Star-Spangled Apocalypse

by Harmon Cooper

  Take your time, he reminded himself. James was no heartthrob, and he certainly wasn’t too handsome with his splotchy skin and bald spot, but uglier guys had gotten better tail.

  “See you,” he said as he continued down the hall, glancing at family pictures and wondering how a cute little girl like Hope grew up to be an alien loving, dreadlocked, ecumenical hippy woman.

  He located the bedroom, complete with a mahogany table, a 50-inch TV, and a large queen size bed with velvet sheets and a heliotrope comforter.

  He found the remote and flicked the TV on, going immediately to BreitFox news.

  A blonde anchor with tan skin and an incredible boob job read the news with a tight, angry look on her face. James stared at her breasts for a moment as she spoke about what had happened in Austin, and how the Russians had allegedly done it, but BreitFox was still investigating.

  James stuck his hand in his pants and started stroking himself as the news anchor, Megyn Ingraham, blasted the Dems for calling for war with Russia. He watched her mouth move, her perfect little mouth outlined in deep red lipstick that matched her low-cut dress.

  James had GoogleFaced “BreitFox hottest anchors” several times and the strokage that followed always made him feel guilt.

  There was actual porn out there, free porn, yet he somehow got off by watching angry women with piercing eyes eviscerate liberals. What made it easier was the fact that they mostly looked alike: blonde, hot, tight-faced, beady eyes, angry at injustices all around them. Sure, there was a brown one every now and then, and sometimes a brunette, but BreitFox execs liked blondes and James didn’t mind.

  “Thata girl, Megyn,” he said as his member grew in size.

  An Austin hipster appeared on the screen, a lesbo in a stupid little vest.

  Megyn got her good, and soon, the clearly liberal dyke was fuming, her face red with anger as she tried to logically explain what had happened, who had done it, and what evidence the Russians had given for actually doing it, including the general’s confession.

  James slowed his stroke, waiting for the camera to cut back to Megyn.

  Once it did, Megyn laid into the lesbo snowflake like an abusive father.

  Baring her fangs, yet somehow still managing to look hot as fuck while doing it, Megyn berated the woman, using all the terms James had come to appreciate, the terms that showed BreitFox as a news organization for the people: fake news crusaders, alternative facts, mainstream media, warmongering liberals, death tax (James didn’t know how this related to him, but he didn’t question it either), government waste and overreach, respect for military, respect for police, healthcare reform, respect for the president.

  James came, and made a mess of the inside of his boxers.

  “Fuck,” he whispered as he pulled his hand out of his pants. Should have taken these off.

  And there was that disgusted feeling again.

  James felt ashamed now, like O-mouthed Megyn Ingraham with her sexy lips and sharp teeth was judging him.

  With a loud sigh, he wiped his hand on the far end of the sheet, on the side where no one would see it.

  He took his jeans off, his undies, wiped what he could from them, and laid them out to dry. Once in the bed, the cool sheet nice against his nude skin, James nodded off while Megyn Ingraham launched her next crusade to keep news sources truthful, and make America great again.

  Chapter 9: Hope’s Mansion

  James blinked his eyes awake. He glanced at his broken cell phone screen and saw that it was some time after five now. Another message from Bill the McStarbuck’s store manager flashed in his inbox.

  He ignored it.

  After a yawn, he found his underwear and put them back on. They were dry enough, but he felt like a dirty fucker for putting them back on especially after what he’d just done.

  Most of all, he needed a cigarette.

  Virgil better have gotten laid by now, he thought as he made his way down the stairs and to the back porch. He smoked quickly, thought about sucking down another cigarette, but decided to save it for whatever bullshit lay ahead.

  Once he was back inside, he took a swig from his flask and walked towards a large window that overlooked the property. James didn’t know what Hope’s family did, but they sure had some cash.

  All he could see for miles were open fields, dense forests, stubby plateaus, and a pond or two. Not a troubled cloud in sight. As he examined the parameters of the property, he heard Amita cough and quickly realized that she was trying to get his attention.

