Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World

by Colin Robertson

  "My kids love that show."

  Alex turned to see that the nurse had reappeared. Her name, according to her tag, was Ronnette. Ronnette, or Ronnie to her friends, was a large black woman, with a generous smile. Alex liked her much better than the bitter blonde on duty earlier. "Me too," he said.

  Ronnie flashed that warm smile and proceeded to check on Charlie. His catheter bag was only half-full and his IV was getting low, but not empty. She adjusted his pillow and gently rolled him on his side to prevent bed sores. "You don't need to stay here, sweetie. You know we'll call you when he wakes up."

  "That's okay."

  "It's a beautiful day outside."

  "Is it?"

  Alex picked up the remote and changed the channel to CNN. Scenes of violent riots on the streets of Chicago filled the screen. A gang of marauding investment bankers were intent on overturning a purple Prius in what could only be described as an impromptu act of mob performance art. Wolf Blitzer narrated "... overwhelmed police in every major city across the globe. The unprecedented rioting was clearly set off by leaks from the White House that the threats by Ali Madda are, in fact, real." The crowds, in a paroxysm of nihilistic angst, were intent on destroying everything they could. They had gazed long into the abyss, and the abyss had gazed back. Finding one another attractive, the mob and the abyss had decided to hold hands and 'go steady'. CNN cut to an "on the street" interview with a rioter. The rioter had taken a break from beating a mailbox with a wooden baseball bat to speak to the reporter. The mailbox, being made out of steel, remained undented, while the rioter remained undaunted. The ruffian was panting and mopping his forehead from the effort of his, as yet ineffective, attempt at wonton destruction. "Yeah we're angry," he snarled, "angry because the governments let this happen. We're all going to die, so what's it matter? Do what you want is what I say! Do whatever the hell you want and damn the consequences!" To illustrate his point he took a dramatic swing at the mailbox. The bat rebounded off of the steel frame, clocked him in the forehead and knocked him out instantly.

  "Now you turn that off," said Ronnie.

  Alex started to argue, but decided there was no need. The news was all the same anyway. He switched off the TV.

  "I was watching that," Charlie protested weakly.

  Both Alex and Ronnie turned to stare. Charlie managed a weary smile. Alex flung himself on Charlie and hugged him. Charlie, despite his overwhelming fatigue, weakly hugged him back. For a moment, both felt whole.

  Chapter 22

  "...and, nose for a nose and the world goes anosmic."

  – M. Gandhi

  The Azylum Mahall, with its soaring sand-white walls and sparkling azure domes, shone like an opal above the beaches of the Persian Gulf coast. The palace was the envy of even the most eminent of emirs and had been in the possession of the Madda family since the days of the Ottoman Empire. The only exception had been a brief period in the sixteenth century when Muyassar Madda had lost it in a game of cards to famed British industrialist Sir Archibald Pennyworth. The palace was soon returned to the Madda family, however, after the Englishman accidentally chopped off his own head with a scimitar. Ali Madda, stout and cherubic even as a child, was the youngest of fifteen sons. As such, he suffered from all of the usual concerns of being the youngest. Even Akbar, brother number fourteen, referred to Ali as 'the baby'. This meant, his opinions were rarely heard and readily dismissed. Ali was seen as the dreamer and irresponsible one, best left to console himself with his hobbies; his car, plane and Beanie Baby collections. Ali Madda had no interest in being so easily ignored. As the de facto black sheep of the family, he became more and more involved in the activities of his former classmate and bocce ball teammate, Osama. Osama introduced Ali to the underground radical Islamic scene and encouraged his discontented friend to "just try Jihad". With youthful fervour, Ali threw himself into his new found faith and came to see Jihad as necessary to defend the tenets of Islam. "The fact that blowing up people is fun," he said, "is simply a nice perk."

