“Remember when
the president getting shot would have been considered some kind of national
tragedy?”
“Seems a
lifetime ago.”
“Now it is something all patriots pray for. I just hope
the shooter manages to take down the vice president too.”
“A long line
of assholes ready to take the throne.”
“True.” He
sipped his beer. “We’re fucked.”
They were
silent for a long time, just watching the activity below. The distant sounds of
screams reached their ears, but no longer affected them. The scene was
strangely serene from their vantage point on the hill. It didn’t seem as
chaotic as it should have been. There was a depressing order to the events
unfolding before their eyes. And, they noted, no one was filming any of it, at
least not officially. The journalists had all been imprisoned months earlier,
were probably dead by now, the two men conceded. Democracy was a word that was
no longer even spoken, and the only amendment that mattered was the Second
Amendment. One would be hard-pressed to find someone who wasn’t armed, who hadn’t
already slaughtered at least a few strangers, a few friends.
In the early
days of the conflict a few enterprising individuals made it a point to take out
most of the members of the Electoral College, for it was understood that they
were in a very real way responsible for everything that had transpired. If only
they had done their job, people reasoned, a different person would have been
president. A sane person. An intelligent person. A person who wasn’t so
insecure as to effectively wage war on anyone perceived to be better than him.
Which was nearly everyone, let’s face it. The president surrounded himself with
violent sycophants, morons just as insecure as himself, people eager to offer
him the praises he so desperately required, people with no experience, people
ready to put the president above the nation. And thus everything began to fall
apart. And it fell apart quickly, more quickly than anyone expected or
thought possible.
Those in the
Electoral College, those who were caught, were beheaded, their bodies displayed
in town squares. Their heads didn’t show up for a while. Not until a few weeks
had passed, when the individuals responsible had been apprehended and executed.
Police found the heads in a barn
belonging to one of them. They had been arranged into an art piece that would
never be finished, never be exhibited. It was gruesome, yes, but it was the
only such act performed by those who opposed tyranny. The rest of the extreme
acts of violence were performed by those supporting the president, one after
another after another.
Until this day,
that is, when finally a large group rose up with the aim of putting a bullet
into the president’s muddy brain. It was the right thing to do, but most
thought it largely a symbolic act at this point. The damage was done. Democracy
was gone. The free press was a thing of the past. And the environment itself
seemed to be waging war on humanity. It was too late. The bullet would put an
end to the demented maniac in the White House, but could no longer hope to
alter the course of things.
One of the two
men reached into the cooler and pulled out a fresh bottle of beer. “You need
another?” he asked his companion.
“No, still
working on this one. They still cold?”
“Yup. Humanity
got a few things right. The ice in this cooler is still ice. World has gone to
hell, but our beer is cold.”
“I’m grateful
for it.”
“Me too. Me too.”
They fell into
silence again.
After some
time had passed, and even the distant screams seemed to subside, one of the men
turned to the other. “Seems we ought to talk of things with more substance.
Things of more importance.”
“Why? What
things?”
“Well,
anything, really. And why? Well, it seems wrong somehow for my last
conversation to be about beer.”
“It’s good
beer.”
“Yes, but –“
“I know what
you mean. I just want to enjoy this beer.”
“Okay.”
“But talk if
you want. If you need to. We can talk of important things. I just can’t be sure
if anything is important anymore. Even if they’re successful, and it’s looking
like they won’t be,” he said, nodding toward the scene below, “it’s not like
things will return to how they were, or even close.”
“No. No, but
there are other things. Memories. Dreams. Actions of the past. We could speak
of those things.”
“Replay the
old favorites one last time before the end?”
The other man
regarded his companion sadly. It seemed beside the point now to be cynical.
Cynical had proved accurate, so no longer mattered. And why not remember what
was good? To go out on a hopeful thought seemed an act of defiance in the face
of so much horror, so much stupidity, so much waste. The worst of mankind had
won. They got the destruction they wanted. All that was good was gone, except
in the minds of those left to think, those left to remember. So what was wrong with
remembering now?
“Will we even
know if they’re successful?” his companion suddenly asked. “How will we know if
the fiend is taken down?”
“We’ll know.”
“Not soon
enough. You want to go out on a positive thought, why not think they are
successful, that the president’s reign has ceased?”
“Has it?”
“No. But we
won’t know. So there you have it. Think it, and there an end.”
“But don’t you
want to know?”
“I do. Or, I
did. But now, well, there’s no point. So, he’s dead. Maybe the vice president
too. Good. And then? Our end comes, regardless. So why not end now, when there
can still be hope, rather than later, when we know it’s gone?”
“I’ll have
that beer now.”
He opened the
cooler, pulled out another bottle and handed it to the man. “Still full of ice.
Remarkable.”
They drank for
a while without speaking. Whatever was happening in the distance seemed to be
occurring in a haze, and without any fanfare or excitement. Without hope.
“You know, I
once wanted to run for office.”
“You?”
“I was nineteen,
and was considering politics. This was in the time when it seemed politicians
could still be a force for beneficial change, when presidents were respected,
when they actually deserved respect.”
“So…?”
“It passed. It
was one of those aspirations that seemed too mighty, too distant, too daunting.”
“Do you think
you would have been a good president?”
“No. I would have been terrified, confused
and drunk. And my wife would have hated it.”
“I didn’t know
you were married.”
“Once. Ages
ago. I messed it up.” He sipped his beer. “I quit drinking after that.”
Suddenly the
sound of gunfire erupted in the distance, and screams and shouts rose again.
The men looked toward the action, but were too far to really see the specifics
of what was happening. But perhaps, just perhaps…
“Let’s believe
they were successful,” one of the men suddenly said, turning to the other. “Let’s
believe he’s dead. Let’s believe it’s over.”
“It is over.”
“Good. Yes.
Good.” He smiled and set his empty bottle down. He then picked up the pistol.
As he put the gun to the side of his head, he said “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you.”
(Copyright 2019 Michael Doherty)
(NOTE: This story was written at work on September 13,
2019. I made a few changes on September 14.)
