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2022 April What Kind of Fool
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Good day Glenda. This looks like it's going to be a fun write. Excellent topics to choose from. I hope you are doing well my dear friend. Enjoy your day and have a safe, wonderful weekend, okay...
Mod
Thanks, Tom. I was aiming for some fun and diversity. Can't wait to see submissions. You have a safe & enjoyable weekend too.
Who’s The Fool, Me Or You? (948 words) “The greatest fools are oft times more clever than the men who laugh at them,”
“George R R Martin should have been a comedian. Maybe he saw my act right before he wrote that line.”
So said Manchester circuit funny-man Rob Argent, the most reclusive of all stand-up comedy legends, being notoriously reluctant to give media interviews, or even appear on TV. He was strictly a card for the clubs, and as despised by as many as loved him. He had willed that all his papers be destroyed after his death on the brink of turning fifty, (possibly the first to perish from addiction to vaping), but some documents appear to have been leaked from anonymous sources at the agency who represented him. That quotation comes from one such document. Here are some other choice extracts indicating that he did at least toy with the idea of leaving a memoir of sorts. Unfortunately, the curtain came down on him before he could complete his material, if he wasn’t just teasing us with his trademark spin on always leaving the audience wanting more.
The Last Words Of Rob Argent
Deadpan? No, just dead inside. An astrologer once told me I have a strong sense of humour. I refused to pay her for such a crap star sign assessment. I don’t think she knew who I was. She just assumed everyone has a funny bone. I don’t. I’m not funny. I meant everything I ever said. I was a jester in the traditional mediaeval sense.
A King’s Fool in days of old had the unenviable duty of telling the King and his court uncomfortable truths, criticism in the guise of sarcasm. It was what Americans today call a ‘roasting’, targeting someone for a barrage of harsh life lessons, bullying them relentlessly to get others laughing at their expense. The subject roasted just has to take it on the chin and try to be a good sport.
In much comedy, including mine, the comic finds a soft mark, the bald guy, the fatso, the badly dressed, etc, or someone dumb enough to get up for a trip to the toilets or the bar while we’re on stage. Heaven help the moron with a phone going off and the hecklers too. Gawd, I loved the hecklers. They were always my easiest prey.
In the 70’s before political correctness came in, I might have gunned for people who are black, brown, yellow, gay, female or even disabled. It wasn’t really racist, sexist or any other ‘ist’ for the blue comics, frankly just lazy - they found easily identifiable marks for a reel of gags reserved for such opportunity presenting itself. The ‘ists’ were the audience laughing with the comic, not jumping up in outrage or defence of the poor sods being relentlessly picked on.
Nowadays most comics prefer to just do self-depreciation, making fun of their own depressing miserable day. I don’t talk about me. My life is none of your damned business. I point the comedy right back at you. That’s why I don’t let you clap or applaud. I even try to tell you not to laugh at my jokes, much as I might express total loathing towards you if you giggle when an old lady falls over on the icy pavement or a banana skin.
Of course, trying not to laugh is hard, and you start off, setting others off too. I explode, ordering you to stop, and you laugh more. Such is my act, if it even is an act and not just my genuine rage. I don’t know any more. I’ve done it too often. I get confused.
I don’t use punchlines, or catch-phrases. ‘I really hate catch phrases’. Sadly I said that often enough for it to be quoted as my catch phrase. It’s crass and unfunny. Fans actually turn up at my shows with it scrawled on their tee-shirts. My last agent merchandised that without checking it through with me first. I sued over it, and lost the case, but I got a new agent straight after leaving the courtroom.
So many comedians struggling for a laugh just chuck in their familiar tired repetitive catch phrases or loud swear words and the audiences lap it up. Your laughter is your weakness, your foolishness. Life sucks, people die and you think there is something to be amused by. You expect me to brighten your miserable day and existence with a short burst of escapist humour. Stuff you, fools.
My big trademark was my refusal to do an encore. I never thanked my audience for coming. I never took a bow, I told my last joke or anecdote and walked off stage. That was it. So often my audience waited, expecting me to bound back out to do a bit more. I never did. Sometimes there would be yelling and pleading, with a rising chorus of ‘More more more’. Please throw another Christian to the lions for us Caesar. Some venue managers offered to pay me generously to go back on, but I never did.
At some bars and clubs, they started playing music and flicking lights to announce that I had, like Elvis, left the building. I hated that. I wanted people waiting, hoping. I know that whether Jesus makes a second coming or not I never will.