  The Diwan Room occupied much of the second floor of the palace. With its decorated stone columns and elaborate arabesque floor, it served as the palace's party room. Today the party was in full swing. Famous terrorists and their entourages chatted, laughed, and exchanged suspicious sideways glances at one another. These included such notables as Akbad the Bad, Omar the Dentist of Qatar and Boom-Boom Bahir, who, having recently lost both hands, now built bombs using only his teeth. They mingled with wealthy donors dressed in thawbs and business suits. Most of the donors were Middle Eastern, but many were from elsewhere, including Europe, China, and even the USA. "You can't blow up buildings without bombs, and bombs need backers," Ali explained, "so, we mix business with pleasure." Notably absent where any members of ISIS or the Taliban. Ali scoffed at these groups. "ISIS is too uptight and little bit crazy, you know? And the Taliban are just plain backwards. The problem with most extremists is that they're extremely dull. Terrorism today needs to live in the 21st Century AD, not the 1st Century AH!" On one wall, big screen HD TVs obscured ancient Persian frescos. Each was tuned to a different news channel, from Al Jazeera, to the BBC, to CNN. All showed riots and chaos from around the world. The feeling inside the room was festive, as attendees sipped multi-coloured arak cocktails or plucked tasty canapés from passing plates. The idea of alcohol at such at gathering might seem hypocritical, heretical, and, incidentally, illegal. Ali Madda, argued that such rules were really for those less worthy than they. He'd learned to love liquor during his two years as a dissolute at Oxford, from cream sherry to Pimms on ice. He'd spent his time there pretending to write a dissertation on the history of pocket lint. This complete waste of time was made possible by his family's donation of twenty-million pounds. "Osama has his porn, I have my booze," he used to say, "all's fair in love and Jihad." The only things absent from the party were women. That, of course, would have been wrong.

  "You see? Everywhere, it is the same. Anarchy! Truly a triumph of terror," said a gangly terrorist. As he spoke, he waggled the glowing blue tip of his e-cigarette at the televised mayhem as if assessing an artwork.

  "The infidels go mad when faced with their own oblivion," nodded another, stroking his salt and pepper beard and sipping a glass of sidique. A servant approached with a tray piled high with duck liver paté on gluten-free crackers. The elder terrorist waved him away while patting his stomach. "No, no, please don't tempt me. I'm on a low carb diet."

  "Really?" asked the first terrorist. "How's that working for you?"

  "I'm down to a size-7 thawb," said the other, pirouetting slowly to show that this was true.

  At that moment, the great doors of the diwan swung open revealing Ali Madda himself, flanked by members of his entourage. Among them was Karim looking conspicuously less jubilant than the rest. The room fell silent, then erupted into applause. Their rotund host grinned broadly, basking in the adulation of his peers. He was a rockstar among terrorists now. And not just any rockstar, Ali thought, I'm Kanye West, Justin Beiber, and Beyonce Knowles rolled into one. He lifted his hands to silence them. "Gentlemen, please, you're too kind. Welcome, and thank-you all for coming!"

  "We love you Ali!" someone shouted.

  Ali laughed. He then lifted his hand as if grasping an invisible vessel and said, "First of all, I would like to propose a toast." A cowering servant scuttled forward to insert a flute of champagne between the terrorist leader's outstretched fingers. "A true reign of terror does not happen without help. Oh sure, everyone knows the famous ones by name; the suicide bombers, the mass-murdering gunmen, the beheaders... But, we can't all be lucky enough to be martyrs partying in paradise with seventy-two virgins—am I right?" The audience broke into laughter and nods. "Let us not forget, that behind every successful strike are the planners, the explosives makers, the arms dealers, the recruiters, the imams, the moms, and, of course, the sponsors of terrorism both state and private. You, each of you, are truly the unsung heroes of Jihad. And so, I raise my glass to you... To
you all!" With that, Ali drained his glass with a single loud slurp.

  "And to Allah!" added Karim anxiously from the side.

  "Yes, yes, yes, and to Allah too," said Ali with a listless wave of his empty glass.

  Karim scowled.

  For a moment, the crowd broke into excited babble until Ali loudly clapped his hands. A large projection screen descended from the ceiling. On it, the nations of the UN Security Council, represented as sad stick figures, bowed before a happy Arab stick figure. "You see, even as we speak, the western and eastern nations tremble at our feet! I did try to get a tremble animation going on here, but it turns out it's quite tricky to do in PowerPoint."

