Governor Schwarzenegger sat at his desk.
Should he do it now?
California had been in a financial crisis. The state’s money had gone away. This frequently happened within state governments: low tax rates, mismanagement of funds, inefficient programs… whatever the reason California was often out of cash. But this time California had gone into the gutter for a completely different reason.
If Schwarzenegger’s movie career had taught him one thing it was that when disaster strikes you need an action hero, a plan, and lots of fire power. And Schwarzenegger had secretly diverted state funds for just that purpose. There was a reason California had no money and it was because its Governor spent it all on an army of androids that were housed all over the caverns of California. At Schwarzenegger’s command they would emerge and save California and perhaps a section of Nevada and a couple acres of Mexico.
As the world fell apart around him, he had to be the chess player that he was raised. If he launched his drone army too soon they could be wiped out. He wanted the alien invaders to tire from their attack. Then he would strike. He feared if the aliens had travelled the galaxies their robots would be better than his.
Perhaps he should advance them in waves? But he wasn’t a general. He didn’t have a map with toys on it to go over his plan. He just had his instincts. The same instincts that made him agree to appearing in Jingle All The Way. And that made him nervous as hell.
Sarah Palin, Ron Paul, and Saddam Hussein stood before Hillary Clinton.
“Hillary,” Paul said, “we have to put our differences aside and work through this one.”
“Work through what?” Hillary asked.
“You see that smoke over there?” Palin gestured.
Saddam cut through the jibber jabby with his British inflected Iraqi accent.
“A Polaris space station crashed. I went and checked it out before you arrived. I believe it to have a nuclear missile attached. It looks… unstable. “
Clinton took out her iPhone. She scrolled through a couple things. “Polaris space stations don’t carry nukes.”
“Who told you that?” Saddam asked.
“The CIA.” Clinto held up her iPhone’s CIA app.
Saddam made a bemused face, “Ah yes, the same folks who discovered my weapons of mass destruction? Come, Hillary, we have a nuke to disarm.”
“Otherwise the whole island could explode,” Ron Paul added.
“Or worse,” Saddam said as he vanished into the Island’s forest. The three followed the former Iraqi leader.
Brad Pitt’s ’92 Civic lay in tatters. Neither Pitt, Senator John McCain, or that guy who played Rueben Kincaid on The Partridge Family could figure out how to change the timing belt.
“You should have changed that thing 60,000 miles ago,” McCain sniped at Pitt, “Who just farted? That you Kincaid?”
That guy who played Rueben Kincaid on the Partridge family had no idea how he got to this gas station, what his real name was, or worse, how he was going to get out of the situation. He wished, deeply wished, wished so hard that his signature pout went up a couple notches, that the Partridge Family Bus would just pull up and take him back to TV land.
Apparently he wished too hard and another cream cheese fart slid out of his rear like a fat kid between two narrow couches going for free ice cream.
“Kincaid! “ McCain yelled at first in anger, then in as if the broken wind was strong enough to knock a memory loose, McCain screeched in joy, “Kincaid!”
McCain took inventory of all the Civic’s parts that lay in the hot desert sun.
“Boys,” McCain said and then looked at Pitt, “and Girls, we’re going to build a rocket.”
“Enough with calling me a girl, McCain.”
“I’m sorry, What branch of the military did you serve?”
“None,” Pitt answered.
“Then you’re a girl,” McCain shot back, “or a Marine.”
“Ladies!” Kincaid interrupted, playing along, “Before we build anything, we might have to be killed.” On the horizon a wave of dust approached the gas station.
All three squinted their eyes as they noticed mixed into the dust were glints of metal.
“Robots,” Kincaid whispered.
“We got to get out of here,” Pitt exclaimed and ran off.
McCain shook his head, “Thanks Eliza-brad.”
Kincaid picked up a tire iron, “Never in all my days did I think I’d go out like this.”
McCain stuffed a Tiger Milk bar in his mouth and unsheathed his machete, “Welcome to the party, pal.”
Pitt ran back, “Fellas, there’s a plane behind the gas station!”
“Kincaid!” McCain scorned.
“I didn’t know!”
All three ran back to the small cropduster.
It was a tight squeeze but Kincaid and Pitt fit in the passenger seat as McCain hopped into the pilot’s seat.
“Pitt! Get out there and spin the propeller!”
“Only if you stop calling me names.”