Shit First and Ask Questions Later

On the streets of D.C., much like other cities around the world, chaos is the flavor of the day. Across the globe, fires and looting have altered the landscape and rendered most of the cities and towns unrecognizable from their state at the start of the day. The only areas with any semblance of calm and civility are farms, rural communities and Detroit. To add insult to injury, at the height of our self-realized demolition, another worldly enemy has arrived on our doorstep with ill intentions and poor manners.

Few have seen the actual beings that are sending instruments of destruction, that turn us into their weapons. The small spheres release a noxious gas, which convert those unlucky souls close by into avatars of annihilation; turning brother against brother, similar to a soccer match.

Spectators in buildings a few floors up, have been able to lay eyes on the invaders. They appear almost magically in a flash of light, shortly after the spheres release their payload. Those close enough to describe them say, they look like a seven foot tall Danny DeVito; completely hairless, except for a wreath of long, greasy hair around their fatty heads. Their faces have folds of skin, beginning under their ear holes that sloped up and around the bridge of their pig-like noses, resting under thin, solid blue eyes. Their bodies are mostly hidden away, behind armored suits of purple and gold, leaving only their heads and hands exposed. When looking at them from behind, you would think they were just tall humans with poor genes and bad hygiene. Only their face and arms give them away. The visitors have two arms that branch out from the elbows, essentially giving them four arms. Each hand is elongated with two fingers and a thumb, probably making it a bitch to wipe their ass. The aliens failed to kill all the radio and video broadcasts. Scientists believed they communicated telepathically, or through pheromones and were either unable to recognize the waves that carried satellite and radio signals, or they just didn’t give a shit. Due mostly to their facial appearance, the Japanese were calling them, Inkaku and reporters quickly followed suit, before fully researching what the word meant. Before long, the name became permanent and the Japanese were quite pleased with themselves, having pulled a practical joke on the entire world.

The tunnel leading to the White House was a long one. The walk would normally be exhausting, but Mick and his entourage considered it a relaxing stroll, compared to what they had just gone through. Kitty, ever the interviewer, used her time in the tunnel to get to know their new chaperone, Eastwood. Yukon and Melvin were listening in, providing their own questions when they could find an opening. Tad, Geoff, Lorenzo and Tom the waiter, were walking in a tight group, silently, as if they were leaning on each other to remain awake. Mick was off in his own little world, coming down from his high. He hasn’t been this excited, since his first night with Evan. Thinking back to that night, he now missed Evan more than ever…

 

***

     In a tiny town located near the Virginia coast, Mick Cage, the adult film actor from such movies as, Edward Penishands and Wet Dreams May Cum, is waking up to the sunrise, that is just peeking through the blinds. His hair is a mess and his clothes are scattered about the floor.

“Good morning, how did you sleep?” The warm body spooned behind him said.

“Sleep? What sleep?” Mick said with a smile. “I’m too excited. I can’t believe that just happened.”

“I hope I wasn’t too rough with you.”

“No, I’m use to that sort of thing,” Mick turned to his lover, “But, I’ll never get use to this.”

“I’m glad; I’ve really enjoyed having you around this week. I’m a little sad it’s coming to an end. Are you sure you have to go? Evan asked as he mirrored Mick’s smile.

“Unfortunately, but I hope we can see each other soon. My new flick begins production tomorrow and I need to prepare. My manager, Marlo, wants to pick me up later this morning.”

“You don’t get much breathing room between films, do you?”

“If I’m lucky; in this business, it’s good to stay busy. Before Pokahotass, I was almost flat broke; I hadn’t worked in months. It’s sad to admit this, but I was surviving week to week, by charging strangers I’d meet on the internet a hundred dollars apiece for CBT’s.”

“CBT’s?” Evan asked.

“Oh, sorry. Cock and Ball Torture,” Mick explained.

“Ah. Good to know.”

“Yeah, they’d find me on Craigslist, pay me through PayPal and I would meet them at Denny’s.”

“Then what?” Evan asked completely captivated.

“I’d let them punch me in the dick or karate chop my balls, stuff like that.”

Evan turned away and reached for his wallet on the nightstand. Mick’s hand grasped his shoulder just before he collected it.

“For you,” he said in a hushed, sexy tone, “No charge.”

