Posts
from what is imagined by those
who are not behind the scenes.
—BENJAMIN DISRAELI
OVAL OFFICE,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
11:29 A.M. EDT
“ . . . because, Mister President, sir, as the virus evolves in humans, its impact on plant and animal species will grow exponentially until nothing organic remains untouched.”
“You mean untouched as in the mass extinction thing.”
“Yes sir. But even before that, mankind would experience a societal shift of a scope and magnitude unparalleled in human history. Humans fighting other humans over ever dwindling resources, facing starvation, chronic warfare—”
“Plague, death and the end of civilization, yeah, I got all that. Jesus Christ . . . I am gonna get hammered in the polls.”
“Not necessarily, Mr. President. We can always institute a total quarantine.”
“Of Tijuana? Or San Diego?”
“Of the Media, sir. Deny everything. We go total information/disinformation look-down.”
“Ahem, Mr. President? Sir, with all due respect to Press Secretary Pukes on here’s idea of a total look-down, I recommend we employ something a little more, uh, real world.”
“And what would that be, General?”
“Firebombing.”
“Firebombing?”
“Yessir, firebombing. It's the only way we can be absolutely sure. Besides we know it's nothing but a goddamn cesspool of drugs addicts and criminals down there.”
“Are you talking about San Diego? Or Tijuana?”
“Tijuana of course. Though it’s a well-known fact San Diego’s a druggy town, too.”
“General, you're not bombing San Diego or Tijuana on my watch. You send bombers across De La Fuente’s borders, there’s no telling what that nut’ll do. But you can start with another ten million illegals banging at the border out of spite alone.”
“Yes, Mr. President, sir, but given what the Science Director here just said, I’d argue we can’t be worrying about maps when the Devil’s riding shotgun.”
“Mr. President? If I might interject around General Maxwell’s colorful opinions, I suggest that quarantining, let alone firebombing, a major American city a month before the election would be sub-optimal regardless what we do with Tijuana. In fact, internal polling indicates a quarantine of any sort would be suicide in the Electoral College.”
“You’ve even got polling data on quarantines?”
“Every political contingency must be planned for.”
“Unh-hunh. Well I thought the polls said I got no chance anyway. Hell, why not just let General Maxwell here have a rip at it and see what happens?”
“Yes, indeed . . . Mr. President, if we might confer a moment alone? Gentlemen, if you’ll get yourselves a drink— Thank you . . . . . . All right, Tom . . . Let’s talk turkey.”
“I don’t think I like the sound of your voice.”
“That’s because Vienna’s not real happy right now, Tom.”
“Vienna ain’t happy? I don’t give two farts about Vienna’s happiness right now. I’m the leader of this country ain’t I? Well, I’m awake and ready to take charge.”
“Tom, let’s be serious. We both know the terms agreed upon when you asked Vienna to back you. And unfortunately, with the election coming up and your extraordinarily weak position in the polls coupled with the impeachment rumors and the dress—”
“OK, you’ve made your point. I just think being president oughtta count for something.”
“Hmmm. Alright . . . There’s been some ah, blowback. But it’s being handled.” “Blowback? Sounds like another fuck-up. Who was it this time, CIA? NSA? DNS?”
“No one. Everyone— look, let’s just say it’s a complicated, system-wide failure initiated by operational contamination that has left us with three, maybe four dead civilians and one missing operative. But we have it all under control.”
“Except for some SOB running around foot loose and fancy free and infected with a virus that’s gonna fuck up the world, yeah, sure sounds like it’s under control. Hells bells, why can’t you find the silly bastard using one of them satellites y’always bragging on?”
“Normally, we could. But solar activity’s temporarily blinding the birds, forcing us to do things the old-fashioned way, with boots on the ground.”
“Wait a minute, boots on the ground sounds suspiciously like F. B.— it is, isn’t it? Oh, for the love a Pete, those nitwits couldn’t find a whore in Bangkok. Remember the belt?”
“Tom, I assure you, stories of Bureau incompetence are grossly exaggerated. Regardless, FBI’s been subordinated to DNS for the grunt work.”
“Isn’t that something I shoulda been at least consulted on? The FBI working for DNS?”
“Technically, as president, I suppose. But you were barricaded in the Situation Room with three coeds from Gamma Omicron. You were also intoxicated and, frankly, belligerent; the coeds didn’t help matters after you told them it was a partisan sexual witch-hunt. I must say, they were most vocal in your defense.”
“Vocal? How vocal? Vocal enough for Mrs. Collins to hear?”
“Doubtful. The First Lady was entertaining the Crown Prince and his three wives in the East Wing. But she does have her spies.”
“No shit, she’s worse than the goddamn Brits. Hmmm . . . reminds me— have DNS rustle up those coeds’s numbers, get em over for another game of naked Risk, see if that little red-headed number thinks she’ll take North America this time.”
“Tom . . . Do you want to focus on board-games with the girls from Gamma Omicron or the operation to save the world, not to mention your legacy?”
“Alright, already, I’m focusing, I’m focusing . . . I assume you got one of your patented cover-scandals brewing.”
“The mother of all scandals, actually . . . Bobby Falcône caught in flagrante and on camera with a 17-year old.”
“Bobby Falcône? No shit. Why that dirty old dog. Who is she?”
“He is a 17-year-old male prostitute.”
“Hold on just one minute. You’re telling me Bobby Falcône’s a turd burglar?”
“We’ve been holding these photos secret for years in case of an emergency just like this. Instant classics of personal destruction.”
“Bobby Falcône is a butt pirate.”
“Look, Tom, this requires something explosive if it’s gonna really consume the media’s attention. This is explosive enough, we can drop a half-dozen bodies and nobody outside San Diego and the internet will hear a word.”
“You know . . . Mrs. Collins is president of Bobby’s fan club. Every Thanksgiving, Bobby eats three helpings of mash-potatoes telling her how good they are. Hell, she’s already playing Hoboken Christmas and it’s only September— she finds out I had anything to do with outting Bobby and we got real problems. And you know what I’m talking about.”
“Indeed. I’ve already notified Secret Service’s tasters.”
“Christ, that just pissed her off the last time. Besides, they nearly missed the pot roast— I was already pouring gravy when that poor son-of-a-bitch keeled over in his peas. Can’t you distract ‘em another way? Maybe the Crop-Duster of Death bit again? People like planes.”
“It’s probably best we don’t go to the same well too often.”
“S’pose you’re right. Alright, bring me up to speed on what happened in San Francisco.”
“San Diego.”
“Right. San Diego. And maybe start from the top again so I can get it all straight in my head. Can’t tell you how hard it is to concentrate through this god-awful hangover.”
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