  “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

  “No worries,” she said as she motioned for him to join her on the couch. In no time, James was hard at work explaining the story of how he had first met Virgil:

  “Well, I mean we’d met before because he came in for his interview.” James laughed. “The dumbass. He actually came into the interview with those ratty cut off shorts on–yesthe same ones he is wearing right now–and our manager, Bill, nearly crapped himself. But he was cool, so they hired him.”

  Amita nodded and began looking at the ceiling.

  Shit, losing her attention. James sped up the story and ended with their current mission, to get to Denver. He left the Judgment Day part out, not wanting to sound stupid.

  “What are you going to Denver for?” Amita asked, her attention finally returning to James.

  These damn millennials, thought the older millennial. Sometime between the years 1980 and 2010, attention spans were cut epically short.

  “To get my son,” James replied, before thinking about what he had just said. He quickly glanced at Amita, realizing he might have dropped the info too soon. After all, he had reasoned in the past, what would a lady want with a washed-up dad like me?

  He smiled briskly at Amita as she pondered her response.

  “You have a son?” she asked, the corners of her mouth lifting into a grin. “What’s his name?”

  “Zane. He lives, um, with his mother’s parents in Denver.” James swallowed hard. “My wife passed away a year or so ago.”

  He saw something flash across her eyes and quickly changed the subject.

  “But that’s a story for another day. Anyway, what about you? Where are you from?”

  “When is the last time you saw your son? What happened to his mother?” Amita pressed on. Most people didn’t ask him much about his former life and James was glad of it.

  “I haven’t seen him in about a year or so. It’s been a trying time, to say the least. But that’s all changing now.” James started fumbling with the top of his flask. “Look, Amita, can we change the subject? I mean, I have a son and I’m going to get him. That’s pretty much my story.”

  He tried his best to remain stern in his remark, but something about Amita’s eyes got to him. “I promise I won’t judge you.” Amita moved closer to James in an attempt to show him he could trust her.

  He looked over at her and frowned.

  “Judge me?” James scoffed at the odd woman. There was plenty to judge, but there was no way in hell that she’d know anything about it. “And I’m not ashamed of the circumstances. I mean, well there are no circumstances. It just is what it is. We can talk about it later, just trust me on this.”

  “Fine.”

  James took a rather large sip from Ol’ Faithful and sighed as the whiskey slithered down his throat. “What in the hell does Hope’s father do for a living?”

  “Crazy, isn’t it?” Amita replied as she sat on the edge of the desk facing him. “He’s like some sort of U.N. Ambassador, politician, government figure, maybe a weapons contractor. Joking. He’s high up in the oil business. He’s actually in Washington right now.”

  I guess they haven’t drained the swamp yet, James thought.

  “What’s your son like?” Amita asked sharply, aware of James’ weak point.

  “I thought we were done talking about this.”

  “Just curious, that’s all.”

  “He’s a good kid. Strong, handsome, and smart
just like his father. Reddish brown hair, about yay high,” James motioned with his arm, “a little on the lean side. I hate that he has to witness a world collapsing at the tender age of eight, but what did you expect? Eight years of liberal leadership caused all this.”

  “What does liberal leadership, as you call it, have to do with the Russians attacking Austin? If you want someone to blame, I believe all this can be traced to the Somali pirates.”

  James opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came to him. He offered Amita his flask instead. She reached for it and took a sip.

  “Oh, wow!” Her face contorted. “What the hell kind of whiskey is this?”

  “It came from Virgil’s roommate, Tony.” James shook his head at the thought of Virgil’s brainwashed roomie. What a joke.

  “Whew!” Amita wiped her lips. “This stuff burns.”

  “It’s potent, that’s for damn sure.” James glanced down at his flask. “I have a little over a bottle left until I have to get some more.”

  Amita turned to the door, a pale expression on her face. “I’m going to go grab a cup of water. You want one? Actually, I’ll probably get some food out; I know they have an extensive cheese and wine selection in there. They have it shipped in. Some type of subscription service.”

