Political Humor |

Chapter 10: I’m Just a Business Man

“So how do you propose we travel the thousands of miles to our new paradise?” I asked as if anything this flitter could say would surprise me at this point.

“Follow me, Max. Let me show you what years of running a nightclub geared towards alternative lifestyles can bring you. You don’t think I put up with all that drama, and glitter for the money, do you?”

We walked through a no-shit Scooby Doo wall. This was one resourceful flitter. This son of a bitch pulled a book on a bookshelf that opened a panel in the wall. The wall hid a large cement corridor leading to an underground garage, and armory. As I entered the dimly lit facility, I could think only of double o seven meeting Q to get his latest Aston Martin DB5 and shoe phone.

“What the hell is all this?” I asked with all the bewilderment of a child going to Disneyland for the first time. Well, that is to say, before Disneyland was left to rot, and taken over by politically correct, ambiguously sexed, meth-fiend prostitutes. Nothing like Cinderella with tattoos, a hot pink mohawk, and an adam’s apple.

Steven raised his arms like a bad Bond villain and said, “Max, haven’t you noticed, I am a thinker? Haven’t you noticed, I plan ahead? Anybody with any sense saw this scenario coming back in the early 2000’s. The only people with the power to stop it were making millions off the global warming stuff. Those of us who were smart began to stockpile things, and get our ducks in a row so to speak. We weren’t sure what was coming, but we knew things were going down hill.”

Seemed a rather glib answer, that. Well, at least an insufficient answer. “Dude, you’ve got two Humvees with mounted fifties, you’ve got a cache of weapons like I haven’t seen since before the cooling, Drums of what appears to be fuel, and an underground-freakin’-lair! That shit don’t come from running a night club.”

Steven said, “Well, let’s just say there have been many people that have been in need of my services, and silence. Neither comes cheap. You know what goes on in VIP rooms. Maybe there are some…” he made those stupid airquote gestures with his fingers, “…surveillance cameras to make sure things don’t get too out of hand in those private rooms. Those images don’t come cheap either.”

I so wanted throw a sarcastic barb in at this point, but frankly, I was too shocked by all this to think of one. I always knew Steven was a bit above the rest of flitters he serviced, but I always chalked that up to megalomania.

“Feel free to restock your favorite jacket with whatever you want. As soon as you gear up, we’re rolling out.” Barked Steven who had somehow managed to find a command presence. I’m not sure if I was listening because of Steven’s new found command presence, or more out of shock like a person in a car wreck does as the first responders tell them what to do.

Something ain’t right. There is something I am not being told. I am feeling like one of those mushroom fuckers Cynthia blew all to hell a while back: I am being fed bullshit and being kept in the dark. I don’t like it, but I am trapped like a small animal that gets trapped a lot. What? You were expecting Shakespeare?

At this point I have no choice. I peruse the racks of long guns. This guy has some sweet equipment. Wait, that didn’t come out right, I mean he has guns that are cool. FN-FALs are good guns. I like the simplicity, and reliability of the AKs. You can call me old fashioned, but I don’t carry commie guns.

When I moved to the next rifle rack, I saw it. I know we were underground, and it was dark out, but I could swear a shaft of sunlight was shining on my Excaliber. I don’t know how Steven was able to get his hands on a rack full of M-14s, but by God, I was liking this cock-sucker more with every passing minute. And I mean that in a purely heterosexual sense.

I grabbed Excaliber, and all the M-14 mags and cases of 7.62 ammo I could find, and loaded them onto the Humvee. I also grabbed a couple flashbangs, and hand grenades for my jacket. Then I snagged a sweet Benchmade auto-folding knife, and a length of rope. I am not really sure why I grabbed the rope, but it looked like it may come in handy at some point in the future.

Cynthia walked over, and asked, “What are you going to do with the rope? You’re not Charles Bronson.”

Again, the shock of the situation prevented me from firing off a pithy come back. Here I am gearing up like I am about follow the homosexual nephew of George Patton into North Africa. It was more than a tad overwhelming.

“Alright, I’m ready when you are.” I said.

Steven, Cynthia, Sergio, and I loaded into one Humvee, and four guys I had yet to meet got into the other. Cynthia got up, and took control of the world killer mounted to the top of the vehicle. We eased our way out the other side of the underground bunker, and started on what I was sure would be a futuristic trail of tears.

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