Now I’m dying, literal death, not stage death. I wonder if people think I’ll come back after this exit stage left. Obviously not. Frankly, if you found me funny or interesting, you’re a fool. I’m laughing at you, not the other way round.
If you expect another paragraph after this, or even for me to finish this one, think aga…..
Arthur Chappell
Mod
FOOLISH LAUGHTER
by terry turner 794 words
I awoke with a foggy brain from a late-day nap in the big overstuffed chair in the lounge room. My first thought was that it was early morning but I soon realized the hour was late; the day had passed away, fleeting like a vapor. Feeling disoriented, I rubbed my eyes and gazed around the room as though I was expecting to be someplace else. I must have looked like Raggedy Ann after a full morning of house cleaning and laundry. My hair was a stringy mess and I was still wearing my scrub clothes and domestic cleaning gloves. Roxy, my dog, was sitting in front of me letting me know she was ready for a potty break. By the time I had pushed my over sized bottom out of the lounge chair and waddled to the door, the long shadows of the late afternoon had made their daily appearance and were already gone. The air had begun to cool quickly and a low blueish mist hung low around the distant hills. I filled my lungs with the sweet taste of fresh air to loosen the cobwebs in my brain while Roxy wandered over to a tall aging oak tree. She barked at a squirrel which scurried up the tree and set off a tremendous ruckus that sent me stumbling backward in shock, falling to the ground, flat on my butt. A huge flock of Starlings took flight from the tree limbs above filling the air with the awesome sound of thousands of wings from startled birds giving me the fright of my life.
From my seated position on the ground, I began to laugh when I realized what the commotion was all about. Roxy must have been surprised too because she leaped into the air barking and turning tight little circles. The squirrel froze in an upside-down position on the side of the tree watching the show below.
I sat mesmerized and entertained by the gigantic flock of birds as they swirled and circled in the most amazing formations coming together in long thin ribbon-like strips, then exploded into another swirling mass to form a dense black cloud. Again and again, they repeated their performance as though they were rehearsing for some kind of Olympic event. When their aerial acrobatic show was concluded, they landed again in groups onto the branches of the oak tree to roost until dawn. I sat on the ground with Roxy at my side for several minutes staring into the big oak as the arrhythmic action of my heart slowly returned to normal.
“Wow, Roxy, that was spectacular. It took my breath away." I whispered. Roxy looked at me and then back to the birds in agreement. As I awkwardly rose to my feet, rubbing my sore behind with both hands and brushing away dried leaves that had plastered themselves to my clothes, I heard laughter coming from the new neighbors' house who had very recently moved in next door. Two small children stood on the front lawn pointing in my direction. Their parents began calling to them from the porch to go inside. The old widower who lived in the house across the street and had seen everything was doubled up with laughter. I suddenly became aware of what I must have looked like and a desire to hide came over me. Everyone then turned and disappeared behind closed doors.
I stood there awkwardly with my embarrassment as Roxy tugged on the leash pulling me toward the house. I slipped quietly up the steps feeling like a fool, and stopped when I reached the porch, turning around for one last look at the landscape that stretched out before me. The mist that had settled around the low hills was thicker and had turned gray against the last glimmer of light that was fading fast. A few of the brightest stars in the heavens flickered in the cold blue night sky above; a reminder that, despite the events of the day, nothing had changed and all things were still in their proper place. To save my dignity I had to tell myself the greatest fools are oft times more clever than the men who laugh at them.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly thinking about the last twenty-four hours; knowing in time all would be forgotten. At the end of the day we can’t control the results; not even the actions that make us look silly. We can only strive to do our best. And if the results were acceptable, then it was a good day. It was time to close the door on this chapter of an old foolish woman’s life leaving the large flock of Starlings to sleep in peace under a star-studded sky.
by terry turner 794 words
I awoke with a foggy brain from a late-day nap in the big overstuffed chair in the lounge room. My first thought was that it was early morning but I soon realized the hour was late; the day had passed away, fleeting like a vapor. Feeling disoriented, I rubbed my eyes and gazed around the room as though I was expecting to be someplace else. I must have looked like Raggedy Ann after a full morning of house cleaning and laundry. My hair was a stringy mess and I was still wearing my scrub clothes and domestic cleaning gloves. Roxy, my dog, was sitting in front of me letting me know she was ready for a potty break. By the time I had pushed my over sized bottom out of the lounge chair and waddled to the door, the long shadows of the late afternoon had made their daily appearance and were already gone. The air had begun to cool quickly and a low blueish mist hung low around the distant hills. I filled my lungs with the sweet taste of fresh air to loosen the cobwebs in my brain while Roxy wandered over to a tall aging oak tree. She barked at a squirrel which scurried up the tree and set off a tremendous ruckus that sent me stumbling backward in shock, falling to the ground, flat on my butt. A huge flock of Starlings took flight from the tree limbs above filling the air with the awesome sound of thousands of wings from startled birds giving me the fright of my life.