A half hour later in the rainforest themed shower, Evan calls out to Mick, who is drying off near the bed. “I was thinking about what you said earlier…”

“I hope my past isn’t too much for you.”

“No, I was talking about Denny’s. Let’s go. Tell Marlo to meet us there.”

“Are you sure you want to be seen with a known porn actor, Governor? What if you want to run for President one day?”

Evan chuckled. “As if.”

“Don’t brush it off. Remember, there was a time when everyone said there was no way Donald Trump would win a third term and yet here we are… the Twenty-Second Amendment is toast and President Trump is well on his way to winning his fourth term in office.”

“That’s true; I still can’t believe Hillary Clinton keeps running against him. She’s a glutton for punishment, I suppose.”

Mick pops his head into the bathroom to make sure Evan can hear him, “She must love the cock and ball torture.”

 

***

President Bacon was sitting on the toilet in NORAD, trying to drop a deuce. He was reading the

infamous 1938 issue of Time Magazine that named Hitler, “Man of the Year.” It was the only thing available to read. Time had gotten it wrong that year, and the years 1939 and 1942, when Stalin got the honors, and in 1979, it was the Ayatollah Khomeini’s turn, and finally in 2007, it was Vladimir Putin. So, if you are a future ruthless dictator, you have a pretty good shot of getting the honor.

He was just about to pinch a loaf, when he heard shouting outside the door, followed by gunfire.

The President could hear Eggs, his Chief of Staff. “How the hell did they get inside NORAD? This place is impregnable.”

“That’s what she said,” CIA Director Ted Striker said.

“They’ve breached the hold,” General Usrodd said.

“That’s what she said,” Ted Striker said.

“God damn it Ted, this is no time for your immature jokes,” Secretary of State Cecilia, “The Hammer” said.

“My God, they got one of the engineers,” Secretary of Defense Victor Kankoff said.

The President quickly wiped. He must have put too much toilet paper in, because it wouldn’t flush when he pulled the handle.

“Shit, the toilet is clogged. I’ll have to fix that later,” he said aloud.

The President turned on the faucet to wash his hands, because an alien attack was no excuse for bad hygiene. He pulled out a Sig Sauer p320, along with a clip that was inside his jacket. He didn’t normally carry anything, because it was the Secret Service’s job to protect him, but they had remained behind to defend the Whitehouse. He didn’t see the need for them to come along, since he was going to be in NORAD, the one place he should have been safe. Luckily, he had grabbed the gun on his way out, just in case.

With his gun brandished, the President kicked the bathroom door and it came off the hinges. He could have just opened it, but that would have looked lame.

“Get some you bastards,” he yelled and fired his gun at the first alien he saw. He was a good shot, thanks to his husband, who taught him how to shoot, and took him to target practice. He hit the alien right between the eyes and it went down.

Evan surveyed the room; it was pure pandemonium. He couldn’t believe his eyes, his meek and mild Director of Homeland Security, Stanley Johnson, held an alien straight up in the air and then suplexed it, and if that wasn’t astonishing enough, Victor Kankoff, who was standing on top of the W.O.P.R., jumped through the air and did a flying elbow drop on it. The alien seemed to be unconscious. The Hammer actually pulled a hammer from her purse and bashed an alien in the forehead. General Usrodd was mounting a machine gun on a tripod and Ted Striker was lying on his stomach, underneath one of the desks in a sniper position, strategically taking out aliens with a rifle.

God damn, do I know how to pick a cabinet or what, he thought.

The only one not engaged in action, was Dr. Rommel, who was cowering behind some broadcasting equipment. Most of the engineers had already turned. More aliens kept flooding in the room and despite their weaponry, it looked like he and his staff would ultimately be killed, because they were severely outnumbered.

Well, if we are going down, then at least we are going down fighting, he thought.

The President took aim at an alien and he was just about to fire, when he smelled a pungent odor. It seemed like everyone else in the room smelled it simultaneously, because they all covered their nose and made a face. It had a different effect on the aliens though. The first thing he noticed, was that their armor melted off and then they made this high pitched screech, as it melted their skin to the point, where nothing was left of them, but a slimy green puddle.

“What the hell is that smell?” Ted asked.

The smell was coming from the bathroom. The President had inadvertently stumbled on the alien’s vulnerability. It seems, by clogging the shitter, he had saved everyone in the room.