I’ve chosen “Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.” It’s a bit potty humour, so I have my doubts.
A Gravy New World
Chapter 1.
A SQUAT grey building of only thirty-four stories. Over the main entrance the words GRUMP TOWERS NY, and, in a shield, the motto MAKE AMERICA WHITE AGAIN.
The small room on the ground floor faced towards the north. Not that the solitary occupant would know it, for this room lacked windows of any kind, just a ceiling ventilator. And a can of deodorising spray. The light bulb has expired, which is a metaphor for the willingness of the MAWA faithful outside the door to respond to the cries coming from within. Only a harsh thin light under the crack at the bottom of the door hungrily seeks out the porcine shape of a draped figure tearing feverishly at an adult nappy in this glass and nickel and bleakly shining porcelain throne room.
“I’m not going in there,” said Director of Communications, Alan J Shwartz III. He rummaged in his pockets for his Grump Nostrilators ™ and finding none backed away from the door, which had the words “Decanting Room” engraved on a brass plate stuck to its surface.
“Whiny lil bitch,” snapped Hiram B Orkswipe Jnr, the newest of Ron Grump’s legal representatives. New as in the third one that week. He took a step forward and swung the door open. “Fuck my luck. I think he’s died.”
“Naw, that’s just his Wednesday special,” the Director said. “He incubates it on Monday and Tuesday, I reckon. Then blam, it forces its way out like a rampaging rodeo bull chasing the purdiest cow on the pasture.”
“Jeezus, you don’t need an aerosol, you need a toxicology report,” Orkswipe said, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Get me an intern,” Shwartz intoned to a clipboard carrying aide hovering near his shoulder.
The aide snapped her perfectly manicured fingers and a troop of newly arrived students, very young, pink and callow, stepped forward nervously, and rather abjectly, to the Director’s side. Each was dressed in their preppy best, wearing a bright red MAWA baseball cap, and carrying a notebook.
“Will these do?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Director Schwartz nodded like a plastic dog on the dashboard of a thirty-year-old Buick in the aftershock of a six-point-seven earthquake.
“Yah,” he responded. He cast a gimlet eye over the assembled flesh, as he liked to think of them. Two boys and three girls. He made a mental note of the names emblazoned on their breast badges. ‘Hi, I’m Farrell’ looked like a suitable candidate: tall, athletic, and dumb as a rock. He beckoned to the young man, and when he stepped forward, put an arm around his shoulders.
“Just to give you a general idea,” he said. For of course some sort of general idea he must have, if he was to do his work diligently. For particulars, as everyone knows, make for virtue and happiness; generalities are intellectually necessary evils. “The former and future president is having some difficulties with an adult sanitary item. Without specifics, I want you to ensure those impediments are placed in a negatory sitrep asap, unnerstan, son?”
“Sir, yes sir,” the trust-fund-baby snapped to attention.
“This ain’t the army, son,” Schwartz eased the young intern towards the door. “Jus’ take a deep breath and narrow your eyes. You’ll be fine an’ dandy. I saw worse in Vietnam.”
With a gentle push, he sent the intern through the door and waited.
“Fucking Jesus H Christ,” a voice yelled shrilly from inside the throne room.
“Don’t breathe, son,” Schwartz commanded. It was, however, too late, and the sound of projectile vomiting escaped like a cautionary tale from a hooker’s bathroom. “And don’t look at anything.”
The door swung open, and the young intern fell through, clutching a black plastic bin liner, which was bulging like a hiatus hernia on a retired football coach.
“Show this brave young man to the incinerator room,” Schwartz instructed the Sacks clad aide. “And call the janitors, the fire department, and the Centre for Disease Control.”
“What about the Marine Corps, sir?” she asked, making a note on her clipboard.
“Forget them. They refuse to come out to Grump incidents nowadays. Can’t say I blame the sons o’ bitches. The last time they attended, they had more casualties than the Bay of Pigs,” Schwartz grimaced as he remembered the time President Ron was golfing with a group of geriatric CEOs from some Super PAC in 2020, and he got that look. The Secret Service ushered him behind a clump of palm trees on the ninth fairway, but the blast was so explosive it took out a passing flight of herons on their way to their nesting grounds in southern Florida. FEMA called out the National Guard, but their local commander took one look and put in a call to the Marine Corps. They had to build a new field hospital after the cleanup operation, and that was just for the medical orderlies who pulled the poleaxed grunts from ground zero. Even the Navy Seals refused to get involved after that.
“Understood sir,” the aide replied, making another note.
“Maybe we should get one of those remote control robotic arms the bomb defusilators use,” suggested Orkswipe.
“What the hell in tarnation is a defusilator?” Schwartz demanded, whirling on the lawyer, his face as thunderous as November in Oklahoma.
“It’s one of those guys who wears the dough boy outfits and defuses bombs,” Orkswipe held his hands up in mock surrender.
“They’re called the EOD. The Explosive Ordnance Disposal unit. We had one. It stopped working after two Wednesday events. The arm corroded. The Army refused to take it back, so we sent it to the Russians. Apparently, President Putang has similar issues, only his is on accord of a known fondness for stewed beetroot. President Ron is all about chicken gravy, which is a different order of toxicity. The UN tried to ban it, but we said we’d cut their funding and they folded like wet newspaper.”
Schwartz looked the remaining interns over. They were an innocent bunch, all teeth and four point zero GPAs. Cute though. He could feel a couple of promotions coming on.
One girl stepped forward, her name tag said, “Hi, call me Emily.”
“Shouldn’t we see if the President is okay?” she asked, her voice tinkling like a bell in a Dickensian sweet shop.
“What’s your name, honey?” Schwartz oiled, a wide grin on his pockmarked face.
She pointed at her tag, and Schwartz shook his head. “Your other name.”
“Err Foster,” she said, a faint blush riding up her face. “Emily Foster, sir, of the Maine Fosters.”
“Well, Ms Foster, the President will be just fine. I expect he’s taking his medication right now. That’s iffen he has a mirror in there. Besides, there’s some things a fine young thing like you should just never see, and this is one of them,” Schwartz, stepped into her discomfit zone. “I do have an idea of some things I’d like to show you though.”
Ms Foster was disappointed, she’d dreamed of running to the assistance of the President, who was something of a hero to her.
“Please. Couldn’t I have just one glance at the Decanting Room,” she pleaded.
“Very well then.” The Director smiled indulgently. “Just one glance.”
It was a glance that would change her forever. Alan Schwartz smiled lasciviously. Young ladies in a state of emotional distress were his meat and potatoes. And gravy.
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