  “No water. Yes to the cheese,” he said as he unscrewed the top of his flask. James threw back a gulp and sighed. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” With that, he turned his attention to his phone and an incoming email from Tucker Jones.

  Get them, Tucker, he thought as he read the message, which centered upon a liberal conspiracy to figure out a way to get the CHIP program started again by possibly transitioning a fraction of one percent of the American military budget to help children in need.

  He finished reading the message and moved to his inbox to clear out all the messages from Bill.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Chapter 10: Cheese, Wine, and Fugitive Phenomena

  The kitchen was predictably immaculate, strikingly fancy and dripping with marble. In the center was a large island with a margarita machine, a stainless-steel stovetop grill, a trash compactor, and something James was all too familiar with – a sleek espresso machine.

  The older barista stumbled towards the espresso machine, the liquor surging through him. With drunken flair, he set it up to pour some shots.

  “Okay, so I almost have all the cheese cut,” Amita informed him as she ate a cracker, “just need a few more slices of blue cheese. Can you reach into that cabinet and pull out the large tray on top? It should have some writing on the bottom of it.”

  “Your wish is my command. Holy shit!”

  Virgil and Hope burst into the kitchen, holding each other’s hands and laughing as James jumped backwards.

  Virgil had changed clothes, apparently going through Hope’s brother’s closet, and he now wore a slim cut dinner jacket, a crisp button up shirt, a black bowtie and his trademark cut-off jean shorts. One of Hope’s hair ties kept his hair in a ponytail, and a devilish grin on his face told James that someone had scored, or at the very least, made it to second or third base.

  “Me and Virgy are going to a ball. Care to join us?”

  Hope spun around and began speaking in a near perfect British accent. “I see the cheese and wine are ready to be had by all; bloody good time for all, my lovelies.”

  The rich hippie girl had changed into a flowing green evening dress with oversized, mustard yellow skiing boots and a long, red-beaded necklace. Her face sparkled with glittery eyeliner and she’d added a large red dot between her eyes.

  Amita smiled at both of them. “Why yes, my dear, we will indeed join you. Cheers!”

  “Very well, then. The ball we are going to, darling, shall be called a mind ball, and it should be quite fanciful.” Hope smiled as Virgil put his arm around her waist.

  “Okay, enough with the English accents. What Hope is trying to hint to ya’ll is that...” Virgil let go of Hope’s hand and grabbed a handful of crackers, quickly stuffing them in his mouth. He continued with his mouthful: “Okay, I’m just gonna come outright with this: we each took a hit of acid. There, said it! It hasn’t taken effect yet, but I figured I should warn ya’ll.”

  Acid? James raised an eyebrow at Virgil as the smell of pouring espresso filled the room. “Seriously, Virgil?” he asked, feeling the full effects of the alcohol now. Hopefully the coffee would help.

  “Who’s ready to get crazy?” Virgil plucked a half-full Visine bottle from his coat jacket, and showed it to James and Amita like a magician.

  The bottle contained an opaque liquid with a few bubbles floating lazily on top, ready to hallucinate anything in its path.

  Virgil glanced down at the bottle and said in an over-dramatic whisper: “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, fucked up denizens across the political spectrum, I must warn you this stuff is mighty mighty powerful. Proof? I once had a friend who squirted some of this stuff into his eye. The next day, he told me he saw God that night.”

  “Bullshit,” James snorted. “Only an absolute moron would do something like that. Chill your ass out, Virgil. Let me make you an espresso, or have some wine.” He reached for a bottle that Amita had set out and popped the cork. “Wine or espresso, what’ll it be?”

  Virgil looked at James daringly. “Seeing as this is, well we all are at least in agreeance that this is at the least the start of Armageddon, it might be an opportunity for one of us to find out from the source!”

  “There is no way I am squirting LSD in my eye!” Amita crossed her arms at Virgil. “That is about the stupidest thing I have heard in years. Meet God? How about reading the Bible to meet God?”