From my seated position on the ground, I began to laugh when I realized what the commotion was all about. Roxy must have been surprised too because she leaped into the air barking and turning tight little circles. The squirrel froze in an upside-down position on the side of the tree watching the show below.
I sat mesmerized and entertained by the gigantic flock of birds as they swirled and circled in the most amazing formations coming together in long thin ribbon-like strips, then exploded into another swirling mass to form a dense black cloud. Again and again, they repeated their performance as though they were rehearsing for some kind of Olympic event. When their aerial acrobatic show was concluded, they landed again in groups onto the branches of the oak tree to roost until dawn. I sat on the ground with Roxy at my side for several minutes staring into the big oak as the arrhythmic action of my heart slowly returned to normal.
“Wow, Roxy, that was spectacular. It took my breath away." I whispered. Roxy looked at me and then back to the birds in agreement. As I awkwardly rose to my feet, rubbing my sore behind with both hands and brushing away dried leaves that had plastered themselves to my clothes, I heard laughter coming from the new neighbors' house who had very recently moved in next door. Two small children stood on the front lawn pointing in my direction. Their parents began calling to them from the porch to go inside. The old widower who lived in the house across the street and had seen everything was doubled up with laughter. I suddenly became aware of what I must have looked like and a desire to hide came over me. Everyone then turned and disappeared behind closed doors.
I stood there awkwardly with my embarrassment as Roxy tugged on the leash pulling me toward the house. I slipped quietly up the steps feeling like a fool, and stopped when I reached the porch, turning around for one last look at the landscape that stretched out before me. The mist that had settled around the low hills was thicker and had turned gray against the last glimmer of light that was fading fast. A few of the brightest stars in the heavens flickered in the cold blue night sky above; a reminder that, despite the events of the day, nothing had changed and all things were still in their proper place. To save my dignity I had to tell myself the greatest fools are oft times more clever than the men who laugh at them.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly thinking about the last twenty-four hours; knowing in time all would be forgotten. At the end of the day we can’t control the results; not even the actions that make us look silly. We can only strive to do our best. And if the results were acceptable, then it was a good day. It was time to close the door on this chapter of an old foolish woman’s life leaving the large flock of Starlings to sleep in peace under a star-studded sky.
Mod
"Sometimes you have to play the role of a fool to fool the fool who thinks they are fooling you."
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/3063152...
"Sweet soul, don't let this world fool you. There is nothing wrong with you."
"Classy is when you have a lot to say, but you choose to remain silent in front of fools."
"You make me smile like a fool. A happy fool that's in love with you."
Mod
by terry turner 794 words
I awoke with a foggy brain from a late-day nap in the big overstuffed chair in the lounge room..."
Very descriptive; I was right there with your character. I can agree with your last paragraph 100%. Good story.
Thanks for the feedback, Glenda.
Glenda wrote: "TERRY wrote: "FOOLISH LAUGHTER
by terry turner 794 words
I awoke with a foggy brain from a late-day nap in the big overstuffed chair in the lounge room..."
Very descriptive; I was right there wit..."
Glenda wrote: "TERRY wrote: "FOOLISH LAUGHTER
by terry turner 794 words
I awoke with a foggy brain from a late-day nap in the big overstuffed chair in the lounge room..."
Very descriptive; I was right there wit..."
THE GULLS OF YELLOWDUST… (979 words)It was another typically hot summer; dry, without a whisper of wind. The prairie wool drooped burnt-yellow across the countryside. It was hot, even for the mosquitos. Down the hillside from where he rested in the shade of his horse, he could see the hamlet of Standing Rock shimmering hazily below a clear blue sky. A couple of eagles riding the updrafts circled gracefully above the land and the coyotes nestled smugly in the coolness of their dens. The Sun began its slow descent behind the mountains in the west, followed almost reluctantly by the rhythmic dancing of the heatwaves. The cloudless sky, a perfect canvas for a rainbow of colours sharing its beauty with the universe, appeared almost magically. And right on time, the lonely whistle of the only locomotive that chugged noisily along rusted rails pierced deeply into the fading of the light. The next day Freddie would be on that train to visit his grandparents.
