#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #DeepState
With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, an increasingly unstable POTUS attempts a ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.
The Save the Earth Gala was scheduled for the evening. Widespread gossip suggested that it might be canceled in lieu of nuclear Armageddon, but it was decided by the bunker superpowers that snubbing the environmentalist movement would be bad politics.
The POTUS had his wardrobe brought down into the UltraBunker. Haberdash helped him dress, helping him with his buttons and his cummerbund. The presidential nurse was summoned and a stoic Ms. Baum appeared within moments, toting her bag. She removed a syringe, drew medicine from a vial, and plunged the needle into Arman Manfred’s upper arm. The president’s posture immediately stiffened and his eyes brightened as the amphetamine took hold. The POTUS finished dressing himself as Haberdash stood by. The expressionless Nurse Baum left. Haberdash swept the lint from the back of the president’s baroque tuxedo and escorted him out of the UltraBunker, up the elevator shaft, and helped to load him into his bullet proof, executive golf cart.
The black motorcade spun along the gently arcing arterial roadway flanked by the monorail line on the left and a wall of roughly hewn stone on the right. The passed beneath a succession of white orb lights that cast everything in lunar harshness. After several minutes, the motorcade entered the facades beneath the canvas skies of Section F, stopping before the Ballroom Africana
The host delegation of African leadership met the POTUS as he arrived. Manfred greeted each of them and their escorts with a forced grin and a handshake. The gauntlet of festooned, propped dictators, muti-national puppets, and media-contrived statesmen terminated at the President of Zimbabwe. He had grown quite fat since they had last met.
“Where is your… your significant other?” The POTUS asked.
The president of Zimbabwe was patting his belly when asked. He forced a toothy grin and nodded but didn’t answer.
The POTUS continued up the steps and into the Ballroom foyer where he found a Napoleonic Buckminster in waiting. They were instructed to wait behind a red curtain. The Mozart music soon faded and was replaced with Hail to The Chief. The curtain was pulled aside and the POTUS, with Haberdash in his muted navy coat and pantaloons, and Buckminster Bonaparte in tow, he stepped into the cavernous, ornamented ballroom. The crowd— women adorned in shimmering, sack back gowns and petticoats and men with long, gold-fringed waist coats and knee breeches exposing silk stockings— turned their gaze to soak in the grand entrance and assess the festiveness and presence of the American contingent. With the elite American’s arrival, the Rococo-themed Save The Earth Gala had achieved validation.
The POTUS shook a dozen more hands on his way down the aisle, stopping before a priest-like figure dressed in head-to-toe, blood red robes with a hood that covered his face. Suspended in the air above, heavily feathered trapeze artists swung and flipped like exotic birds. Jugglers dressed as court jesters tossed ivory bones and skulls into the air. A massive, faceted disco ball fired multi-colored laser beams across the domed ceiling.
Buckminster stepped forward, bowed, and handed a decorated box to the POTUS who, in turn, presented it to the priest. The priest bowed and turned, slowly walking up the dais behind him. He placed the box upon a glass altar shaped in the form of two feminine hands emerging from the earth. The priest raised both his hands and muttered something in Latin. He reached down and lifted the lid on the box, releasing a white dove that flew upwards into the dome to the vigorous applause of the guests. The bird circled the disco ball three times until it was blinded by a laser beam at which point it fluttered outwards, crashing headfirst into the molding and dropping motionless onto a high ledge. The Mozart re-started and the POTUS was escorted off the ballroom floor and up to his box that overlooked the festivities.
The costumed patrons mingled and bowed and curtsied, weaving around a formation of twelve-foot tall guide stones set in a Stonehenge pattern in the center of the floor. Acrobats in flesh-toned spandex twisted and spun and flung themselves through the air. At exactly eight o’clock, an army of tuxedoed staff infiltrated the maze of round tables carrying silver trays. They set them before the famished guests and lifted the cloches revealing the gourmet courses. The meals were carved and sliced with utensils that glimmered in the reflected laser beam light. They filled their mouths and chewed and swallowed and washed it down with vintage wine, spilling crimson droplets on their silk jabots. They smudged their lipstick with embroidered linen napkins and washed the grease off their fingers in crystal finger bowls. Occasionally, one gave pause and pondered what piss the survivors on the surface might be drinking once the war began.
During this feast, the order of what was soon to be a post war world was being arranged. Who would be doing the rebuilding? What would be rebuilt? Who was going to pay for it? Who was going to be left out and what would it take to buy their complicity. The New New World Order metastasized with handshakes, nods, and toasts.
The final courses were devoured and the army of tuxedoed servants infiltrated the maze of tables once again, like coiffed black lab rats, and snatched up all the trays and cleared all the tables and then scurried out through the walls.
Seated in their balcony loft, the POTUS gestured to Buckminster who handed him his miniature field glasses. The POTUS put them to his eyes and scanned the crowd, searching for the president of China. With some difficulty, he found him seated in his box, barely recognizable in his powdered white wig, but identifiable by his thick eyeglass frames. He searched for Timoshenko and found him as well, dressed like a Romanov, with a blue silk sash draped over his shoulder and a saber sheathed in his belt.
The Mozart music stopped, replaced with an eerie baritone— the low groan of a waking dragon. A spotlight shined within the guide stones and all eyes drew towards it and the discussions, that had turned toward the frivolous as the alcohol and opiates had taken hold and the window for deal-making had closed, ceased with a hush. The disco ball stopped spinning and the lasers went dark. The floor within the guide stones opened. The baritone grew louder. The patrons rose from their tables and gathered around the standing stones and the widening window into the abyss, with some still clutching their cutlery.
The servants appeared once again, encircling the patrons like a shadow as a platform rose from the depths. A jeweled crown appeared first, rising up from the floor, then the priest in the red hood beneath it, then another altar, then upon the altar, a naked man and woman, entangled in thorns. The platform rose up past the floor-level forming another dais. It stopped and the groan of the dragon ceased with it. The priest motioned as if a form of genuflection, then he withdrew a blade from his hilt and with two gentle strokes, he cut through the necks of the naked man and the woman to the gasps of the audience. The servants stepped into the circle and handed the guests fine china plates and the patrons formed into a queue that passed by the dais where they received a slice of the marzipan man and woman.
A servant appeared in the presidential balcony to deliver their desert. Haberdash took his piece which contained a confectionary eyeball that stared up at him with unblinking courage as he sectioned it with his silver fork and delivered it to his tongue.
Finally, the last guest received their portion—Adam’s groin, served to the president of Cambodia– and all that was left of the edible Adam and Eve was a bit of frosting vines and a section of Adam’s right heel. The priest in the red robes and crown descended with the dais back down into the abyss within the floor.
Just as the well closed back up, a booming thunder shook the ballroom, so powerful that it knocked the inanimate dove loose from the ceiling and downwards where it plunked onto the table where the English royals were seated, splattering the Duke of Watford Gap’s face with cream.
“What do you think that noise was?” asked Haberdash.
“Sounds like Fricke’s mission was a success,” answered Buckminster.
After a momentary pause of grim reflection, concerning the end of the world as it was known, the party resumed, carrying on into the wee hours.
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