  "But do we truly triumph?" someone shouted. The room turned to see who had dared doubt Ali. The question came from a disaffected Libyan named Daib. The veteran Jihadist had fought in five wars and lost a limb in each. As a result, he sat propped up inside a wicker basket with only his eyes visible above the rim. Daib, whose name meant 'happy fellow', sneered contemptuously at the crowd. "Well, do we?"

  "We were guaranteed a return on our investment by now, mate," said an Australian banker named Bob. Bob managed a private hedge fund that had heavily invested in Ali Madda's terrorist enterprise. As he'd explained in the prospectus, "Nobody likes the idea of global extortion, but the expected returns are excellent and we have a responsibility to our shareholders."

  "Despite this supposed leak, the Americans still officially deny your canister is what you say it is," shouted a Syrian.

  Ali raised his palms and smiled beatifically. He had anticipated doubters and was ready for them. "Oh, it is the real thing, my friends. Publicly the Americans deny it, but the other countries of the world know that they are lying. You see, America's poker-face has a 'tell'. When America mobilizes all three branches of her military, you know that she is bluffing. As of this morning I have received word from leaders around the world that they are more than willing to talk."

  Another backer, an oil executive from Kuwait, was emboldened enough to ask. "But how? Europe, Asia and the Americans all swear they will never negotiate with terrorists."

  "Ha! A purely public stance," Ali assured them. "No one believes in paying ransoms until they themselves become the hostage. The game is young, and yet we have already raised an obscene amount of money."

  "Really?" asked Bob. "How obscene?"

  Ali's chubby cheeks spread into a broad grin as he clicked to the next slide. "Seven-hundred-billion dollars." On the screen, the number in question swooped in for a landing while animated dollar signs jumped up and down enthusiastically.

  A collective gasp drained the oxygen from the room. The only sound was that of the TV news commentators covering the riots. The exception was Fox News, which had taken a break from the mass burnings in Belgrade to run a commercial for Goldline. Gold had exploded in value since the crisis began. Buyers saw it as the only investment that might hold its value in a post planet Earth world. As Fox's Jim Cramer said on his show Mad Money, "Gold is the silver lining of the dark cloud that is Armageddon. Be prepared to make some serious moolah."

  A wealthy Texan, known only as Tex, tentatively broke the silence. "Can we... have some?"

  Ali laughed and patted his belly like a halal Santa Claus. "You can cash out anytime, my friend, if that's what you really want. Just download and print off the forms from our website. Meanwhile, eat, drink, enjoy!"

  "Allah-u-Akbar!" shouted Karim. "Allah-u-Akbar! Allah-u-Akbar!" he continued in a vain attempt to rouse the crowd to chant. Instead, the attendees buzzed with delight at the thought of so much money. Nobody wanted to cash out. Ali listened for a moment to the excited rhubarb, then smiled with satisfaction. Deflated, Karim sank down in a sulk, brows knitted in a wool muff of frustration.

  Minutes later, Ali mingled with a contingent of Russian billionaires who were admiring his 16K Subatomic Resolution HDTVs. "Prototypes," he explained, "able to show parts of the colour spectrum visible only to insects and certain types of birds. Simply marvellous! I can't even look at a 4K TV now. Samsung doesn't ship these until February, but I can get you one next week, if you like. We had them hung there so we can watch TV and face Mecca at the same time." The Russians walked over to examine the displays. Seeing his opportunity, Karim grabbed Ali's arm with alarm. "What about the hostages?" he demanded.

  "What about them?" said Ali, instinctively raising his hand to shield himself from Karim's spitting.

  "Did you negotiate for their release?"

  "Of course, I... I mean, maybe... I mean... You know, Karim, I can't be expected to remember everything I did or did not negotiate. It's all being handled by Goldman Sachs anyway." Ali approached a table piled high with hamburgers. Karim followed so closely Ali cringed at the fanatic's smell. Saliva, b.o. and cumin breath, he rued, a perfect storm. "You should try these, Karim. We have them for the backers, but they're really very good and not at all Ḥarām."

  "What about the pullout of foreign troops? The lowering of sanctions?"

  "Karim, relax, and please go away. You're spitting on my food."

  Karim opened his mouth to object, but Ali began loudly squirting catsup on his burger. Livid, Karim turned and, shoving aside a drunk Afghan warlord doing the Penguin Dance, he stormed from the room.

