Tuesday, March 22, 2016

last apocalypse on the left: the mCsituation, 1.04 #thanksobtuso

the mCsituation, 1.04

The president's aide silently considered his options. "I wonder if the Army would loan me a helicopter. Hmm. Probably not. "Mr. President, we should do this in the press room." Perhaps by then we can get him to not do the hope'n'heal. Perhaps we could rally the nation around b-ball. Or whatever is left of the nation. .

Indeed it was not long before President Obtuso, in a nearly empty press room but a live camera feed, cleared his throat and began to speak.

Somewhere in America, in front of a store window filled with TV screens, the image of the president appeared. A group of shuffling undead stopped and looked, their very finite attention spans drawn by the bright blue images.

"My fellow Americans--no, not that one. Comrades--no. Surviving Americans who might or might not be in an indeterminate state between life and death. This is a hard time, especially for those out there who have lost their lives, loved ones, disappeared completely--well not sure about those, could be having a good time but let's not go off on tangent--um where was I? Ah yes, lost loved ones, or have even lost themselves, in some strange somnambulant state a'twixt this world and the next, barely cognizant of who they once were."

The group of creatures before the nodded. "Braiiiiiiins", they murmurmed with approval.

In the lounge of a 747 trapped above the Atlantic, another group had a different reaction. "Oh my god he's doing it again," said Miranda.

"Yes our nation lays in ruin and ash, but let us have faith in the power of hope and healing in the face of our collective tragedy which is--" (he paused to sort through index cards) "--lemme' see, gun massacre, gun massacre, gun massacre in a kindergarten, unsusccessful shoe bomber, sucessful shoe bomber, earthquake, volcanic eruption, gun massacre, end of world as we know it. Yes, let's go with that one.

"Braiiiiiins!", said the zombie-like creatures in approval.

"You called it, Miranda," said Captain Lockjaw, handing over a five dollar bill. "I was going to give him at least 48 hours."

One of the creatures in front of the store window was so deeply inspired by the president's words, that he picked up a loose piece of concrete (a piece which was there owing to deferred infrastructure repair as their city was spending most of its revenue paying off muni bonds with dizzying interest rates it had sold at the height of bond-o-mania). "Brains!", he cried, and threw it. The window shattered, with glass splinters flying.

"So I say: Hey. You. America! Things are looking bad but there is a glow over the horizon!"

The zombie grabbed one of the TV's and stumbled off with his loot.

--and although that glow might be a burning fire," continued the president, "aa bright new sun will shine on a nation remade. Or perhaps we'll just adjust the logo and branding, depending on how the next budget crisis sorts out. But with faith, hope and healing, and the power of faith in hope and healing, we can ensure the right of every American to have fresh human brains--wait a second, I never say that. Who's running the teleprompter? Where's Jerry the teleprompter guy?"

"Right here, Mr. President."

"I don't mean to pick nits but you used to look much more, well, alive."

"Brains! I mean, I'm fine Mr. President."

"You look bloodless and pale and there's cloud of flies buzzing around your head."


"Never mind, we'll just take some questions from...no one. Alrighty then, I guess we will just take some calls. The number is, 555-WHITE-HOUSE. Is that number on the screen? Okay, we have a caller, it's, er, George from Dallas who's trapped on a plane over the North Atlantic and who is definitely not want4ed for war crimes. Is that right?"
Jerry nodded affirmatively. "Brains!", he said, with a thumbs-up.

"Okay, go head George Not Wanted For Warcrimes," said the president.

