Friday, November 7, 2014

The Sun Not Shining

The Sun Not Shining
Bobby Derie

From the depths of Erebus the Titans had arisen, and in accordance with Nick Silver's divinations had taken the parliament of the gods, locking in a thousand years of antiquated fiscal policies and regressive gender laws, and rendering the President of the Gods a limp dick atop a molehill Olympus. Atlantis was sinking, and liquor sales had spiked shortly after the returns began, following swiftly thereafter by harder drugs - dealers in Los Angeles complained of a massive campaign shortage to their contacts shortly before the Republican Einherjar began their return to "traditional small-town values" by raping and pillaging Alameda, the enslaved screenwriters and actors hauling the accumulated loot back to their Hollywood Hills mansions. It was not quite Ragnorok, but there was still a hell of an afterparty.

One fair intern pried herself from the nest of bedding she had made around herself, a magic circle of spent bottles and unlabeled pills to ward off the nightmares that crept and crawled at night, and grumbling refused to come out from under the covers until she had, with the aid of a coathanger, retrieved her panties from where they had fallen outside the circle. Thus garbed and with the familiar burning need to add to the nightsoil, she limped between the scattered bodies to that most familiar and sacred temple of the household, where more prayers were uttered - and answered - than in any other. Finding the toilet already occupied, she rudely lifted the sopping head out of the bowl shoved the dead or unconscious person backwards into the hall, flushed twice, then locked the door, lit the candles, and plunked her ass down to begin the business of the day.

An hour later, the sun was not shining, and her head felt three sizes too big for her skull; her lips were cracked and dry, and her throat filled with an acidic phlegm. Various bodies had begun to stir in the household, and she no longer tiptoed among the fallen revelers, but kicked and shoved and spat black loogies into the faces of the crowd as she made a single-minded lurch toward the beer fridge, though she had to glass a fratboy dudebro in the face to secure the last remaining microbrew for breakfast, and as his hands went to his bleeding face she snagged the last three cigarettes from his right breast pocket, and lit them on the stove. She might have felt worse for him if he hadn't confessed to voting for the GOP, or if the cigs weren't clove. Mindless, rutting servant of the Great Devourer, he deserved her abuse and more she determined as her hands stopped shaking, smoke and drink taking the edge off of the night.

Having finally struck the right balance between pain and belligerence, she dared open the blind - to find the swollen wolfs-head of Karl Rove still hanging in the sky, choking slowly on the moon, which was as yet too large for his ancient gullet; elsewhere in the valley skeletal titans walked, plucking tourists like sweetmeats, calling women sluts and cracking open the roofs of maternity wards and kindergartens - for the conservatives never did anything but feed on the blood of the young and innocent. Somewhere downtown she could see the golden furnace of Baal rise; John Galt hard at work.

And these assholes voted for them AGAIN.

Sighing, she disappeared back into the house, turning a heel and wading once more through the drowsy doom-partiers, bare feet sweeping through the detritus of empties, used condoms, and torn ballots cast down by those who had decided there was no way they could face the next age sober.

When she emerged again, she was at least dressed - and from the closet had taken forth her old battleaxe, which had tasted the blood of Tea Partiers and Libertards before, and even an ancient Paleoconservative risen fresh from his crypt. It would serve her well again.


No comments:

Post a Comment