For those who could hear the whistle, it was a time for many to prepare for the night. The chimneys of the old three-room houses scattered about released smoke that trailed upward so straight it was like looking at an oil painting, just like those on display in one of the old, dilapidated stores downtown. And for others, it was a time to eat and to get ready to visit neighbours who lived nearby. Even the animals within earshot made sure their young were safe before venturing out into the dark. Their senses, keen to their surroundings, kept them aware.
Looking toward the river in the valley where they lived, he could see the smoke faintly reaching upward. ‘Hmmn, mom is cooking. I better get home.’ He tightened the cinch and straddled into the saddle. The horse snorted as Freddie gently nudged him on the ribs. His stomach grumbled; he didn’t realize he was that hungry.
The next day, Freddie looked out from the grimy window in the passenger section. This was his first train ride alone. He tried not to show his exuberance, but it was plain to see on his dirty face. The passengers didn’t notice when a young girl walked down the aisle to him and introduced herself as Marigold. Her sunburnt complexion complimented the ringlets dangling playfully just above her frail, petite shoulders. Her dress, wrinkled, had a barely noticeable tear on one side. Her inquisitive smile was infectious. Freddie liked her immediately.
“What’s your name?” she hushed.
“Freddie.”
“Where you going?” she questioned; her eyebrows lifted.
“I’m going to visit my grampa and gramma,” he responded.
“Oh, that’s nice. Where do they live?”
He glanced out the window for a moment, staring at some horses drinking water from a pond, before answering her.
“The conductor said we have another few hours left on the ride. My grampa and gramma live near a town called Yellowdust.”
“Yellowdust?” she chimed. “Hey, that’s where I’m getting off. I’m going to visit my mommy. She works there. Maybe we can play when we get there, okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” then, squinting his eye, he asked. “Your mommy? Where does she work?”
“Oh, she’s a barmaid at the local bar in town. She’s been there for a long, long time,” she replied casually. “I ride this train a lot to go see her. I’m so happy to see her again.”
Freddie jingled the change in his pocket then remembered his flattened penny. He pulled it from his faded jeans and showed it to Marigold.
“We don’t live too far from the tracks,” he said rather nonchalantly. “Me and my neighbours, well, we sometimes go there to see if anyone will wave at us. But this one time, I had a penny and I placed it on one of the tracks, and the train pulled up. I waited for it to come closer, and then it ran over my penny. It’s pretty flat isn’t it.”
“Yeah, it sure is,” she responded, examining both sides of the copper penny. “How long have you had it?”
“Well, I would say, hmmn, for about a year now,” after Marigold handed him back his flattened coin. “I like to show people this. They all think it’s neat.”
“Do you like money?” she inquired, but just before he answered, the whistle blew as the train ground to a halt. Several other families boarded. Marigold screamed gleefully.
“Billy, hey Billy. Over here,” she yelled above the belching of the train stack and the screeching of metal on metal. “Hi Billy, I missed you.”
Billy was a scruffly looking boy who was slightly older than Freddie and Marigold. His grandfather owned the Ranchman’s Tavern where Marigold’s mother worked. Billy had a good memory. He knew almost all the regulars and they all knew him; they enjoyed his company because he swore like a sunofagun when his grandfather wasn’t around and his jokes, to say the least, were amusing. Billy had a saying he would repeat whenever he met someone new: “The greatest fools are oft times more clever than the men who laugh at him.”
“What does that mean,” questioned Freddy after hearing those words and under Billy’s piercing glare.
“Oh, nuthin’ much,” he answered. “You’ll understand.”
After a few miles, the train pulled into the Yellowdust station where everyone disembarked. Billy and Marigold disappeared into the crowd. Freddie’s grandma greeted him and said they had to go get gramps who was waiting in the tavern. When they got there, Billy was surrounded by a few regulars who were laughing. He watched Marigold, ever so discreetly, reaching into their back-pockets, pulling money from their wallets before putting them back.
Freddie, his lips pursed, nodding his head, realized what Billy meant by fools. Those old men never caught on they were being had. And somehow, Freddie knew, he was going to enjoy his visit.
I will comment on the submissions tomorrow, thank you....
Mod
It was another typically hot summer; dry, without a whisper of wind. The prairie wool drooped burnt-yellow across the countryside. It was hot, even for the mos..."
That was a real twist. The little pick-pocketer and the owner's grandson in cahoots. Loved your description detail that spoke to all my senses. Good story.
