Trigger warning: bad metaphorical superhero discussion of unwanted advances, sexual assault, and the friggin’ patriarchy. Also swearing.
Mike Pence grimaced as he angrily shook off his suit coat, thundering down the grim cement tunnel with his security detail. “I thought the FBI had this under control,” he snarled at the meek-looking bespectacled man next to him.
“Yes, and they sure seemed certain the drop was tomorrow. But we now have reason to believe the eagle has landed early.” The mouse-like fellow shifted Pence’s coat from hand to hand, nervously, as Pence strode ahead of him down the long hallway. “That’s why we had to… pull you out.”
“Well then. That’s a fine relaxing football game, ruined.” Pence fumed as they stormed out of the tunnel towards a waiting helicopter. As its blades began to slice the air, he yelled, “Do we know why they chose Indy yet?” He slid on a pair of sunglasses, staring off into the distance, trying to divine why they would have moved early.
“No. That’s for you to discover, sir. We’ll tweet that you left because of the kneeling players, for cover.”
“Good. Good. Tell Mother I’ll be home late tonight, Kenneth.”
The aide coughed, nodding. “Yes sir. Of course, sir.” He passed a metal briefcase from one of the security men up into the helicopter. “You’ll be needing these.”
Pence said nothing, setting the case on his lap, and saluted to the Secret Service as the copter began to lift off. He quickly took the shoulder holsters out and strapped them on, then grabbed the headset. “How much time do we have, captain?”
“ETA is just under 5 minutes, sir. We’re rolling in hot.”
Checking the assault rifle stacked next to him, Pence continued to clip on the gear he would need. As the helicopter flew over the White River, he stoically took a breath and snapped open the metal case with his lucky guns.
Two chrome pistols lay in the foam, calling his name. It was just another day to do the right thing, he thought. When he picked them up, they glinted in the sun as it peeked through the clouds the copter ripped through. On the handle of one was an intricate scrollworked GOD, and on the other, COUNTRY.
The sun choosing to shine just now is a sign from God, he thought. Praise Jesus! He cradled the stocks in his hands, feeling their truth. “I’ve got some fake news for you, terrorists,” he whispered, as he jammed fresh clips into them. “Michael Richard Pence is done messing around. America is coming for you bastards.”
The helicopter began to descend on a rooftop. The pilot’s voice came through his earpiece. “The Planned Parenthood is on this block, four buildings north. See the green spire? That’s the one.”
Mike Pence said a quick prayer as he slid his pistols in place and checked his ammo. “If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land…” And then he was out on the rooftop, running to stop another baby-killing stem cell research terror plot before it claimed more potential lives.
Now would be a good time to repost a standard disclaimer: These stories are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any people or events is accidental. Also this story is rated R for lots of swears and weird blood rituals.
Annnnd welcome back, folks, to ESPN3 for this years final event of the GHL. I’m Steve Inlezzen. With me is Bob McHestle. We’re happy to bring you the exciting action of this years playoff event. These competitors have clinched their path to these championships, and, well now, Bob… it’s time to see if they have what it takes.
That’s right, Steve. It’s finally time. The stage has been set. Let’s introduce our competitorrrrrs, in the… World Grudge Holding Championships!
Two giant CGI robots grimace at each other with glowing red laser eyes while bombastic theme music plays, and then they stand back to back with their arms crossed as the camera flies between their stoic spines towards a branching graphic.
Gary looked up from his phone when the woman shouted at him from down the block. It sounded like she said “Come help,” so he stopped texting and trotted up towards her. What was she holding? A twitchy little dog? Had it been hurt? He shoved his phone into his pocket past the chain, and almost tripped on a crack in the sidewalk when he saw what the white animal was.
It was a chicken. A rooster, in fact, if his city-born eyes did not deceive him. Gary was slightly out of breath, and a little confused, so he came up to the woman and stopped, panting with his hands on his knees for a while.
For a painfully long minute, Sam’s stare is locked on the candy heart, sitting smack in the middle of the bloodless forehead. Just that candy heart, sitting on a dead man. Probably covering up another bullet hole on this one, too. It reads “I’M YOURS” in red letters. Little red letters.
LOST SPOILERS FOLLOW if you click through to this article. You have been warned.