Dog walk story.

A cautionary dog walk story inspired by a podcast I heard this morning. 

 Six minutes 

© Kate A Hardy 2024

The military aide paced the few feet from his room to the president's, legs jittery, and an overwhelming urge to piss crowding out his terrifyingly black thoughts. He knocked; no reply, just the faint murmur of voices. Sweaty hand gripping the door handle he entered the shadowy room illuminated by flickering forms on the enormous flat screen TV. For a brief moment the reason why he stood in this room shrank away as he observed Charles Ingalls standing next to his wooden prairie house grasping a long, rectangular Amazon package. Then the enormity of this current moment in time screeched back to him like feedback. He approached the bed.

"Mr President, Sir . . .  Sir?" He stepped closer and observed the slumbering figure lying amongst rumpled satin sheets, the curious coppery hair wisped across baggy face-skin. A spent MacDonald's box rose and fell with the president's breathing, a few chips splaying onto his chest. "SIR! You must wake up NOW!"

The form stirred, a line of spittle staining the satin fabric as the face left the pillow. "Whaat?" 

As the aide searched for the million-times-rehearsed-words a scream threatened to escape. "Sir - there's been a launch!"

"Of whaat? My new yacht?  . . . is it OK?

"A nuclear attack, Sir. I have the football - you have to act now!"

The president shuffled up against the velour headrest with some difficulty, and scrabbled around in his bedding. "Where's the fucking remote - gotta turn that down . . . and get me some couwfee."

"There isn't time, Sir. We have . . ." the aide glanced fearfully at his watch -"Six minutes."

The president whacked away a piece of burger bun adhered to his temple. "I said, get couwfy - can't think about anything till I get my first cup."

The aide feverishly searched out a number on his phone and waited, sweat dribbling into his eyes.  . . "Mallory - get coffee up here in ten seconds!"

The president seemed transfixed by the flat screen images. "Seen this, Paul?'

"It's Martin, and no, Sir."

"S'great! AI mashup of Little House on the Prairie and Horny Redhead's Gang-bang Fiesta."

The aide turned his fevered gaze to the screen as Charles Ingalls drew a long pink plastic phallus from its Amazon casing. "No-no-no . . ." this must not be the last thing he saw before his eyeballs melted. A rapping on the door interrupted his manic search for the remote amongst pizza boxes and tissues.

Mallory walked in with a cafetière on a tray, and placed it onto the night table, eyes averted from the rumpled president. His arm appeared in a practised way; an index finger and thumb tweaked her arse.

"Sir! Please!"

He sniggered. Then his expression clouded. "Hey, what's this shiiet - I said Starbucks!"

Mallory stepped back, noting the aide's fearful air. She harsh-whispered. "What's happening?"

The aide gulped in air. Nuclear strike - real . . . Mr President . . . I must tell you that we now have only three minutes!"

Mallory felt her bowels contract. "Aren't we supposed to lie down . . . eat plain yogurt, or something?"

" . . . I don't know . . . maybe." He placed the case on the bed and tapped the president on the arm. "Sir, we really have no time - for coffee, or anything."

The president groped a hand towards the cafetière. Martin felt his arm rise. He smashed the tray to the floor. The action appeared to wake the president.

"Really - they sending nukes? . . . Who?"

"We don't know, Sir. It's a submarine strike. It is your decision. Yours alone on our retaliation. We have two minutes."

" . . . Okay. Where are my glasses? Holy Fuck . . . where? . . . ah - here. Shit there's mayo . . ."

The aide grabbed the glasses, wiped them on the gold satin sheet and shoved them on the president's nose. They ran through the procedure.

The president peered at the menu.  " . . . Shall I just do eeny-meeny? or just blow all the fuckers away?"

The aide suddenly stood up. It was happening. Nothing could stop it. The president's burger-greasy fingers had ordered destruction - after a last second query about golf courses. The aide traversed the carpet and drew back the heavy curtains revealing a blue sky day. Not a cloud. Although there soon would be. 

Mallory sobbed quietly. Charles ingalls whispered obscenities about his amazon purchase. The president shouted into his non-cooperating phone.

The aide looked out at the trees. 

He didn't know the name of the trees, or the birds hopping about in their branches unaware of their coming extinction. He wished he had pursued the dream that his daughter had mentioned; that he had laughed at. A small wooden house, near a lake, far from everything. Her dear face swam before him. He slipped his phone from his pocket and dialled her number. 

The podcast: Youtube: Diary of a CEO, episode: Annie Jacobsen, nuclear War expert talks about her discoveries, her predictions, and her books. Fascinating, and worrying....