ARTHUR: Who’s The Fool, Me Or You?That was quite the description of your character. From those days of political correctness to the more cautious stage, the genre of comedy is well-described and narrated. I really like that behind-the-stage insight and your ending fit your story character very nicely…I enjoyed this very much Arthur…
TERRY: FOOLISH LAUGHTER
Awww, the woman’s own amusement of her startled fall was amusing to the neighbours from a differing viewpoint. The beauty in what the woman saw was overshadowed by the laughter of her fall. Many moments and similar situations often do not portray the full picture, with all these details included. I felt the ending of the woman closing the door on this chapter, if only the neighbours shared her insight, rather than their hurtful laughter. Beautifully written Terry…
Glenda, these were awesome prompts...coolness...
Thanks for your keen insight, Tom.
Tom wrote: "ARTHUR: Who’s The Fool, Me Or You?
That was quite the description of your character. From those days of political correctness to the more cautious stage, the genre of comedy is well-described and..."
Tom wrote: "ARTHUR: Who’s The Fool, Me Or You?
That was quite the description of your character. From those days of political correctness to the more cautious stage, the genre of comedy is well-described and..."
Call for Delivery by F. F. Burwick 804 wordsThe high governor, James Urke, looked out the window from which great fields of Justonia were seen beyond the limits of this city Kiwogh, and he paced back through the large room of this estate. The thoughts of the agreements with the great leaders of western powers permitting trade of valuable resources extracted from this country for centers of psionic experimentation which brought him into the leadership in this country would continually preoccupy him, as he saw more certainly now it would be at the cost of the safety of Justonia.
Indeed, it was only within that hour that one administrative assistant came in, and told High Governor Urke, "The Illithair are at the Airy Canyons now, Sir."
High Governor Urke said in response, "Now we must arm the civilians, it should wait no longer. Let's have the state delivery vehicles go out, to every neighborhood in Kiwogh now."
The assistant expressed agreement and said, "The aides will all know this, it will happen immediately." He promptly left.
High Governor Urke spoke out while in this large room isolated from others in the estate, "Who will possibly help us in this now? Will those great leaders of western powers who were involved with us which led to these things be here for that? Where are they now?" He stared out through the high window briefly again. Outside this city and beyond those wide fields, there was the great river, beyond that the wild land full of groves with the rifts among them, and the Airy Canyons beyond those.
High Governor Urke was imagining what the appearance of the Illithair troops might be like coming into the wide fields on this side of the river, which might come soon enough. But the vision of a winged dragon interrupted that. James Urke wondered for just a short while why he would have that in his imagination. The winged dragon flew still closer, it was coming to his governing estate. The governor realized in a further moment that it really was a dragon, and not part of his imagination. A great dragon with a white metallic sheen. It was right outside the window now, and it blew a great breath which appeared to be with frosty vapor, toward the window. It then shattered. The dragon flew forward, and grabbed onto the sill with huge claws, with the head reaching in through the now fully open window, as though perching there. The dragon looked toward James Urke, a voice seemed to come from the creature, "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread."
The governor said in alarm, "What do you want?!"
The answer came clearly. "Rather, it is about what you want. Who would possibly help you now? You need to just trust the Most High, when you need help. He will send what help you need."
Governor James Urke asked, "Then why did you first speak to me with what you said?"
"You were the fool with the agreements you made to come into your position, which any angels would not approach doing."
"What do you know about angels?"
"Angels do not all look like human or superhuman beings. There are many other beings who are all angels, and the Most High uses any angel for help where it is needed."
"Yes! I will trust the Most High. Please deliver all our land of the Illithair."
"There is still a cost to you with deliverance. You will not remain in your position but would return and be among the ordinary people."
"And I have no future with the Illithair coming here. Please, deliver us from them."
The great metallic white winged dragon spread the wings and then lifted off, and turned to fly from over the city to continue on over the fields, and beyond, in the direction of the Airy Canyons.
James Urke waited much of the rest of the day, mostly watching out the now widely broken open window. Nothing of significance was seen of anything changing, just the sun's position moved on and toward the horizon in the west.
It was not until the next day that news came about the Illithair. They were having trouble going forward as they were met with thick fog and cold. A blast of a frigid chill had hit the main armored wagon and it froze thoroughly, remaining there.There were claims by a few who came that far about a dragon being seen. The Illithair scattered, and those that did not get away quickly enough were paralyzed where they were. Those ones only recovered many hours later, with no others with them, and they then each hurried going homeward, where they came from.
