Hurricane Ethel

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
How to stop a hurricane.

Submitted: August 25, 2019

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Submitted: August 25, 2019

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His finger floated above the red button. He'd push it as soon as the trees moved. That's what he promised the world in his latest tweetstorm. 

Sometimes he wished he could just put his fucking phone down but it filled the giant void in his heart. The one he hoped his children and hot younger wife would fill. 

They hated him but loved riding his coattails to fame and fortune. At least the online haters were honest and he had plenty. Every day was a barrage of fuck yous.

His army of trolls defended him in kind so he didn't have to sink to the detractors level. One of them had sparked this plan.

After one of last year's hurricanes, a video circulated online. A mulleted man stood against the storm, gun in hand. The wind and rain pelted the man's wiry, shirtless frame. He raised his gun and shouted, "Get off my lawn."  He fired his gun into the storm.

The man died protecting his home. Of course, he did. You don't bring a gun to fight God, but he was kind of a god himself with the power to back it up. All in his little finger.

He watched the live feed. A leaf jiggled and his finger darted closer to the button. Not yet, it could still blow over. Didn't want to blow his load too soon and get ripped apart by the media.

They never stopped. They named the hurricane Ethel after his mother. If they thought that would stop him, they were wrong. If he could nuke that bitch he would. His father was too good for her.

He took a sip of his Diet Coke. A half-eaten Big Mac sat on the desk. Grease stains from previous Big Mac’s surrounded it. The table looked new when he moved in but what did he care, he had a gold plated cover all lined up for it. 

He glanced at the monitor again and all that remained of the tree was the stump. Even this was hard to see with the torrential downpour already flooding the street. 

“Fuck you, Ethel,” he said. He smashed the button with his greasy finger and waited for the fireworks. 

Nothing.

He pushed the button again. And again. 

Still nothing.

He looked under the desk. The wire ran from the button to a hole in the floor. It should have worked. 

He licked his finger clean. Maybe Big Mac sauce caused the malfunction. 

He jammed the button a few more times and it moved. He picked it up. The wire was cut. The previous president must have done it on his way out. That guy was always in his way.

Thanks, Obama.

 


© Copyright 2020 Reggie McWade. All rights reserved.

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