A mocking voice cackled over the pressroom's audio system. Guess who's baaaaaaack? It's me, George! Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh"

One by one, the zombies in front of the store window, grabbed an HD television set, and trundeled off with their booty.

another terribly unfair rant about someone the author has never met

I generally expect most politicians to bend/distort/lie, as otherwise they would never get elected--but Hillary isn't even good at it. She is good at repeating or rather emptying the exact same crockbucket over and over till some of the fools actually believe it, and I suspect, till she actually believes it...because her conscience appears to be an vacuum in which any convenient belief system can briefly exist before it begins gasping for air and is quickly snuffed out by the absence of oxygen within that cold and frigid bleak space known as Hillary's sense of scruples.
Things Hillary Hasn't Said Even Though She Did

I generally expect most politicians to bend/distort/lie, as otherwise they would never get elected--but Hillary isn't...
Posted by Shaun Gates on Monday, March 21, 2016

Saturday, March 19, 2016

chapter 1.03: #thanksobtuso

chapter 1.03: #thanksobtuso

The mysterious operative apologized profusely for coughing before the president of the more-or-less-free-world. "Mr. President, let me apologize on behalf of my sooty and revolting phlegm-congested lungs. It is not their fault I have abused them with a lifetime of tobacco abuse."

"That's okay, I do understand how hard it is to quit. My own lungs are seldom perfectly clear," replied the president. He then chuckled at his quip.

"Mr. President, if these were not such perilous times, I would reach down my throat and rip out my bronchial tubes out and present them to you at his very moment! However--".  Adam interrupted himself. He craned his neck just a bit towards the president, and in a barely audible (yet highly dramatic) whisper, added, "--these times are far too perilous for me to go without my bronchii."

"Thought that counts. "

"Someday you will have them, Mr. President. This I promise you. But not till my destiny is fulfilled. Or I my retirement papers go through, my wife is really counting on that to supplement her pension. One does not acquire great wealth teaching kindergarten."

"I am honored," replied the president. "But I think what America awaits an inspirational speech of hope, faith and healing. Hey, I can do it right from my meFone." Suddenly, before anyone could do anything, the phone was out and the president and begun a live stream video. 

"Noooooooo!", cried his aide, leaping through the air.

But it was too late.

"My fellow Americans..." began President Obtuso, speaking to the nation, "this is a time for faith, hope, and healing..." 

The president's aide glanced nervously out the window at the eerily quiet mob, which was pressed up to the very outer walls.  I wonder if the Army would loan me a helicopter. Hmm. Probably not. 

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

chapter 0: an introduction of a sort


The aircraft appeared to float above a layer of cumulus clouds far below;  lit in rosey hues, as the sun fell below the horizon ('fell' here is loosely defined). Friedrich Van Bilge marveled at the view. "Imagine, just imagine," he murmured. "How fortunate are we to have behold such beauty at this moment."

"Not really," said Mirada Lund, Senior Stewardess Extradinaire (though everyone just called her Miranda). She was also the woman whose right hand was clutching his left. Or more likely he was doing all the clutching.

"Seen it," said Mr. Schlock, first mate and co-pilot, and whose right hand clutched Miranda Lund's left. (Or perhaps the opposite; historical records are often vague when it comes to clutching in this era.)

Van Bilge had the uncomfortable realization that he was (a) standing next to assholes, and (b) holding Mr. Schlock's hand by proxy. This despite the fact that the proxy holding of hands had been ruled unconstitutional by the greatest court in the land. Although the court had ruled that there were certain exceptions, such as when attorneys for both plaintiff and defendant were required to sing 'London Bridge' in judicial chambers. (This was held to be true even when the judge joined in on the song. The appeal upholding mandatory skipping in the jury selection process was upheld without review, much to the chagrin of the parents of 11-year-old jump-rope champions who had found themselves serving as jury foremen.)
"It would of course be of assistance if we were not trapped on a plane that is very soon going to run out of fuel and plummet into the sea, killing us all, that we locked ourselves out of the cockpit and can't land the plane, that some of the passengers died and then were mysteriouly resurrected into some sort of strange parodies of humanity, mute beasts with a perpetual craving for human flesh, or that the entire continent seem to have been disrupted by these creatures."

A voice from behind piped in: "Oh, and you forgot the mysterious disappearance of millions of people around thhe globe, including some of the passengers, leaving cities littered with burning wrecks, plane crashes, and closed coffee shops."

"Yes, Captain Lockjaw, we remember because we were all here," Schlock coldly observed.

"Right on the same damn plane," said Miranda.