  Chapter 23

  "Nuclear weapons don't kill people, people kill people."

  – K. Jong-un

  Charlie sat uncomfortably in the wheelchair trying not to wince from the pain in his side. The White House staffer had taken them into the President's Personal Secretary's office to wait. Alex could barely contain himself. "This is awesome!" he said for the fourth time. He then pointed at the door to the Oval Office. "So the President of the United States is right through there?"

  Judy, the President's Personal Secretary, nodded with a smile. Anywhere else in the country she would be given the title 'Administrative Assistant' for job such as this, but the White House was not given to change. Besides, it wasn't as if there was any lack of prestige in the position. Yes, she did have to bring her boss coffee, but her boss was the self-described 'leader of the free world'. Primarily, her job was to shield him from the constant barrage of requests for appointments and personal favours. Lately, that had extended to protecting the President from himself. It was Judy who, at the Chief of Staff's request, had been intercepting her boss's increasingly odd orders and proclamations. This was arguably illegal, but Hornswell had assured her that he would take responsibility if it ever came to light. The President had been inexplicably morose since the success of the mission in Dubai. His poems, for the most part, had ceased. This morning's missive, written on a sticky note, was largely stolen from Jim Morrison.

  This is the end,

  My only friend, the end.

  I call him Phil.

  "This is so freakin' awesome!" said Alex.

  "It is exciting to meet the President," Charlie agreed. It was exciting for him as well, but he found himself taking more pleasure from Alex's anticipation than his own. He knew the feeling. It was the same feeling he'd felt watching Faith jump up and down while waiting to see Santa Claus. He knew he had no right to see Alex as his son, but it seemed that the feeling was somewhat mutual. Alex would never replace his daughter, nor would he replace Alex's mum but, still, they both needed family. So what was the harm?

  "I'm sorry, but the President needs a few more minutes," said Judy.

  "No problem," said Charlie.

  Alex, unable to remain seated, went over to admire the painting of the Statue of Liberty that hung beside Judy's desk.

  "It was a gift from France," said Charlie.

  "The painting?"

  "The statue."

  "Some guy on TV said we saved their asses in World War II."

  "They saved us in the American Revolution."

  "Oh."

  "That's history for you. What comes around, goes around."

  * * *

  The President was not in the Oval Office—that had been a lie. Lying
was part of the President's Personal Secretary's job. Most of these were white lies, but many came in varying shades of grey. The President was on the ground floor in the Situation Room once again, literally biting his nails. Intelligence had unearthed the possibility that Mathias Boltzmann might still be in possession of the original Loose Thread canister. The lead came from an informant attending a lavish party at the arms dealer's mansion outside of Munich. He had reported that a close confidant of Boltzmann, an American citizen named Carl Weiss, had blabbered while in a drunken stupor. Weiss had insisted that Boltzmann had secretly made several copies of the device, intending to sell the fakes and keep the original for himself. Weiss, confessed, amid snivelling sobs, that he himself had "mixed them up" and that Ali Madda might actually have the real one. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" he'd sobbed, while banging his head on a dresser. He then went on at length about how he had "failed his friend", was "pathetic" and "a poor excuse for an Aryan." Bizarrely, he then agreed to lead the informant and several other curious guests, down to Boltzmann's private office to which he knew the key code. There, they found a half-a-dozen identical canisters in a row on a shelf. Intoxicated as he was, Weiss then announced that he wanted to open up all of the canisters to "see if they were real." At that point the informant and the other partygoers were forced to restrain Weiss as he began furiously unscrewing lids. This, apparently, tripped a silent alarm and Boltzmann's guards arrived to escort them all out. Boltzmann himself appeared at that point and explained that the canisters were not weapons at all, but rather humanitarian awards he'd received for several years running. Any resemblance to Ali Madda's device, he said, was "purely coincidental." He dismissed Carl Weiss's claims as the "ridiculous ramblings of a drunk." The informant, however, insisted that the canisters were identical in every detail to Loose Thread. Even if there was only the slightest chance that the real thing was in Boltzmann's possession, there was no option but to go in and get it.