“I have seen this guy somewhere… shoot… is that the League Commissioner?”
Donald Rutherford hacked off the last strands of fiber connecting the chute to the aircraft. The shredded remains of the evac slide hung five stories off the ground.
“Wait, Rutherford is saying something to the Commissioner…”
“Nope. Just gesturing.”
“Gesturing? Lenny can you zoom in… oh boy… he is giving him the finger.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Donald Rutherford the deranged former owner of the LA Lobsters just flipped off the Commissioner.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the Commissioner’s main problem right now.”
“Obviously Jizzer. Obviously.”
Done with his gestures and bleeps, Donald Rutherford spun on his heel and started walking away.
“Oh no…”
Donald Rutherford was ten feet away.
…
…
Twenty feet away.
The Commissioner sat down on the aircraft’s floor with his legs dangling.
…
…
Thirty feet.
Forty Feet.
…
…
The thirty banksters reached the aircraft’s rear door. Realizing they were fifty feet up without any options, they began to form a human centipede with the Commissioner on top.
Fifty feet.
Sixty feet.
…
…
Someone slipped. Twenty guys splattered on the tarmac.
Ninety feet.
Donald Rutherford, took out Cuban cigar.
One hundred feet.
He lit the cigar with his lighter.
The pool of jet fuel ended right about there.
Donald Rutherford stylishly flicked back his cigar.
Donald Rutherford got into a dirty Nissan pickup and drove away.
A posse of satellites that happened to be whizzing by, caught the whole thing on tape. Technically, the American Cleveland, Russian Koba and North Korean Sweetboy caught it. The Chinese Miao pirated it.
Langley, VA / Trondheim, Norway
Back at his apartment, Jim Borland couldn’t believe his eyes. He was watching the live telecast of the Havana landings. As the old man drove away, the Big Boeing exploded in a massive fireball. Orange. Black. More orange. Then some black. A tinge of grey. More black…
Calamity News reporter, Jack Jizzer and his cameraman were still on scene and broadcasting. “Blow… it’s very hot… I mean very, very hot… also I can’t hear a thing…”
“Lenny, we don’t need Jizzer anymore. Just focus on the burning wreckage ok,” commanded Blow Jobbs. The live feed out of Havana bobbed its consent.
Jim Borland hit a button on his laptop.
“Langley… I swear to god… I don’t know how this happened…” started the voice from Trondheim.
“What the fuck man… I mean I don’t even care about the collision or the explosion, but…”
“We apologize Langley.” said Trondheim.
“Do you know anything about marketing or advertising?”
“Mm probably not… not as much as you do anyway.”
“This was a once in a lifetime… a once in a millennium advertising op.”
“We know.”
“Do you know how many guys it takes to paint a Los Angeles Class sub?”
“A lot?”
“Yellow. White. Green. The green… was the hardest.”
“Maybe Quiznos paid off the Russians.”
“Child please… how much does the Russian Yasen class weigh?”
“We ran the numbers, a fully fitted Yasen runs at 9000 tons.”
“And how much does the Los Angeles class weigh?”
“7000 tons.”
“But the USS Bellingham was stripped bare. 5,500 tops. So fucking tell me how does your balloon… engineered to lift 5,500 tons hurl up a 9000 ton sub all the way out of the water. Talk about over compensation here…”
“You know what Langley, our primary worksite is in the Barents, where unlike Havana Bay the water is cold… you know how it is… lower temperature… less pressure… volume… entropy…”
“Entropy?”
“Plus the AutoCaptain was your thing. I told you the 1GHz wasn’t gonna be enough. It was your job to put the USS Bellingham where we wanted…”
Jim Borland stopped listening to the Norwegian troll as his cell phone chimed. An email from IT. What did those poindexters want? His GovRoulette account had been suspended… temporarily. Shit
Ping.
His GovChat was out too.
“Fuck.”
Jim Borland went to his bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. He found the Adderall. He popped one and lifted the ceramic cover of the toilet tank. After flushing the water, he carefully extracted a waterproof binder from it. He sat on the crapper and opened the binder… a binder full of countries that had no extradition treaties with the US.
The garishly painted USS Bellingham aimlessly circled the bottom of the Havana Bay. Its green, yellow and white paint job represented a popular sandwich chain.
Severodvinsk, Yasen Class, Russian Submarine
Captain Pavlov’s Severodvinsk had been sent out to monitor Havana Bay in lieu of the warming Cuban-American relations. By the time the Severodvinsk had arrived, the party had already begun. The hollering, the riffing and camaraderie were in full swing.
In the middle of a typical belly rub with an Ohio Class, Captain Pavlov had felt his 9000 ton boat rise against its will. His officers had confirmed that this sudden movement had pissed off the Ohio Class and it had broken off the belly rub.
Despite Captain Pavlov’s flagrant lever pulling, the sub had spun its wheels with zero traction.
“Captain something is stuck under our belly and it’s lifting us. And it’s not the Ohio Class. Repeat: Not Ohio Class.”
Still rising, a minute later they had broken the surface of the Havana Bay.
Captain Pavlov seemed calm, “Haha. I think this is the new carry-the-load move. I heard a Los Angeles Class pulled this on one of our Pacific fleet Akulas. Maybe it’s the Chinese, they like to mimic the American moves.”
“Captain we are exposed. Bridge, hull, tail… we are all out…”
“But… those aren’t the rules of carry-the-load.”
“You sure captain?”
“Don’t question me punk. I read Captain Radnikov’s detailed account of that encounter.”
“Maybe they added a twist… you know… everybody has their own style.”
“Shut up. Just try and get us unstuck.”
“Aye, aye Captain.”
3 seconds later the Big Boeing had rammed into the Severodvinsk’s port side.
A 300 ton, 100 knots object smashing into a 9000 ton stationary object was the equivalent of dropping a 16 pound bowling ball onto one’s foot. Painful? Absolutely. Trip to ER? *cough* pussy.
The Russian sub barely moved an inch.
“Hey this definitely wasn’t a part of carry-the-load… I mean I can handle a twist or a tweak…but not a fucking rewrite… What the fuck?”
“Maybe there is a third sub involved Captain.”
“Three subs? Shut the fuck up. Where do you get these ideas?” Captain Pavlov shook his head, chastising young people and their wild ideas.
“Captain, outer shell is damaged.”
“Whaaat? What about the inner shell?”
“Not damaged.”
“Missile doors?”
“Not damaged.”
“Radiation levels?”
“Normal.”
As Pavlov thought about shutting down his reactor, the Severodvinsk suddenly began to descend.