James Urke still went through trials in the days afterward over his mismanagement, and he was eventually deposed, as he expected he would be.
F.F., what a mythic tale of surprises and outcomes. But with certain sacrifices, the proper choice was made in the end. You wove a beautiful tale of such grandeur. Very well-written story F.F...
Mod
Mod
Here is the link to vote at my survey:
https://glendareynolds.survey.fm/2022...
For some reason the voting form wanted me to complete both the box saying I was the voter and add something to 'other' as if I was an independent voter (making it mandatory to fill it in) so added my name there too - good luck to all the wrirers - choosing between you was extremely challenging.
Mod
So much on my mind...Glenda, did you receive my votes?...
Mod
Yes, I did. Thank you. I have the tally, but the winners will be posted tomorrow. This gives time for other people to vote as well.
Mod
1st place - Tom Russell - The Gulls Yellowdust
2nd place tie
- Arthur Chappell - Who's The Fool, Me or You?
- Terry Turner - Foolish Laughter
3rd place - F. F. Burwick - Call for Delivery
**SPECIAL MENTION:
"THE GULLS OF YELLOWDUST… The title alone won me over to this one."
"These stories were fantastic...loved them all..."
Thank you, writers for putting out your great stories. You help make this group great.
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Lena Pate has posted her challenge for May: 2022 May Mayflower and Other Mighty Sailing Vessels Here is the link: https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
I'm hoping that Lena will be able to remove the words "created by Glenda". I only gave some instruction. I plan to submit a story myself.
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Hope you all had a good weekend. Stay blessed, inspired, and in good spirits. Keep writing.
~ Glenda, moderator
Congratulations Tom. Look forward to reading your May story.
Thank you Terry...I loved reading everyone's stories, they were fantastic...congratulations to Arthur, Terry and F.F. for your wonderful creativity and your craft of story-telling...and special thank you and acknowledgment to Glenda for all you do in giving each of us a platform to share our humble gifts...I am so humbled by this and thank you once again and we'll see you down the road...
Mod
Thank you for your thoughts, Tom. On to May - curious what stories will come of that challenge.
Murder—It happened in broad daylight, for all to see. The greatest fools are oft times more clever than the men who laugh at them, and sure as flies on sh&t it came. The leaders of the world who wanted to destroy America—China, Russia, Korea, and Iran laughed, as the most powerful nation on earth bowed to the demands of the left and crumbled.
With complete control of the air waves and judicial system, the Deep State snarled and bared its ugly teeth as a deadly virus spread from sea to shining sea. For over a year, civil unrest and protests under the guise of police brutality—spread from the twin cities of Minnesota, and across the country to over 2000 cities.
The Deep State poured billions of dollars into left leaning organizations. With unlimited funding, the BLM and Antifa movements grew ten-fold, and unleashed racism and hatred across the country. The un-effulgent and feckless took to the streets. Those whose sense of absolute certainty on subjects regarding science, current and world affairs, and anything political—came from listening to the fake news networks, the View, and AOC. Civil debates between the right and left turned vitriolic as mass riots and deaths ensued, while the Left burned America to the ground.
Radical progressive governors called it the Summer of Love and the Fake Media ran with it--calling it mostly peaceful demonstrations, while building after building burned to the ground, and looting became the norm.
The progressive left leaning members of government called for more violence—anytime they had an audience, which drew the Fake Media in droves.
The stench of scumbag entitlement rose over New York, as a do I say, not as I do prime time CNN anchor, who just happened to be the brother of the New York Governor said. "Where does it say riots have to be peaceful?"
The haves strutted their arrogance and cheered them on—Old Glory stopped waving and Lady Justice removed her blinders.
It no longer mattered. Lady Justice didn’t stand a chance against the virus and toxic environment in America cause by the two major parties fighting for control. Even the Summer Olympic Games in Tokyo—with a mission of peace and global betterment though friendship and solidarity, didn’t stand a chance. And that ended Jules’ gymnastic career for good.
With the presidential election a few months away, Dr. Jules Spenser was going to Tokyo anyway. America didn’t die—she was murdered.
Dr. Jules Spenser watched the primetime news, with FOX, CNN, and MSNBC on three separate flat screen monitors. The Summer of Love turned into the Fall of Hate, as Russia and impeach became the battle cry of the left wing media—weeks before the inauguration of President Charlotte Vice-Davidssen. They claimed, she was a threat to global democracy and American security. FOX ran abridged vignettes of the other two stations flashing back and forth between the talking heads. Russia, Russia, and more Russia spewed from their mouths. Followed by impeach, impeach, and more impeach.
