Gas Tank-29, The Serial Novel
Queen Tulsi approached the glass encasement encompassing the pacing War Criminal.
The Monarch’s eyes were slightly narrowed, almost imperceptibly.
It was actually a fairly large container, about the size of a one bedroom NYC apartment, well furnished. A giant video screen filled half of one wall, a comfortable twin sized bed tucked in the adjacent corner, a closet, a small kitchen area. Some shitty potted plants. Not bad for a prison cell.
One could only imagine how much restraint the hardened war veteran turned monarch was using to modulate her emotion.
But those eyes…those ever so slightly narrowed eyes… just barely gave her away. She loathed this creature behind the glass.
Visting Advisor Steve Kirsch was still yukking it up with Tulsi’s giggling henchmen, meanwhile Hillary had ceased angrily pacing and now slowly walked to the small slits in the glass towards Gabbard…her hideous lavender pant suit making a scritch, scritch, scritch friction noise with each step.
Tulsi gave the boys a wave of her hand that said “Get the fuck out of here for a minute,” but her laser eyes never wavered from her prey.
Henchman #1 nodded and the two of them gently accosted Steve and nudged him towards a lounge type area down the empty tomb like hall.
The queen spoke softly through a barely clenched jaw. Her cadence was measured, deliberate.
“I tried to work with you, Hillary. Your attitude has not improved. Did I not buy you this new lavender pantsuit? I saw you looking at it during your allotted computer time. I sent you a Livingston as a sign of detente. You threw it on the ground. I let you watch the Qaddafi video on a loop. That’s your favorite!”
Hillary spits on the wall again. She had apparently saved some caramel sauce from her Livingston just for this moment, and the expectorant was brown and sticky and clung to the glass.
The Queen betrayed no emotion and stoicly meted out her punishment.
“You will now be in solitary for 48-hours. You will watch the Epstein tapes of your disgusting pig of a husband on a loop, only interrupted with cutaway footage of you and your crying followers during your miserable loss to Trump.”
The video screen flickers to life with nauseating footage of Bill Clinton on the Epstein Island plane. That grating signature dopey laugh booming through the sound system as he leers and paws at a young girl who appears to be about sixteen. The entire glass encasement begins to glide downwards, like a shitty lipid nanoparticle carrying HIV and mRNA to some hapless cells in some hapless body; tunneling silently deeper into the Earth as if it was a giant elevator descending into Hell. Which…it was.
Tulsi turned to fetch Kirsch. She had a Pinto problem to deal with.
As she strode away, she could hear the guttural angry cries of a wounded dangerous animal….
“Bbbiiiiiitttttttccccchhhhhh.”
The Queen finally breaks. A slight smile morphs gently into a suppressed laugh. You could almost see a little girl inside her for an instant. The little girl that she had long protected whilst seeing things that no person should ever see.
The little girl was still there. She had made it. Intact. And the queen had protected that little girl. Let her have a laugh. Let her have a moment, goddammit.
::Bob, give me that shot with Tulsi screen left, exactly, right, she stays there in the corner as we track, right… on a dolly and we need to see the glass house going down in the background. Great…just like that…Can we get Hills crawling up on the bed like she’s a rat trying not to drown..Yes…good…Oh that’s good…Like she’s climbing…okay, yes…perfect…oh, that shit’s funny, let’s shoot this…:::
:: Key change in a song, we shift to present tense ::it gives me a headache, though:: shut up:: galoshes::
Tulsi and Kirsch are now wandering around the Pinto automotive lab.
A worker bee is installing the new replacement gas tank.
The Queen has showered and changed clothes.
It’s been a busy morning so far, yoga and calisthenics at 6-AM, conference calls, that Hillary business, and now she had only a few minutes to go over the Pinto issues with Kirsch before she was to meet Glen Walgreen’s and Joe Rogan for their weekly podcast.
Walgreen’s had remained a staunch supporter of the replacement gas tank despite the undeniable rising tide of explosions; Rogan knew down in his gut that they were defective.
The Queen was in a real quandary. The new Global America was still shaky.
The demise of the new Pinto would undermine her credibility in a hurry. People loved this new car. They were desperate for anything to erase the nightmare of Injectiongate and the subsequent war. Nostalgia loomed in the air.
Tulsi also knew that Rogan knew. And Rogan knew that Tulsi knew he knew. It was an awkward dynamic all around, and she did not look forwards to trying to spin this deal one more week.
“Steve, what do you think? We can’t get anyone to find a problem. But the bodies are piling up…four at a time. I’m just not sure…”
She pauses. Fuck it.
“Steve, we have a saboteur. And it’s not just here in Hawaii. It’s coordinated.”
Steve is laser focused.
“This is the new tank. It’s just produced right. Same batch? As before?”
Tulsi nods.
“Same batch.”
Steve taps the bumper with his foot gently.
That was a mistake.
Somewhere deep in the bowels of a volcano bunker glass prison, a cackle echoed upwards into the ether..
A cackling rat wearing a hideous lavender pantsuit rolling around in a funnel cake and caramel sauce and vanilla ice cream self created mess as the sounds of Bill Clinton doing disgusting Bill Clinton things powered through a sound system.
The rat dipped her finger into the caramel sauce and tasted.
“The Livingston is delicious,” she mocked.
Then she began chanting over and over, “I’m with her, I’m with her, I’m with her” over and over and over and over and over and over.
A childlike chant filled with malice made incongruous as Groaning Bill Clinton flickered across the screen…
::cackle cackle cackle::chant::chant::chant
The madness was upon her.
If one looked closely, in the flickering light of a hideous video of a hideous man doing hideous things, one might have seen an exploding…sabotaged…Ford Pinto. One might have seen a fireball gleaming in the demented eyes of a demented woman in a demented lavender pantsuit.
Queen Tulsi was dead.
Whoa! That was an intense episode, amirite?!!
Look fam! I have a new donation set up. It’s called “Ko-fi”.
Pretty much just like Buy Me a Coffee. Supposedly doesn’t charge as much in fees.
I’ll leave both links.
If you enjoy my work and wish to make a small donation, then smash either link!
I APPRECIATE YOU GUYS.
Note to self: next time do not touch the bumper.
Literary salve for our times. Sage!