"Why are guys holding hands?" came another voice. Miranda groaned. For a few moments, she had thankfully forgotten that in addition to the flesh-eating creatures, the imminent crash into the sea, and that she somehow had found herself in a temporary relationship which could only be characterized as an act of desperation, she was trapped with her nemesis, Janie,Subordinate Stewardess. Blond, vivacious, flirtatious, and giggling at the drop of a hat,  Miranda generally referredto her by the moniker, "You there."  Though when she was in a better mood, she would address as, "Hey, you over there."

Both were secretly certain that someday soon, one would murder the other.

Her thoughts of murder were interrupted by a loud series of beeps. "What the hell is that, now?" she asked loudly.

"I set a timer so that I would know when we had 60 seconds to live," replied Mr. Schlock. Schlock made this statement in his typical calm, rational tone.

Lockjaw shouted. "Well turn it off, dammit, it's annoying!"

Schlock yanked his hand free from Miranda's clutch and pulled out his meFone.

Van Bilge felt Miranda's grip tighten; he pulled her close.
"I'd prefer it not to end like this," said Miranda.
"It's going to be okay after we're dead," he whispered soothingly.
"I wasn't too worried about that part," she replied, "but thanks."

The beeps beame louder. "49 seconds," said Schlock.
Lockjaw spoke louder. "Turn it off!", he commanded.
Schlock did not reply. "45 seconds...time still moving into the future and not the past..."
"Wow thanks," said Lockjaw.
"39 seconds..."
"Oh hell I have some chocolate, guess there's no harm in eating it now," said Lockjaw.

The noise intensified. The other passengers, overhearing the conversation, began screaming. The children (the ones still alive that is) began crying. "God save us!" cried a man(JLS).

Lockjaw opend the wrapper and began chewing on the candy. "I'm going to really savor this," he said.

"15 seconds!" shouted Mr. Schlock, trying to be heard above the crowd.

"I have to tell you something," Miranda shouted at Van Bilge.

"10 seconds"

"My advice -- make it short and to the point," he shouted back at Miranda.

"5 seconds!"

"I <i>blurgh</i> you!" shouted Miranda!

"0 seconds!"

"You what?", Van Bilge shouted back in reply.


Miranda shouted "I--"

But she was cut off by a silence that suddenly took hold of everyone. All seemed to be holding their breath at once. Van Bilge imagined he could hear the pause between heart beats, as if the entire crowd had taking a pause from being alive, waiting for the inevitable fall. Even Janie had shut up.

But the aircraft held steady. "Um, nothing's happening," he said.
"Are you complaining?", asked Mr. Schlock.
"I don't know, Miranda and I were sort of having a moment and--"
"No we weren't," she retorted.
"But you said--"
"Nope. Perhaps it was the television. Or your phone."
"But--oh forget it." He turned towards Schlock. "Another 10 seconds would have been nice, you could have counted out a bit more slowly."

Mister Schlock shrugged. "Sorry dude."
[end of introduction]

last apocalypse on the left: the mCsituation 1.02

the mCsituation 1.02

"Whatever has a way in, will have a way out, Mr. president," had said the impressively-resonant from the shadows in a strange, foreign accent which reeked of secrets and mystery (Australian or New Zealand maybe). The president could see only the dim outllines of a figure in the dark corner, the reddish glow of a lit cigarette moving upwards, a pause, and then a cloud of smoke rising upwards, illuminated by a beam of light form a high window, as if to say that the world itself were on fire

"What is this mysterious voice emanating from the shadows and blowing a cloud of symbolic smoke into the air?" asked President Obtuso.

"Mr. President, this is the liason from ISS," said the president's lackey.


The figured stepped out of the shadow. "Call me Adam--not my real name--of the Incredibly Secret Service Service," he said.

"Never heard of you. Or the--um--"

"ISS, Mr. president. We used to call it 'IS' but it caused a hell of lot of confusion so we changed the it to ISIS. Even ordered a statue of a naked goddess that was really, well," he said with a chuckle, "you could look at her for hours."

"I see."

