a dirty Kleenex.

Human life. Just some piece of meat. Just a thing to pussy-grab when you wanted. An object to be used.

Donald pours himself a bowl of cereal and sits down in front of John. “It’s a real shame it’s got to end like this, both of us getting fried in a nuclear holocaust.”

“My name is John McCain. And I am a hero.”

“Seen a mirror lately?”

“My name is John McCain. And I am a hero.

“Mm-hmm.”

Donald pulls a dollar bill out of a golden kleenex box and blows his nose in it. Another bill magically pops up.

John begins to struggle against the rope. The pain is tremendous. Every bone in his body is broken. Every movement is shattered glass on raw skin.

“My name… is John McCain… and I am… a hero.”

A tear rolls down his cheek and he shakes it away. Tears were for mortal men. And John McCain was not a mortal man. He was born for more. Destined for greatness.

“My name is John McCain.”

His left hand, wrist and all five fingers broken, becomes free. But it’s all he needs because, “I am a hero.”

Donald Trump begins to load a hooka full of Godplex. He plans to make the next hour take quite some time. He’d smuggled some in from 5-Points years ago and has had it on top of his fridge since then. He took a hit before his State of the Union Address. Big mistake.

Big mistake.

He lights up and inhales deeply. The burn is deep and fierce and loud and ugly and then tiiiiiiiime sloooooooows dooooooown. Behind Donald Trump, John McCain stands up and approaches him. Donald is caught in a daze of ecstasy.

John McCain is a limping and garbled mess of flesh and bone and muscle and sinew.

Donald turns around just as the bruised and bloodied face of a monster bears down on him. The teeth are all missing. The nose is twisted to the side and gnarled into a fist. One eye is swollen shut. His cheek and jawbone are broken, making his previous chants sound far less coherent.

He grabs Donald’s cheeks in his broken hands and his nerves scream in pain. “Mer nohm iz Jhon MuhGain. ‘N I em a herro.”

He screams. And his spittle flies into Donald’s face. And Donald is terrified. He quivers back in fear and releases his bladder, spilling golden urine onto the fine golden carpet. He shouts for Paul Ryan but he’s nowhere to be found. He goes through his list. Everyone is dead or fired. Some are missing. I’ve run my agenda into the ground. I’m never going to get my wall built!

For the next five years, Godplex time, John McCain merciless beats Donald Trump. He throws him around the room in a fantastic rage. A rage that held no consequence for this was The Great Ending. A rage that held nothing back for there was nothing after this. A rage that was equal parts want and need. He knew he shouldn’t find enjoyment in this but he did. He didn’t want to, but he did. And this was the end, so he embraced it. He allowed himself to be nothing but Man. Not Civilized Man. Not Modern Man. But Primal Man. He allowed The War Machine to take over.

He let out Mad Dog McCain. And it was Mad Dog McCain that carved his initials into Donald’s forehead with his thumbnail over the course of a long fall season in Donald’s time perspective. It was horrendously painful and Donald wept until he was dehydrated and choked with exhaustion.

 

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

WORLD POLITICS AND SURGICAL FINGER EXTENSIONS. CHAPTER 5

A VULGAR OF POWER

FINGER1

Some things happen over the course of the next few months. They are, in no particular order.

  1. Donald Trump successfully fractures the general public, criticizing not just one news source, but all of them. The chicken people feel confused and are unable to rally. He has them where he wants them. Panic and confusion. Rebels don’t rise from panic and confusion. Panic and confusion is easier to control.

 

  1. He’s gotten a tattoo on his forearm that reads, “My brand is chaos.” Melania said it to him one night after faking another orgasm. She meant it as an insult but he took it as a complement. From that day on, he decided to use it. Everything he said would cause chaos. He would not be a leader that laid a path to a goal. He would be a leader that led a path that led in circles. He would keep the people busy so he could wiggle his fingers behind the curtain and do things like #3.

 

  1. He has personally profited over $150,000,000,000,000,000 (that’s one quadrillion dollars) from the American people paying for him to travel and sleep at his golf resort. The Rebels keep trying to raise the point to the public level but his Drone Army denies it blindly in the face of what most on the world stage would consider mathematical facts. The news was confusing them and it was all working. Everything was playing into his hands.

 

  1. Late one night while watching re-runs of reality TV and having a Twitter war with a late night TV comedian, the president saw an infomercial for experimental finger extension surgery. He knew he must have it. He did like the commercial said and “ORDERED NOW!” He was finally going to have those long fingers he’d always wanted. Maybe he’d even take up piano once he’d broken free of the Kardashian race.

FINGERS2

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

JOHN McCAIN’S THERAPEUTIC JOURNAL ENTRY. CHAPTER 4

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

In his private sleeping quarters, Senator John McCain records the day’s thoughts in his journal. A small oil lamp burns dimly in one corner. He sits in a wife beater and boxer shorts, scribbling furiously with a quill.

