I escaped from my white, padded cell. "This is how the story usually ends", I murmured to myself. I was sick of the bullshit. Everybody thought I was crazy, but only I knew the truth about everything. Well, me and the underground resistance of truthiness and justice. Please allow me to explain.
On September 11th, 2001, something truly tragic happened. It led to the deaths of thousands of Americans and others. But there was something about it that they, the government, didn't want us to know: that it was all an inside job. They did it all for the money. So that they could start a war in the Middle East over raw oil, and convert the Middle East to crony Capitalism. They were going to set up a military base in Iraq and then Syria and possibly someday the Ukraine and Luxembourg. But that was until they ran out of political capital. ... For now. Republicrats, Demolicans. Et cetera. Both major parties are in on it, so don't bother voting. As if your ballot COUNTS!!!
As for me, I saw through their hollow lies. And I know that more are to come, and the catastrophes they created were just the first steps. ... In case you want my name: I decided to call myself Jesus. The Jesus of Suburbia. I had just finished writing my new novel in my mind, which I entitled Affirmative Reaction. It takes place in the year 2025, when all of the Eastern shoreboard of the United States is underwater due to the sins of global warming. Christ returns and is voted out of office by the stupid sheeple public, and the water levels continue to rise and threaten the Midwest and parts of Canada and Mexico. The hero, Dangling Chad, comes to the rescue of America, armed with a bionic arm and seemingly innocent yet highly flammable cans of Mountain Dew. He puts on his scuba gear and dives underwater into the White House with his cell phone camera, revealing to the otherwise oblivious public that the new President was actually a robot named Willard G. McSameasClintonBush. Things never go back to normal because of carbon emissions and all that jazz, but c'est la vie. At least Jesus gets to be President again.
And by Jesus.. I mean me. I was destined to be President. And it was going to happen in real life, too. I just had to return to my cabinet. My medicine cabinet. To pop some bottles of ibuprofen. And smear the tiny red tablets in delicious, non-refrigerated nutella. But also... the cabinet that I refer to as my 'underground'...
I bit through my straight jacket with my teeth and let out a prayer to She-Ra, Goddess of Buttholes and Rainbow-Colored Grapes. I needed Her to give me all the strength She could.
I lit up a hand grenade and kissed a horseshoe for goodluck before it could obliterate the wall ahead of me. KA-BOOM. There was a hole in the wall, now. I accidentally blew up my poster of Hanoi Jane in the process, but c'est la vie. I ran through the tunnels, into the sewage. My legs were covered in shit. It reminded me of the bullshit that the government broadcasts into all our minds, about terrorists being behind everything and such.
Knowing that the enemy would be on my tail, I streamingly ran through the biological discharge until I was abruptly halted by the ringing of... a payphone. Admittedly, I only heard the ringing in my mind, but it was definitely a payphone. In my attempt at suddenly halting, I stepped on a rat who bit into my foot, and a serious amount of blood leaked from my toes and heal. Fortunately, my prayer to She-Ra had blessed me with the strength of tolerating and essentially ignoring it. Despite being weary that the call was from the thought police, I picked up what was left of my 1985 Doc Jordans and put my leathery shoephone up to my ear, Maxwell Smart style.
"This is Agent 576, speaking."
"Agent 576! If you're 576, I must be 555! ... Anyway, I see you're in the sewer."
"Please read my mind less often. It makes me... uncomfortable."
"Yes, I do apologize for invading your privacy. And wiretapping your shoephone. Meet me at the Representatives chamber in five minutes. That's when we'll make our struggle known to the people oncr again." There was a click, and I put my shoephone away by untying the laces. Good thing I used those practice papers that you can tie shoelaces into before you have to do the real deal on your own without your mom.
Anyway: that call affirmed that the only underground I needed was waiting for me at the X on our hypothetical maps. I lit up a cigarette in anticipation. I used to have another name for cigs, but I had forgotten about that at this point. They may be cancer sticks, but they were also my lucky stripes. Helping me keep my cool. My sweet, sweet valentines.
I let out a throaty, disgusting cough that nearly took out one of my lungs before climbing out of a manhole. I felt like a Ninja Turtle. No one would ever appreciate our vigilante justice, but that was O.K. because what was right was right. I examined the streetsign ahead. Brokedream Boulevard. The street was empty that night--a lonely road. It was like the people were on some sort of holiday, or perhaps, a state of emergency. I had been put away for a long time. What was the government up to now...?
At this point, I was still seven miles away from my destination. I was gonna be late, and this was stressing me out. I compensated for this emotional distress by injecting myself with sweet, sweet Novocain, and out of insomnia-induced jitters, I pulled out one of my teeth. Not one to waste valuable resources, I gave the tooth to a bum as payment, and in return she let me give her head. I felt like I was trading items for points like one of those old Sierra adventure games... like a boss. "Whatsername... you're the last of the American girls.", I offered before tipping her a dime. And by that, I mean I thrusted my cock back into her in a circular motion, and she giggled for a little bit.
