Forum Overview :: Balance of Power

The year is 2023 by blackwater 01/30/2017, 10:57pm PST Jack Dorsey shuffled through the gilded hallway. His beard was long and haggard. On the side of his glasses, a piece of tape held the frame together. "This way, sir," said a young, clean-shaven aide walking to his side. He wore a hideous spray-on orange tan and a gold and silver tracksuit that said TRUMP TOWER, SECURITY. On his head, the thick mop of bleached blonde hair was combed in what Jack assumed was a tribute to the Supreme Commander's tangled mane. As they walked through the cavernous hallway, the scale of the passage made the furniture they passed by look like toys. The design of the chairs and tables was old-- perhaps even antique-- but every possible surface was gilded to a mirror shine. This must be it, Jack thought. The White House furniture. He wondered if there was any of it left behind in the ruins of DC. At last, they reached the giant silver and gold doors. The aide turned to him and saluted. "Win bigly, sir!" "Win bigly," Jack replied, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice. How did we get here? Jack wondered. Why didn't we listen to NPR when we had a chance? Or at least the Daily Show? Jack shivered. The Daily Show. Best not to think about that. He remembered Colbert's expression as Trump said "You're fired" and the guillotine blade came down. A goofy expression halfway between surprise and disappointment. The gold and silver doors swung open, to reveal a huge room. Through the glass walls, he could see the New York City skyline. The room was dominated by an absurdly large gilded desk and its red-faced, flaxen-haired occupant. To the left, Mike Pence sat against the wall, wearing a bored expression and a faded red MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN baseball hat. He did not look up from his phone. For a moment, neither did the Supreme Commander. Jack stood awkwardly in the entry way, looking at the floor. He hasn't aged well, Jack thought. He must be 400 pounds by now. And those obvious Botox injections... Suddenly, Trump scowled, "Jack, what is wrong with the goddamn twitters? The tweeters, what's wrong with them?" "Mr. President," Jack replied. "We are working on the problem..." "This is the big league, Jack." Trump mumbled. For a moment he appeared to be staring vacantly at the wall. "The big league," he mumbled again. "If we could just buy some more computers from China to the replace the ones that wore out..." Jack began. "China! Those... you..." Trump's face suddenly turned very red. He appeared to be gasping for air. Pence looked up from his phone and hit a button on the wall intercom. "Dr. Carson," he said. "Paging Doctor Carson!" In the silence that followed, Pence turned to Jack reproachfully. "The president is not feeling well. You'll need to come back later," he said. Presently Dr. Ben Carson burst through the door. "What seems to be the problem, Mike?" he asked. He turned to Trump, now staring glassy-eyed at the wall. "Ah. Looks like someone needs a little bit more of my ancient Egyptian formula," he said cheerfully. He pulled a syringe from underneath his white lab coat. "We'll get you fixed up in a jiffy," he said with a smile, as he rolled up Trump's rumpled sleeve. "Go," Trump grunted in Jack's general direction. Jack hurried through the gilded doors, eager to get out of the suddenly suffocating office. Now that vaccination was now forbidden, who knew what Trump might have. Who knew what any of them might have? On the whole, I probably shouldn't have voted for Jill Stein, he reflected.

The year is 2023 by blackwater 01/30/2017, 10:57pm PST