His brain tumor throbs in his head, making him grip the pen and the edge of the table tighter. He stares directly down at the paper and his own mortality.

I have invested my entire life into protecting The United States of America. I traveled across seas to fight her enemies. I put my life at risk to save every man, woman and child that walks on this dirt from a life of oppression.

I was shot down in Vietnam, spiraled to the ground, screaming for my life, begging God for forgiveness before my life blinked out of existence. One of my arms and both of my legs were broken upon impact when my jet hit the water.

The Vietnamese dragged my broken body carelessly from the water, threw me in a prison, stabbed and beat me. For five years I sat in Hanoi.

mccain

I came home, back to the land I had suffered for. Back to the people I had almost died for. To the people I had fought for and amongst those people was a man named Donald Trump.

Donald Trump recently ran for President where he called me a “loser” for being captured during the Vietnam War. 

Since the inception of his brain tumor, McCain’s therapist has suggested he start this journal and begin recording some of his more emotional thoughts. The idea was that they are healthier to exist upon paper rather than within the mind and body. And by naming them, we can more readily understand and control them.

His writing began to take on its more aggressive tone as his emotions rose.

That soft-pecker Donald Trump has never volunteered for war. He has never volunteered for his country. He has never volunteered for anything.

He remembers sitting in his therapist’s office last week, crying into his hands. Across the room, an androgynous doctor sits cross-legged on a love seat.

Everything has started to pour out of McCain. It feels so cathartic. He lets it flow. He knows this conversation isn’t being recorded. “I hate him. I hate him so much. I have spent my life protecting-“ he signals to the entire room, the city, the country. “My entire life has been spent protecting this. And now…” he rests his head in his hands and his therapist is silent, understanding that he is referencing the active presence of his brain tumor.

“He called me a loser. Because I was captured in war. Volunteering for the country that he is the president of. At that time I served under President Johnson, who was a goddamn man. And now I have this tumor eating away at my brain and I understand that I’m going to die. I can’t escape this violent enemy.”

He lifts his head and looks out the window, his eyes glistening. He sees a little bird on a branch. It looks around and flies away.

“Why does he do what he does? Why is Trump the way that he is?”

The doctor begins to speak in a voice that is equal parts masculine and feminine. “He makes up for his cowardice, his lack of experience, human virtue and vocabulary by verbally abusing those around him. Because he doesn’t know how to do a good job, he has to tear everyone else down to his level so that he looks like he’s doing better. There’s a kid named Randy that I talk to on Tuesdays. He’s in second grade. Same thing.”

McCain considers this.

“I’m going to die. And I want my last war to be waged against the tyrant, Donald Trump. I have fought and served to make this land the greatest on earth and this man has arisen out of the ashes of ignorance. My final war cry, my final act of bravery shall be forcibly removing the usurper from the throne. I’m going to destroy him.”

“Professionally, I have to advise you that overthrowing the President of the United States is illegal.”

“Is it?”

“I really don’t know.”

“In war, anything goes. If you can’t gut it, I guess you’re a loser.”

In his private quarters, the ink has gotten to the end of the page. He grabs another blank sheet of unlined paper. He dips his quill in the ink (a lost art form) and begins to scribble furiously. He notices that his penmanship has gotten more illegible in the last few sentences. He practices a free-flow journal entry technique that his therapist taught him. She had said, “Just write. Just keep writing. Don’t stop. Whatever comes into your head, just write it down. You might be interested in what comes out.”

And so he writes.

I want to rip out the throat of Donald Trump. He has not earned the distinguished honor of that seat and to remove him would be nothing short of justice. I don’t care about being remembered. I only care about making America great again. I want to save Lady Liberty from the spoiled, entitled frat boy that is trying to date-rape her.

He pauses and taps the pen against the paper, wondering if he should put down on paper (and leave evidence of) the next thoughts that rise into his head. He decides to heed his therapist’s advice and get it all down but he censors himself pretty heavily. Just in case.

I want to find myself in a locked room with him. Five years I spent in Hanoi. Give me five minutes. I would straddle his lap, grab him by his fat cheeks and begin to scream into his face. I would let The War Madness grip me and take over. Senator John McCain would be left in the hallway and Mad Dog McCain would be present. Oh, yes. It’s been a long time. But he’s still there, isn’t he? Oh, yes. Once they’re born in war, the voices rarely go away. Pills. Therapy. They just muffle. They don’t mute. Battle born.

I would carve an M into his forehead with my thumbnail. I would slam my face into his until we both bled and were screaming, he from pain and fear and me from ecstasy and madness, our blood mingling in an orgy of violence.

What would I say to him?

He pauses and thinks. What words would he speak to this man that he hasn’t already said?

I would not speak to him. I only want to hurt him. I only want to destroy him. I only want to over throw him.

My final act upon this Earth will be one of patriotic heroism.

And it’s a cause I’m willing to die for.

He lights the journal entry on fire and allows it to burn to ashes in the fireplace.

 

MCCAIN LOW

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,