Jules thought it comical as Congress ran with it. With the numbers in their favor, they lied and lied, and in the end—brought up charges of abuse of power and obstruction of Congress. The shit show ran for months. Congress impeached her, and the Senate voted to acquit the charges.
What a waste of fucking time and ‘We the People’ money, Jules thought.
All the while, the deadly Wuhan China virus and its variants, spread across America leaving a path of death.
The left wing Congress didn’t care—they wanted President Vice Davidssen gone forever, and were far from finished with their attacks.
Rumors circulated by the fake media, that the unexplained deaths of a number of high profile officials, fell in the lap of the president. Meanwhile, the person known as the Suicider walked away scot free. Members of the House and Senate that hated the president, used every available second of air time to call for her second impeachment. Furthermore, they dreamed up numerous acts they called treasonous, and pointed fingers at her husband Buck Davidssen, who in the past was responsible for some acts of questionable legality that were sanctioned by the president.
When that ploy failed and Keep America Great steamed ahead, the Left needed a new hook—
Build back better became their motto and they looked to their largest donator—the NEA. Cancel culture, safe spaces, and ballot harvesting became the latest courses taught at universities from sea-to-shinning-sea, as the left leaning activists exploited the human frailties and inequities among the feckless student body, and promised change.
America didn’t die—she was murdered.
What looked like a sure win at midnight for President Charlotte Vice-Davidssen, became a lopsided loss—when millions of ballots appeared at the witching hour—long after voting sites closed for the evening. With the computer system used for counting votes, under the control of the Left, and leftist federal judges rejecting petitions for a revote, it was a slam dunk.
The FBI, whose leadership hated the past president more than anyone in American, vetted the results, and the left got their chosen one.
Jules had learned through her own sources—that the once squeaky-clean FBI knew well in advance how the election would end. Her thoughts drifted to a scene from one of her favorite Mark Wahlberg movies ‘Shooter’, where Wahlberg played retired Marine sniper Bob Lee Swagger, a hero framed for murder by the CIA. He was on the run seeking justice with an inexperienced FBI agent Nick Memphis, who was scapegoated by the FBI for Swagger’s escape. Memphis uncovered the CIA plot, and with nowhere to turn—the two of them took on the CIA.
Memphis called the FBI Director—certain that others would be listening in, and told the director that he had Bob Lee Swagger in custody. The FBI Director said to bring him in. Memphis said he couldn’t, it’s gotten too deep.
“—AND I DON’T KNOW WHO I CAN TRUST,” Memphis said.
“— BUT WE'RE THE FBI, SON.”
“—YEAH, I KNOW,” MEMPHIS SAID. “LIKE I SAID. I DON’T KNOW WHO I CAN TRUST.”
And neither did Jules—
Trust was earned, and she trusted no one outside her inner circle—especially the FBI and CIA.
Congress finally impeached Charlotte Vice-Davidssen as a citizen in a bipartisan vote. The impeachment was overturned by the House, but the Democrat controlled Congress didn’t care. They formed a bipartisan committee—heavily loaded in their favor, with the goal of proving that Vice-Davidssen was complicit for inciting insurrection at the Capitol building, and would waste tax payer money for the rest of the year destroying anyone in their path.
Slogans changed, and ‘Make America Great Again’ became ‘Build Back Better’ by the new president who ended each stuttering sentence with, “Come on Man”, and overturned every accomplishment of the prior administration.
After promising Pennsylvania voters he would maintain America’s leadership in the production of oil—President Sleepy Moe, with ‘Green is Keen’ as his new mantra, cancelled the KeyStone Pipeline project on his first day in office, and put over ten-thousand Pennsylvanians out of work. That move left America dependent on Russian for oil.
“What the Fuck,” Jules said to the TV screen. “That’s as smart as putting Hunter Biden on the board of a Ukrainian energy company.”
Within months, the price of gas doubled.
Sleepy Joe stopped the border wall project, and left hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of paid material to rust where it laid at the border. He stopped ICE from arresting illegal border crossers, and opened America to drug lords, violent criminals, and millions of virus untested illegal aliens. Then he transported the illegals to major cities across America, while Americans were under quarantine mandates.
