Well, Senator Edwards had certainly impressed himself but his chances of being seen as a hero by anyone beyond his own perception may have been brutally reduced to a couple low digits hanging out on the wrong side of a decimal point.
He had out maneuvered a couple of the alien space craft and rammed into another, causing a total of three space ships to be knocked out of the sky. As he ashed his cigar in victory, he wondered the whereabouts of the cameras and the talking pie-holes who were so quick to appear when he had a shit day. But being a cowboy had cost him the farm. All that banging around the sky damaged the Polaris space station’s guidance system.
He fell out of the heavens towards an impending inferno. And it got worse. As Edwards tried to disable his on board nuke which he had been hoping to use against the space aliens, he realized his weapon’s controls weren’t responding.
He frantically tried to read the Czech user’s manual in the dash. He was going to crash. His only hope now was that he wouldn’t take a city with him.
Wouldn’t it be ironic, John Edwards thought, if once dead he spoke to people through that crap Psychic, John Edward with whom people always confused him.
Aha! He found it. Buried in all the Czech tech jibber jabby was a picture of a parachute and an arrow pointing to a corresponding button.
Now all he had to worry about was an unstable thermonuclear warhead.
Dick Cheney had been rolling around the War Room for a while. Nobody could see the wheels under his robes but everyone was in agreement that whatever was under there could have used a little grease.
The former Vice President’s out of style spectacles hung from his face as he gave a villainous monologue detailing humanity’s hidden history. For the first two minutes of this unwelcome speech the President constantly tried to interrupt Cheney but is was useless. Obama slumped in his chair, resigned to enjoying a couple smokes. Nobody could challenge Cheney’s strange super powers.
A toilet flushed and Henry Kissinger entered the War Room, picking up his notepad.
“What did I miss?”
“I was just telling your colleagues how Eisenhower found the Arc of the Covenant under Stonehenge then offered it to the alien grays in exchange for–”
SLAM! Obama had had enough. He slapped his hand on the table.
“I GOT AN OIL SPILL! I GOT TWO WARS! I GOT A COUNTRY WITH NO MONEY! I GOT ALIEN ROBOTS INVADING THE PLANET! I don’t have time for Battlestar Galactica!”
“Actually, what Cheney is talking about is closer to Stargate: SG1, Barack,” Rahm Emmanuel added, popping in a stick of gum he had found in a pack of baseball cards. He was saving it for when the world needed him the most.
“Either way!” Obama exclaimed, “I want this mess cleaned up.”
“You are under my control for the time being. You will only be able to accomplish that which I command,” Cheney calmly reminded the War Room.
“Mr. President,” Kissinger interrupted, “I believe our only hope is to flee to Mars. The Washington monument can be fueled and ready for liftoff in 15 minutes.”
“Flee to Mars? What about the American people?”
“We need to focus on continuing the species.”
“Me and you?”
“And it’s you and me. Humanity might perish but let’s try to preserve a little bit of grammar,” Kissinger added after a beat.
“You know, you always have really bad ideas. I don’t know why anyone ever listens to you.” President Obama tapped his cigarette, glaring at Kissinger.
“I beg your pardon! That hurts my feelings!” Kissinger spat herbal tea all over the War Room.
“Has anyone heard from Nader yet?” President Obama looked around the room.
“Bup-bup, recess is over.” Cheney motioned his hand. The shadows of the room came alive and grasped hold of President Obama. “The consumer advocate is part of my plan. He will bring me Aykroyd. Now, my pretties, the story continues. Where was I, ah yes… In exchange for the Arc of the Covenant the alien grays agreed to the following.”
Cheney took out a list of handouts and thumbed through them as he took a quick headcount of the room.
Thanks to my old college friend Geoff Wood who supplied the first sentence.
Crazed with loneliness and impotent dreams of revenge, John McCain slapped the snooze button twice. The elder statesman of a broken nation lay awake, himself in tatters. He wasn’t tired. He just didn’t feel like fighting the world today. The $65 a night hotel that he had moved into after his failed presidential bid smelled of bad television and wrapped him up in a warm stench of feet. He wish he could slap the voters like he had just slapped his cheap CVS alarm clock.
Then the alien robots invaded.
McCain stuffed down a Tiger Milk bar and reached for his machete. It was going to be a long day. A damn long day, he thought.
Ten minutes before the aliens hit, former Senator John Edwards was orbiting the planet in his secret Polaris space station, a slick piece of Czech craftmanship Edwards had bought at a surplus sale from the European Space Agency, to get away from his scorned wife.
From his celestial view, former Senator Edwards was the first human to see the invading crafts shoot from behind the moon and zig zag down Earth’s atmosphere like beads of rain on a windshield.
“Robots,” he mumbled to himself. Perhaps he had once last chance to be a hero. He finished off his Tang, rubbed out his cigar, and activated the onboard nukes.
