Fast Fiction! - All the Presidents Men
The whirr of flags being lowered to half mast as the news came in from the colonies.
Soldiers with burnt faces, camera lens eyes and mangled telescopic legs come back from the front, crushed into metal boxes, no photos please.
The crackle of the national anthem spits from my fiber-optik tattoo and the lowres visaud image reflected from the clouds above. I snap to attention and honour the dead by clearing my carbon monoxide scarred throat, I sing along.
The President corpse-eyed, necro-skinned and crocodile grinned comes on the screen, he grips the hand of some shattered mother-victim. She clutches the purple hart and wails a bloodless scream for her brave boy. The President won't let her go, his hand pumps up and down, as he works himself to PR orgasm. If you listen carefully you can hear her thin fingers crack.
Some ADD kids near me drop their bladeboards and salute, giggling through the narco haze as their thalamus, registering an image of the President, kicks off their dopamine IV's.
A second before the broadcast ends, the Presidents handlers pull him back into the cryo-coffin, ready for the next press briefing, when the wellbeing percentile will be just as healthy as it is today. The VicMom they set free, she runs to the nearest pawn shop, glad to be able to eat this week.
The career of the program director ends, the Cryo-coffin is bad for the presidential brand, it should never have made it on the vid.
Behind the rain, I think I hear shouting.
© Fathercrow 2004
Peace and Hope