His withdrawal from Afghanistan to appease the Left, had caused the death of hundreds of Americans, including thirteen US Marines—and left billions of dollars’ worth of military equipment behind for the enemy. Further mandates caused major global supply chain delays. Food chain shelves across America laid bare, and those that did receive goods, raised prices through the roof.
From his bully pulpit, he claimed he had more accomplishments in his short period as president than any other president, and dared a challenge form the reporters holding mics with out-stretched arms.
A reporter took the challenge—
The president stopped the reporter in mid-stream and called him a ‘lying dog-faced pony soldier’, then he screamed about the separation of illegal children from their criminal illegal alien parents. The ACLU ran with it and sued the state of Texas.
America didn’t just die—she was fucking murdered!
Build Back Worse—
A glutton for punishment, Dr. Jules Spenser continued to watch the primetime news, and with year one in the books, the worst was yet to come. Russia was the main topic on all three stations again, but it had nothing to do with impeachment. World War III was knocking on the door. Russia was daring the USA to draw a red line, and the left blamed it on climate warming.
Not for shit, though Jules. But a nuclear war might just cause climate warming.
Rioting and looting continued, and instead of arresting criminals—parents of school children were put on terror-watch lists by the FBI. Anyone who challenged the administration’s agenda on Critical Race Theory, genderism, and Marxism was called a Racist.
The president’s popularity continued to fall with each imposed disaster. Dyed-in-blue democrats who were raised by Kennedy era parents, began to doubt their choice.
On live TV, the bumbling president of the United States of America cursed out his opponents regarding the Roe vs Wade debacle. Stating no one had the right to tell a woman what she can and can’t do with her body. But he fired every federal employee who refused to get vaccinated.
WTF—
With midterm elections around the corner, the Deep State—a group of technocrats, plutocrats, and liberal apparatchiks installed in intelligence agency positions of charge by a prior president, had their concerns, too. Losing the House of Representatives would hurt, but losing control of Congress would be the death sentence to most of its members—impeachments and charges of treason were a given.
The word went out to the real movers and shakers—the decision makers behind the scenes, and they flocked to DC.
Mod
Sorry about the slip. And you were right. The passage came out of my current novel --The K2 Sanction. And you will love the chapters that follow. I will put quips out on FB as I finish it up. I expect a summer release. We the People take back America.
Mod
Cool!! :)
MUST CONTAIN your choice of one of these two quotes in your story,
“The greatest fools are oft times more clever than the men who laugh at them,” or “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
STORY PROMPTS
Use one, two, or all three prompts, your choice:
Prompt #1 A person lacking in judgment or prudence
Prompt #2 An Angel (your choice whether heavenly or fallen)
Prompt #3 one who is made to appear foolish or has a fondness for something such as a dancing fool, a fool for candy…
SETTING – Any, Past, Present or Future
PLOT – your choice
LENGTH: 750 to 1,000 Words
DEADLINE: Monday, April 25, 2022
Voting will take place between April 26th to April 30th. Winners will be posted in this thread on May 1st.
CHALLENGE GUIDELINES – Skip over this comment section if you are familiar with the Writers 750 Challenge.
GENRE: Fantasy, Thriller, Sci-Fi, Mystery, Crime, Comedy, Romance, or a mixture (BASICALLY, anything but erotica)
PURPOSE -
Some fiction writers are looking to win a short story contest, keeping in touch with making deadlines, and/or simply sharpening the skill of writing fiction. The main purpose of this contest is to sharpen plot and character skills, collect your own short stories, receive good feedback, make a good connection with other writers, and take a short break from your current novel to get a fresh view when you return to it.
RULES & DIRECTIONS -
• Type in English - a minimum of 750 words; a maximum of 1,000 words; no erotica, no profanity.
• Post your title, by line, and word count total in the first line of your story posting.
• Writers are responsible for their own copyright. Authors keep all rights. PRIVACY POLICY IS ENFORCED. COPYRIGHTS AND INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS BELONG TO INDIVIDUAL AUTHORS. THIS CONTEST DOES NOT GRANT ANY PERSON THE RIGHT OR LICENSE TO COPY OR USE OTHER STORIES. EACH STORY IS PROTECTED BY THE COPYRIGHT OF THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR.
• ONE entry per person, must be writer's original work, a final revision, and a new piece of writing. Please do not delete and re-post since this becomes confusing to the readers. Try to post your final revision.
JUDGING: The story will be judged on creativity, proper grammar, good punctuation, and overall good quality for story.
VOTING: Please vote for first, second, and third place. You are not allowed to vote for yourself. If posting this month, you MUST vote for your story to remain eligible.