“Party time,” Edwards solemnly exclaimed as he began to steer the craft in a rapid descent. Next stop, Boom-Town.
When the robots hit, President Barack Obama had finally come up with a fool proof plan to clean up the oil spill in the gulf. A fool-proof plan, but these alien robots weren’t fools. As he stared at multiple screens deep below in the Capitol’s War Room, the President’s stomach sank. “Why did I have to be the alien robot invasion president?” Obama reached for a pack of Kools.
“Because it had already been decided, five thousand years ago.”
Obama’s cigarette dangled from his lower lip in surprise as former Vice President Dick Cheney rolled out of the shadows, wrapped in a monastic robe.
“And now my plan has come to be!”
The secret service descended on Cheney, but with a wave of the former Vice President’s hand all of their guns flew into the air and crunched into a ball as if the forces of magnetism had just been sold to the highest bidder.
Obama immediately pushed the intercom button.
“Get Ralph Nader on the phone.”
Hillary Clinton ripped off her ninja mask. It had been a hard job single handedly sabotaging the North Korean nukes, but she didn’t do easy. In her small Secretary of State Underwater Car, she breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the C.B.
She was answered by only static. Unusual.
Hilary fiddled with the controls. Nothing seemed to work. The only thing she could hear were radar beeps. She checked the instruments.
Something, lots of somethings, were emerging from the ocean floor. She angled the car to get a look.
“Those look like flying saucers,” she said to herself. Hillary believed in an ever present multi-dimensional God which manifested in many forms including an external audience as well as mirror of the self with whom she routinely check in. ”I don’t believe it.”
The unidentified floating objects soared past her miniscule underwater car, casting her to and fro.
“I wish I didn’t waste all that time on that stupid nuke,” she grumbled as she prepared the underwater car to transform into a small sleath-like air craft. The Secretary of State shot out of the sea. She knew of only one place to go.
Brad Pitt didn’t realize he was staying at the same hotel as John McCain, that is until the Senator crashed into his room strangling a shiny serpent-like robot.
McCain started hacking at the mechanical beast with a crude blade. Pitt didn’t know what else to do other than mute the TV. He had fallen asleep in front of it, waiting for the latest Powerball.
The grizzly and grizzled Senator managed to hack off a piece of the slithering robot. A strange limb fell to the ground. Pitt jumped away like a frightened cat. Out of the dismembered metal hundreds of small snake like robots crawled, fleeing out the window.
McCain picked up the rest of the robot and threw it out the door. “There’s too many of them and when you pick one apart, hundreds replace it.”
“Like some sort of virus.” Pitt added.
“Boy, you don’t know what you’re talking about. A virus invades a host and reproduces–oh never mind. You got a car?”
“Yes,” Pitt answered, “but my license is suspended.”
McCain spotted the keys on the table and grabbed them. “Welcome to the club.”
Ralph Nader studiously reviewed a study on the perils of water flouridation. The radio, tuned to a contemporary jazz station, began to crackle. Nader flicked a booger off his index finger and reached for the dial. But his search for another station was interrupted by an emergency broadcast. Alien robots had invaded the planet.
The phone rang.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I just heard on the radio. How can I help?”
“No, according to the ancient rules, only the current vice president can banish Cheney to Dimension 13. Where’s Biden? Oh, you want me to find the Vice-President? What’s in it for me, Barry? A cabinet job? A tax on stock trades? Holding corporations accountable?”
Nader picked his nose as he listened to President Obama’s offer.
“I think we should focus on the alien invaders. I don’t have time for petty– Cheney said what? I’ll get you Biden in 48 hours.”
Nader slammed the phone down. He went to his bookshelf and found an original copy of Unsafe at Any Speed. He pulled the book out. The book shelf opened up to what looked like a fire pole.
Nader slid down to a deep cave full of 1970s era computers and hardware. He went over to a microphone and pushed a button.
“Nader’s Raider’s, activate.”
Brad Pitt had starred in many movies, but none as bizarre as the adventure he had stumbled upon with Senator John McCain. As Pitt rambled down the highway, McCain sat in the passenger seat of the 1992 Honda Civic and fashioned a canon out of some items they had scrounged up, in a similar fashion, Bradley noted, to Captain Kirk in that episode of Star Trek with the lizard man.
“What are you going to do with that canon?” Pitt asked.
“Shoot at homeless people,” McCain responded.
“Really?” Pitt asked, beginning to wonder how he was going to throw this madman out of his Civic.
“No,” McCain shot back, “I’m going to hunt down and kill every one of those robot aliens. And you’re going to help.”
“Well, I’ll certainly do some of the driving,” Pitt responded.
An alien robot started running by the side of the car.
McCain, not finished with the canon, took out a PVC pipe, shoved something in it, held the pipe up to his mouth, and blew at the robotic beast. PUH! PUH!
The robot became covered with a thin powder and rendered blind. McCain opened the car door, slamming the beast. It fell.
So it goes.
To be continued.