Short Stories

We Can’t Fight Here

9th of August, 2003

“Alright, this isn’t workin’ out.”

“Did you say something to me, motherfucker?”

The President of The United States of America sighs and rubs his temples. Across him, the King of Belgium is busy jamming a spoonful of mayonnaise in his own mouth, staring daggers at the President. To his right is the Queen of Britain, rocking back and forth and humming a nursery rhyme as her assistant desperately tries to translate the dialogue going on at the table to a more easily digested format for Her Majesty. To his left is the Prince of Florida, whooping and hollering as he smashes a gavel on the table.

“THERE WILL BE ORDER IN MY COURT.”

“Eventually, my dear.”

The Queen of New Alabama strokes the Prince’s cheek, attempting to calm him down.

“Let me level with you. If you guys don’t sober up real fucking soon, I’m going to walk out.”

The Mayor of France glares angrily after speaking his mind, having been quiet for the past half hour.

A blindfolded man watches silently, amused at the proceedings. He’s going to have a lot to report to his employer this evening.

“Okay okay, shut the fuck up fellas. There, that’s better. Aight, now I know we’ve all said some things I regret… I mean, I regret things a lot, yknow? So uh, that’s a normal human thing to do. Aight, now the thing is, we have to stop bickerin’, y’know, and uh… Come up with a plan.”

“What the fuck is he talking about?”

“SH!”

“Thing is, we gotta do somethin’ about these anomalies… these uh, these things that have been sproutin’ round the world. I mean, Mayor, you’ve got the first incident two years back, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

The Mayor of France’s eyes mist over as he remembers the day he lost his wife to a rampaging ringmaster. The smell of popcorn and copper. Crimson fluid clashing with polka dotted clothing.

“Aight, and uh, Your Majesty, you’ve seen the uh, the masked ones a year back, right?”

Her Majesty puts her fingers in her ears and closes her eyes, rocking back and forth and making fart noises with her mouth.

“She says yes.”

“Alright, thank you. In any case, this confirms that what our countries are going through… It’s not just isolated incidents. It’s a global operation. The masked ones in Britain were seen performing mime routine, and all the mimes in France went AWOL three years back, If I recall correctly. So that leads me to believe they’re uh, they’re workin’ together.”

“No fucking shit.”

“God, can someone tell that prick to shut up? Alright, thanks.”

“MUST I HAVE HIM EXECUTED, MY LORD?”

“Quiet, darling.”

It is the year 2003. World leaders have gathered in a top-secret-but-highly-televised bunker underneath the rich soil of Belgium, mostly because they had no other place to crash and the King of Belgium was the only one with a swanky pad like this and that’s why they hang out with him even though he’s the friend no one likes. The rest of the countries of the world presumably had the same idea, considering they all gathered in Russia and these bozos weren’t invited.

“We’ve had it bad too, y’know. We’ve seen em comin’ in. Hordes of em. Watched all of Delaware get swallowed up by carnies. Turned into a clown alley overnight. Fuckers came in in those comically undersized boats. Infection spread from there.”

“DELAWARE? YOU MUST MEAN NEW SWEDEN. AH, THOSE SWEDES. FULL OF MEATBALLS AND LIES.”

“Love, that stopped being a thing in the seventeenth century.”

“THE NIGHT WIND CAN ALWAYS CARRY ONE MORE SCREAM, WOMAN.”

“Shh.”

The King is scarfing down a bowl of peanuts. The Queen’s assistant is knocking back a slug of vodka. The Mayor is shaking. The President is getting really tired of this bullshit.

“Okay, shut up. You, Prince. You’re banned from talking, effective immediately. No more. Shut. Your mouth. Shut it. Good, yes. Alright, as I was sayin’…”

“Get on with it, fatass!”

“GOD, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“FUCK ALL OF YOU!”

“THIS TIME I’M REALLY GONNA DO IT, YOU SICK FUCKS! YOU BETTER WATCH! YOU BETTER FUCKING WATCH!”

“EAAAAARGHGHGHGHG!!! OUAHHHGHHH!! AAARGHH!”

“CALM DOWN, PLEASE!”

“TAKE THIS!”

“Missed me, you hamburger-eating fuck! Can’t hit strai-OW, FUCK”

“There, that’s better.”

Everyone sits back down. The King missing a few teeth, the Mayor cursing himself for not having the courage, and The Queen licking a jar of marmite.

“As we were saying, we should come up with a plan of action. I’m thinkin’ a cool paramilitary organization that flies around slaughtering clowns.”

“I vote in favor of the clown slaughter.”

“I VOTE IN FAVOR OF THE SLAUGHTER.”

“I vote against. Not because of any honest arguments or anything, just because I know it pisses you off.”

“She votes yes.”

“Alright, that’s settled then. I suppose we’ll start preparations on this whole organization tomorrow. See you guys then. Meeting adjo- wait, what the fuck was that?”

CLANG.

Fwip.

“OH JESUS, DARLING! NO!”

The Prince of Florida slumps over, leaking crimson from a perfectly round hole in his forehead.

Fwip.

His wife soon follows.

“FLIP OVER THE TABLE, QUICK!”

“WAIT, WHAT DIRECTION?”

“ALRIGHT, EVERYONE IN FAVOUR OF FLIPPIN’ IT OVER TO THE LEFT, SAY A-“

Fwip.

“Right it is, then.”

FwipFwip.

“There goes Her Majesty. And uh, her assistant too. God, the legs on that lady. What a shame.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Fwip.

“Grlrghl.”

“What?”

“Grlrghl.”

The Mayor looks over, and is greeted by The King’s face, minus jaw. He reaches out a shaking hand, only to quickly pull it away when the Mayor reaches out to hold it, having bled out with one last dick move.

“Huh, that answers that. Anyone else? No? Alright then.”

The Mayor of France puts his revolver to his temple, and pulls the trigger.

A new flag waves above the white house. 

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