SAVAGE
SATURDAY
20) Sunday, February 2nd – “KLINK!”
A podium had been
set up, but it was former acting (now a fully validated ex-President) Thaddeus
Beauregard Burke holding a single microphone above an array of devices from the
networks, cable and streaming services as well as capture audiography
from nations near and far. Burke tapped
the mike.
“My fellow
Americans,” he began, “and to the world at large… we’ll be returning to
Wisconsin after the mayhem has run its course, so I will be brief. It was always my intent to be an interim
Chief Executive, to steer the nation through these troubled waters and back out
into the calming sea of tranquility that is these United States, a United States
with united people…”
Somebody called
out something from behind the crowded Office.
The network that both Westmoreland and Eppert
households accessed for free had split its screen, with the bawling, brawling
throng in Green Bay reduced to a box in the lower right corner, with helpless
reporters waiting for the noise to die down before interviewing the victors…
“No matter
whether we root for the Packers or the… uh… Football Team,” Burke caught
himself, “or even for somebody else, we are all Americans, united in our
objectives and united in concern about the health of former President Trump
whom, I am pleased to inform you, is out of the ICU. Let’s all observe a moment of silence to pray
for his health…
And the
ex-interim-acting President lowered his head… then lifted it.
“And now, a few
words from the Forty-Eighth President of these United States, Sam Rivers.
The enormous
President, a light blue sportsjacket over his
colorful shirt and bolo tie held up a hand, as if to quell applause that,
frankly, wasn’t there.
“My fellow
Americans…” he began…
And, in
Georgetown, David smiled, lifting his glass to offer a toast…
“It’ll be weeks,
if not months, before John Wayne up there gets his team installed. So long as you don’t do anything to hurt GRIT
and the other classic Western movies that the sensitive people want banned,
things will still turn out right, You see, Kristi, there is a Santa Claus…”
“Not in my
position,” she began, but paused, pondering… “…aw hell… but this doesn’t change
anything between us… raising her glass, nonetheless...”
KLINK!
¾ ¾ ¾
In the White House,
President Rivers spoke for one minute and nineteen seconds, then returned to
the West Wing to find General Brazos guffawing as the network replayed the
disgraced placekicker hurling his helmet to the turf, attempting to kick it and
missing while Comandante Serafín
Sanchez buried his face in his hands… the newly appointed President and
Presidential spouse attempting to wax sympathetic (even though the latter had
been standing up, pumping both fists at the sudden turnaround in the fortunes
of the home team less than ten minutes earlier).
“Javier Jimenez…
he is a disgrace to my country,” Comandante Serafín finally admitted . “We do not
tolerate shame well, I am afraid, Señor Jimenez would
do well to remain in that… what is that cold place, where people put cheese on
their heads? Were he to return to San
Cristobal, I would be obligated to feed him to a snake…”
“It’s not his
fault gentlemen,” said the President, deliberately using the more legitimate… if somewhat
inaccurate… nomenclature so as to mollify guests of the United States. “The Green Bay defenders failed in their
mission, which was to protect the kicker so that he could do his job…”
“Do you mean…”
and Comandante Serafín
brightened, “it is like when I… like when the Guardia failed to prevent that
assassin from killing my unfortunate predecessor…”
“You have, truly,
a wise and diplomatic husband…” General Brazos complimented the First Spouse,
who replied with a choice Portuguese epithet.
From the
broadcast booth, a still reeling Biff McLaine pumped
a fist in the air. “Skins win! Skins fuckin’ win!”
“Biff...” Snead
began, but the ebullient broadcaster cut him off...
“Skins win! Fuck fuckin’
Geronimo! Fuck Crazy Horse and all those
crazy Injuns... Skins fuckin’ win!”
And, in Miz Lottie’s living room, the matriarch crossed her arms,
glaring around the premises at Westy, Raoul, the
granddaughters and nieces and great-granddaughters… even four-year-old Nicole…
even the cats.
“Nobody get clean when I hex that what’s
already ain’t clean in the eye of Jesus, an’ that
mean nobody… not a one of you, not ever… ever
fuck wit’ Miz Lottie…”
“Don’t fuck with you…” Raoul shook his head, “…we got it. I’m bringing you the biggest, brightest box
in my collection,” he added, “because I do not fuck with…”
“Clean up yo’ mouth…”
¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾
@ VISIT THESE OTHER GENERISIS SERIAL ABOMINATIONS…
THE GOLDEN DAWN BLACK
HELICOPTERS
THE INSURGENCE
of CHAN SANTA CRUZ!