  Virgil looked intently at James. “Dare me?”

  “To read the Bible? No, I encourage you to. It would talk some sense into your trippy ass.”

  Virgil laughed. “Come on, dude, dare me?”

  James took a long swig from the bottle of wine, feeling the effects almost immediately as it mingled in his gut with the whisky.

  Transubstantiation be damned, James was getting wasted.

  He scrutinized the younger barista with wide open eyes and finally, after setting the wine glass down on the marble countertop, he replied: “Fuck you, Virgil, do it.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetie…” Hope, her face now taut with apprehension, grabbed Virgil’s arm and tried to take the eye drop bottle filled with acid from him.

  “Decision made. If I go crazy, put me up in Hope’s room and talk me down.”

  “You stupid son of a bitch,” James said, eying Virgil with a sudden predatory instinct. He wanted to see him do it, he wanted to see the drugged out libkid push himself to the boundaries.

  Virgil tilted his neck back and raised the bottle in the air.

  “No, Virgy…”

  Virgil squirted the contents of the Visine bottle into his left eye, cringing as the tepid liquid coated his eyeball. He began convulsing like an inmate in an electric chair.

  “You dumbass!” Amita shouted.

  After dramatically shaking for a moment, a long enough time to force concern out of his captivated audience – well, at least Hope was concerned – Virgil stopped acting and started laughing.

  The son of a bitch did it, James thought as he took another swig from the bottle of wine.

  Virgil took a step towards the back door. “I’m going outside for a bit. No need to worry about me; I’m a trained professional.”

  James snorted. “A trained idiot is more like it.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  The back door shut with a loud bang, shaking a small table nearby and causing a mug full of pens to scatter to the floor.

  “Well, I didn’t see that coming...” James said as both Amita and Hope turned to him, angry looks on their faces.

  Hope narrowed her eyes at James. “Didn’t see that coming? You egged him on!”

  “Egged him on? That was his damn decision, not fucking mine. And fuck him,
anyway! Let’s drink this wine. Amita, get us some more. Shit, this stuff is good. Not too sweet.”

  “Don’t get him any more,” Hope said, baring her teeth.

  “Damn, chill your ass out and get drunk. You heard the man, it’s the fucking end times!” James finished the bottle and set it on the counter. “Now. More wine. We’re getting drunk. Tell me where it is. Let’s get drunk. Now. I’ll go find Virgil’s dumb ass after we finish this cheese and shit.”

  ***

  Virgil blindly stumbled through the wooded area of Hope’s property, sweat pouring from his forehead.

  Everything was breathing, everything moving, alive as it would ever be.

  He ripped the bowtie off his neck, forgetting in that moment where he’d gotten it. It had been over an hour since he had left Amita, James, and Hope in the kitchen of the mansion. The sun was setting, the not-quite forest getting dark, the animals coming for him.

  Everything comes for you...

  Everything comes...

  You...

  Virgil’s world had melted into a surreal blob of multifaceted faces.

  Blips and bleeps of forgotten organic symphonies emitted from all corners of the forest, infiltrating the threshold of Virgil’s consciousness, pixilating his psyche.

  Virgil knew for the first time in his life that he might have taken too much and there was nothing he could do about it. Cramming his fingers down his throat wouldn’t help. Washing out his eyes in a stream, if he could fucking find one, wouldn’t do anything either.

  The acid was in his bloodstream now, the acid was his life force, the infinity of his mind cracked open and bleeding out.

  Whose mind? Who’s mine? Who am I?

  The world twirled and swirled effortlessly around him, umbrellas spinning, notes being played on a piano by a steel-fisted composer from Hades.

  Hope’s property was vast, covered in fading flowers, flowing foliage, thick topsoil in some parts, loose sugar sand in others. The smell of sap, animal droppings and blossoming wildflowers penetrated the lining of his nose, stabbing at the inner crevices of his nostrils.