"But then that terrorist group came along so we just put the statue in the men's room to get some use out of it."

"What department are you under?" "We are not under any department: We report directly to the president. But only when circumstances require that we do. We do the tasks that are too...shall we say unpleasant? For the rest of the secret security apparatus."

"I hope you understand that this is very serious. You're not allowed to smoke in this building. Not even I am allowed to smoke in this building."

"Ah, but the symbolism..." The president shook his head. Adam of the ISS put out his cancer stick by completely ramming it up his left nostril.

"Whoa," said the president.
"Our training inures us to pain in all its forms," Adam stated. You have no idea how many have succumbed to nostril torture." 

"Can you do that again?"

"No, once per day per nostril is my limit. Also I left my cigarettes in my desk."

"Well I would love to see that again some time." 

"Of course, Mister President, sir. And can I just say what an honor it is to--"

The aide interrupted. "Sir, shouldn't we get back to the immediate crisis." 

The president and the mysterious man looked at each other. "Raincheck," said Adam.

The president pointed one of his terrifyingly large index fingers at the man who called himself 'Adam'. "I'm gonna' hold you to that." Obtuso straightened his coat and tie. "Okay, time for one of my inspirational speeches about hope and healing," said the president. 

Groaning in despair, the aide slapped his forehead. It was only later that he regretted not having knocked himself unconscious.

Friday, March 4, 2016

last apocalypse on the left: the mCsituation, 1.01

the mCsituation

President B. Obtuso, elected leader of the America, presumptive leader of the more-or-less free world whether-they-like-it-or-not, peered through a window (see footnote, 1.01) of the Off White House. Beyond the gates, beyond the anti-car-bomb barriers, stood an enormous throng people choked the streets, as far as the eye could see (from that particular window). And yet, it was strangely silent. In fact, the members of the mob were barely moving. They just seemed to stand there, as if watching and waiting for something, some cue to act. 'But what?', he wondered.

He murmured to himself. "Ffffffffffascinating."

From behind, a staff member spoke up. "They are everywhere. We're surrounded. On every side."

"Yes that is what surrounded means, thank you for explaining that," said the president.

The aide's sarcasm detector failed miserably. "You're welcome, sir," he said in a cheerful tone.

Obtuso sighed. Idiots, I'm surrounded--by idiots! The president suppressed the urge to bounce a basketball off the aide's skull. Only one more year of this and then I can get fulfill my dream of backpacking through Europe.

"So no one would wake me up to let me know?"

"We, sir, Uncle Joe was here, he said he'd handle it."

"Uncle Joe? Since when does Uncle Joe tell you what to do? To whom do you report? Who is in charge of this place?"

"You, sir," said the aide, meekly.

"Damn right."

"Next time--"

"There won't be a next time. Or there wouldn't, but given the sit-rep-com, you have a chance to redeem yourself."


"So where is he now?"

"Who--oh, him. He, well, he, is..."

"For chrissakes spit it out man."

"Gone. Uncle Joe is gone, sir. "

"Where? How? When?"

"When, we're not sure. Where, we don't know. How, he commandeered a bulletproof limo and went out the east gate."

"Who let him out?"


"Of the cage."

"What cage?" The aide saw the president's impatience rampping up. "Sorry sir, I was not aware of that. Perhaps he escaped?"

"Escaped? Escaped? From our super-secret underground fortress below us? Impossible."

"Whatever has a way in, will have a way out, mr. president," came an impressive-sounding deep voice from an unlit corner. The voice conveyed notes of mystery, of forbidden knowledge,    It spoke in a strange yet familiar and yet also unidentifiable accent, which might have been Russian or Farsi or Arabic or Turkish or Australian maybe. Both president and lackey turned to look. But their eyes saw nothing other than a faint outline of a coat concealed by shadow. The only sure sign was the cloud of cigarette smoke wafting upwards . That and the loud, hacking, disgusting morning cough of a tobacco addict's accumulated night mucous.

"Ahem," said the disembodied voice. "Sorry Mr. President, I ran out of nicotine patches."