Good thing it only took me a half a minute to orgasm, because I was already way late on getting to the House of Representatives chamber. I systematically plucked out another tooth and asked a cabby if he'd take it as money. Of course, he said no and by the time I attempted to strike a deal, I already had gotten the ride. He started shooting at me and I ran like Mitt Romney hoping that the third time would be the charm.
I didn't want the man to make brain stew out of me, so I lost 'im in an alley after hopping into a trash can. Once the coast was clear, I rolled down like a monkey in a barrel. Down tight wad hill, Stuart and the Avenue... Christie Road...
After pulling the trashcan up and hopping out of it like a midget in a potato sack race, I went for a couple block walk. I may've been 24 hours late, but I had finally reached my destination: the House of Representatives chamber. Do keep in mind that at this point my arms in legs were covered in shit, bloody bullets and hamburger buns. But what nobody could accuse me of... was being a quitter.
I could glance Agent 555 through the window. Yes... yes, she knew I was there! I could only imagine what standing in that room of aristocratic sleaze for 1,440 whole minutes must've been like. "Gloria!", I wanted to scream, but if I gave away our cover, the whole thing would've been blown. So: I kept cool. I didn't wipe myself off or anything, because I knew my best cover would be to make people think that I'm a homeless man. Which I'm not. No matter how many times anybody tells you: I am not a homeless man. Even if I promise to you again and again that I am one. I am not a homeless man. Remember that.
I hummed a melodic ditty I impromptu wrote, to try to ease out the stress... my very own panic song, if you will... as I strutted my way into the chamber. "Welcome to 7-11", Representative Douchebag casually stated to me. Yeah, right. Good thing that he wasn't the one we were after.
But as for the other guy... he looked bothered. "Sales are down", he said to the Representative in a thick accent. "But we're going to sell hot dogs, and we're going to sell chicken fingers, and we're gonna sell pizzas! We're gonna sell Doritos loaded, and sausage biscuits, and burritos! And then we're going to lead sales and be promoted to District! RAHHHHH!"
Yep... it was Governor Dean. He turned to me, and... a look of terror lit up in his eyes. He instantly recognized me, bloody shit smears and all. It almost made me believe that I was a homeless person after all.
"It's him! He's back! Call the police!"
You know what? I chilled out and just thought, fuck that noise. I didn't know where Governor Dean picked up the tan and East Indian accent, but i wasn't falling for him and and his false concerned. I chortled, and decided that the only way I could keep our plan strutting along was to go along with the gig.
"I would like two hotdogs, Howard. Mustard and ketchup, please." And he did just that. Simmered down, and actually served me a couple quarter pound dogs. He really, truly, honestly, sincerely, frankly... if you pardon my pun... took me for a fool.
Had I trained myself up from sitting on my figurative crucifix, waiting to get my television fixed... for this? To play dollhouse with the former Presidential candidate and Governor of Vermont? Bitch, please!
Without thinking twice, I ran into the bathroom. I inspected the hotdogs thoroughly. Mustard. Ketchup. Grade E pieces of Dookie meat. It all seemed to just be an innocent hot dog. Nothing to see there.
And then they... exploded.
I was on fire. I made out of the bathroom in the nick of time, but I was most definitely, absolutely, set aflame. I thought back to my third grade education--the last year of schooling I completed before dropping out--and I rolled around as a last hope. Unfortunately, all that did was spread the flames.
Gloria grabbed my burning body, and was also set on fire. Governor Dean, not knowing what to do, ordered us out but his pointed index finger must've hit Gloria's enormous breasts or something, because he was set on fire too. I heard police sirens and was hoping that some officer--as much as I naturally never trust any police offer under any circumstances ever--had brought a fire extinguisher with him. Instead, he proffered me some handcuffs. Frantic squirms wouldn't let me out of this one, and I wasn't going to come up with a James Bond style plan or anything. Agent 576, Agent 555... the underground would now be without its two greatest minds...
At this point, I'm guessing you expect this story to end with me back in a padded cell. But if that's what I told you, that'd actually be a lie: the cell wasn't padded at all. I was in jail. My attorney, Mr. Phoenix Wright, tried to enter an insanity plea for me, but as I'm originally from the state of Alabama, they would burn me to a crisp on the chair even if I actually was crazy. Which I'm not.
Anyway, I'm sentenced to be executed tomorrow. But our second-in-command, Rusty James, baked me a cake. With a hand grenade inside of it.
I didn't want to blow up my picture of Nyan Cat french kissing Doge as President Obama stared on indigently, but I had no choice. Being executed wasn't going to make things any better. The only thing that could, for both myself, this country, and this world... was real hope and change. Unlike President Obummer.
I had bit the bullets out of my arms and legs, and a guard had given me a sponge bath. I was at full health now. I bit off the pinhead with my few remaining teeth. I looked down at the shoephone I had programmed using the technically that my fellow inmate, Ed Snowden, had proffered me.
I lifted my hands in the air. Consider the dessert-covered explosive a letter bomb to a brighter tomorrow. It was to be the dawning of the rest of our lives.
That cake tasted really good, too.