“I know what they’re going to do, Mr. President…”
The POTUS, nestled in his burgundy recliner, deep within the subterranean SuperBunker Oval Office, watched the androgynous CNN host shepherd a panel of like-minded pundits working in unison to assuage the building public terror of eminent thermo-nuclear destruction. The pundits, without citation or named source, but with photogenic smiles and affirming nods, parroted each other’s assurances that the benevolent, munificent, brilliant leaders and elites down in the bunker would certainly manage to work things out and save the world… one only needed to remain calm and have faith. And if they weren’t able to work things out… well… government would at least survive the nuclear holocaust to rebuild a better world— which was something all the people on the surface could be proud of… at least up until the moment they were vaporized by the super-heated plasma.
The president was sipping a scotch. It was 8 a.m.