An end of the world black comedy
by William M Johnson

Sneak Preview

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9. After an incredible journey from every corner of the globe, a tribe of wild animals bears down inexorably on the Earth Summit Complex. Their message, in a nutshell: apparently the current human fixation with the lives of the dinosaurs is not entirely coincidental…

As fate would have it, heads of state were also marooned in the Summit complex, their liberty as well as their media fanfare having been snatched away by the advancing animals. The morning had been slated for the Summit’s grand finale, its crowning achievement, when presidents and prime ministers would take the podium for their seven-minute speeches in the great marble auditorium. Sir Hannibal, bustling out of the conference chamber, was desperately trying to explain to their aides that the proceedings had been delayed, but the world’s leaders had formed such a crush in the corridors that it proved almost impossible to relay the message to them. They were too busy jostling each other for position on the podium roster, clutching their seven-minute sound bites, which typically featured such phrases as "this turning point in the history of mankind", "heralding a new era", "our planetary destiny" and "the world is our garden." Others were lining up to scratch their initials on the leather-bound treaty signature book, from which the word ‘war’ had been expediently extirpated as a cause of ecological disaster at the insistence of every country with an axe to grind.

A nervous crowd of sightseers gathered in the road as the animals came into view. Pushed, shoved and almost swallowed by the swelling throng, Miss Prim screamed as her squalling cat broke free of her cloying embrace. "No! Pussy! Come back! Come back to Mummy!" But the tabby bounded off towards the advancing animals, the call of the wild suddenly irresistible. He’d had quite enough of Miss Prim’s motherly coddling and gourmet meals, quite enough of her awful crooning. Miss Prim broke down and sobbed.

Elsewhere in the crowd, fists began to fly as officious and overzealous police officers, wielding truncheons, tried to evacuate the area.

"Some form of territorial dispute," explained Lizard, as the procession of animals made its way inexorably towards the Earth Summit they were never invited to.

"There have been many other extinctions over the years, the centuries, the millennia," Owl philosophised, keeping pace with his friends with a brief gliding flight. "Even your distant ancestors, Lizard, the dinosaurs."

"But how can that be?" Fox responded, mystified. "Surely there were no environmental protection organisations at that time."

From his vantage point high above in the Papal Suite, His Holiness watched the bizarre events in grieving anxiety. "If only the Lord would send me a sign!" he implored. Having conferred his blessing upon the animal round-up, he now traced the progress of the beasts with a heavy heart. Against his better judgement, he had even seconded Monsignor Demetrius Cyprianus to the effort. While His Holiness remained stricken by indecision, the Vatican’s most feared and seasoned exorcist held a sullen conviction that the Devil incarnate was now stalking the city streets. Perhaps, the Pope lamented, all this was truly the inevitable consequence of conferring upon nature, with its inherent depravity and fallen ways, any measure of religious respect. As he watched the gaunt beanstalk figure of the Monsignor standing in the middle of the street, he wondered whether Cyprianus would have sufficient time to sprinkle holy water on the advancing animals and cast out their demon spirits. His thin bloodless features contorted into a fervid grimace, he was already rasping out the incantation. "Begone, foul spirits!" he cried, brandishing his crucifix at them. The Pope’s eyes widened in apprehension and awe as the animal procession simply flowed by the trembling Monsignor on both sides, like waters parting at a midstream island.

Meanwhile, in the seclusion of his Presidential Suite, Reg Heston had been watching Lassie reruns on cable TV. Misty-eyed, he picked up a sheet of White House stationery.

"Dear Lashie," he wrote, dabbing at his moist eyes, "I shaw you on your TV show today. You are an enduring symbol of America’s relationship with nature, and an example to us all at thish here Earth Shummit. Your shelfless dedication to humanity is also a shining example to the rest of the animal kingdom. Keep up the good work. In great admiration, yours shinsherly, Reg."

Just then, his aides burst into the suite.

"What’s up, boysh?"

"The escaped animals, sir," a jittery Dan Hoffman announced. "They’re converging on the Summit complex!"

"Gee, maybe we should call in Lashie… Boysh, that dog is one incredible critter. Why, she’s almost human!"

Ollie Rawson, the National Security Chief, fidgeted with nervous impatience. "Rest assured, Mr. President, if they try to enter the Summit complex, they’ll be blown away! We’ve got a carrier offshore with enough fire-power to bomb this fucking country back to the Stone Age!"

"Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?" rasped Hoffman, suddenly seeing the Summit publicity windfall napalmed out of existence. "You want that blood bath on prime-time TV, on the front page of every fuckin’ newspaper in the world?"

Rawson ignored him. "We could carpet-bomb them with pesticides, sir, with little collateral damage."

"Jeez," bleated Brandon Koss, "I mean, these animals haven’t hurt a soul!"

"You some kind of commie animal lover or what?" spat Ollie.

"Don’t listen to him, Mr. President, sir," entreated Hoffman. "We could airlift you to safety by landing a chopper on the hotel roof."

"That’s appeasement, sir, the humiliation of retreat. Remember Vietnam when they were lifting our guys off the Embassy roof? We would never overcome the national trauma."

"Hey, but you’re the one who’s trying to get us into some kind of Vietnam situation down here!" exploded Hoffman. "You’re talking about an invasion of a sovereign state! Please, don’t listen to him, Mr. President. Think of the morass, the quagmire, the body bags…"

"Think of the malaise, sir," countered Ollie, "think of the trauma to the American spirit."

"What crap!" Hoffman snarled, jabbing his finger in the air. "The bottom line is that if we go ahead and bomb those animals, there’s no fuckin’ way the President’s gonna get re-elected!"

There was a stunned silence. "He’s right, boysh. I’m down here to defend the environment. There’s no way I can countenance the killing of innocent critters when the whole world is watching. You better get on to the authorities right now and tell them to back off."

"But sir," protested Ollie in one last futile attempt, "we could get a kind of hostage situation developing down here. Remember Iran."

"That’s my final word," said Heston adamantly, switching TV channels. "You get our military boysh just to keep a close watch on the shituation to make sure nothing gets out of hand."

"Wise decision, sir," exulted Hoffman, beaming at the President.

"Look, boysh," said Heston, pointing to the TV screen. "High Noon! Gee, that’s one of my all time favourites… How does that shong go? Do not forshake me, oh my darlin’, on thish our wedding da-ay…"

Leaving the President to his rose-tinted nostalgia, the inner circle held their own crisis session huddled in the corridor outside.

"Up yours, asshole! This situation is really gonna fuck us over."

"Look, the President approved this covert operation two years ago, so get off my fucking back, OK?"

"Listen, that fucker Jennings is right on our tails. Can you believe it? He’s already talking about SanPimenteGate!"

"The President was given all the details that we thought were relevant."

"Oh yeah? And just what are those details?"

"That’s classified information. What I can tell you is what I told the President himself. Chicken Shack is a conduit for CIA funds. We initiated a complex sting operation involving several governments with interests hostile to the US so that Machado could gain control of the coca plantations, seize the assets of the drug-dealers, and use the proceeds to fund the mega arms deal he’s about to conclude with several US corporations. That’ll give him the fire-power he needs to blow away the communist insurgency down here."

"So America’s youth is getting burnt out on drugs just to finance some fuckin’ arms deal."

"Hey! We’re just trying to turn their addiction into something positive, OK? Those guys are all pacifist flakes. Remember: there are geopolitical forces at play in this region. This is our own fuckin’ backyard, and if we don’t destroy the insurgents now, these countries are gonna be toppled like a row of dominoes until the front line is New Mexico and Texas."

"And that parrot guy? And the nuns?"

"Look, Machado’s boys just got a little out of hand, that’s all."

"And that little squirt? The one that witnessed the whole thing?"

"Hey, no problema! Out of the picture. No evidence. No smoking gun."

"Oh yeah? Well, I heard he played Adams for a real sucker. Acted the innocent orphan and then ripped him off big time, walking away with a whole pile of cash earmarked for government consultancy fees."

"OK, so he ripped off Adams. Who gives a shit? Look, I admit that we’re facing a suboptimal scenario right now, but the game plan’s changed. The only incriminating evidence that still exists is TLM and the Reverend James P. Jones."

"TLM?"

"The Tribes of the Lord Mission up in Aguarico. TLM is a CIA dummy corporation, giving us front-line intelligence."

"So you’re pulling them out?"

"Too late. We need a more permanent solution. This animal shit going on out there is the perfect cover. We’ve got an elite unit going in right now. By 2 p.m. TLM will have committed mass suicide."

"But Senator Jesse Blains is up there on a fact-finding mission, trying to get those kids out of that cult!"

Ollie shrugged. "Guess the Senator just got unlucky… Hey, this is our only window of opportunity, OK? Remember, these cults are fuckin’ crazy. No one can predict when they’re gonna go totally schizo."

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