2.Ø5
Argust 15, 2124, 7:56pm
Peace reigned on the landward face of the Helga Humbugger Library. A car rolled out of the library’s parking lot. The driver switched on her headlights to cut through the deepening dusk. One spunky little car, a blue Mooney Motors Mini, remained in the center of the lot. A pinpoint of light flashed intermittently on its dashboard.
“Ka-bam!” A sharp bang flushed a dozen birds out of the eucalyptus trees ringing the parking lot. Moments later, a metal door at the library's southeast corner rattled violently. More silence followed, and then with a resounding, “KA-BLAM!!” the door blasted open. Dozens more squawking birds erupted from their perches, while, unable to control his momentum, a man wearing a solid black unitard tumbled into the parking lot.
The library's alarm system erupted into full cry and spotlights flooded the parking lot. Shaking his head the cat burglar hustled back into the basement. The cat fumbled past the broken door and snatched hold of an overstuffed backpack. As he hoisted the straps over his shoulders the burglar shrank at the sound of approaching sirens. Clipping the pack’s hefty belt around his waist, the cat hustled outside and, racing toward the foliage, melted into the darkness.
Moments later, three police cruisers with lights blazing and sirens blaring skidded into the parking lot. Two officers burst out of their units, drew their weapons and hastened toward the smashed basement door. Their car radios crackled with urgent dispatches. A third officer switched on her door-mounted spotlight and began combing the parking lot's perimeter.
The black cat, who was surprisingly light on his feet, dove to the ground as the search beam scorched overhead. Panting, the cat lay on his belly, tense and fearful, as the searchlight homed in on his dust trail. Pulse pounding, the catman slid back his right sleeve to expose a sparkly, multi-hued dragon tattoo. Tapping a succession of keys embedded in the dragon’s spiky teeth, the tattooter’s quantro-drive nanomatrix activated and projected a 4-d dragon hologram on the black cat’s arm. The cat whispered an urgent series of commands to the dragon which puffed out a noxious cloud of fumes as it idled on the black cat’s arm. When the cat completed his command sequence, he said, “Y’ got that, Smog?”
The little dragon bowed, “Yes, Sensei. Will ...hack-hack...that be all, Sensei?”
The cat nodded and Smog croaked, “‘It is an honor...hack-hack...to serve, Sensei.”
Though he kept the thought to himself, the cat was annoyed that his brand new tattooter seemed to be powered by soft coal. Given the urgency of the moment, the catman set aside his irritation and commanded, "Off you go, Smoggie!” At the same instant, the search beam lit up the cat like a barbecued hotdog.
Through a bullhorn, the officer bellowed, “All units! I have located the suspect!” Then refocusing on the cat, Officer Bernice Dentley commanded, “You there! Stand up and put your hands behind your head!”
To elude detection, when the cat said “Go!” the little dragon had spread its wings and glided in a wide, low arc to the little blue Mooney. Upon arriving at the car, the dragon melted through the passenger-side window and smote the dashboard like an adorable little meteor. Through a plume of smoke, Smoggie choked, “Ca-hack-tain Solu? Hack-ack! You have been...ca-halled to hack-tion.”
In answer, a woman who was also clad in a black unitard popped up in the rear seat and said, “Thanks, Smoggie!”
“My hack-ak-ak…Grrr!” The little dragon hacked up a volcanic cloud of smoke, “My hack-ack...pleasure...Cack-tain!” Solu slipped into the driver’s seat and in the same motion powered down the Mooney’s passenger window. With a jerk of her thumb Solu signalled that it was time for Smoggie to clear out. Still hacking, Smoggie streaked back to the catman.
As soon as she was buckled in, Sian Solu retracted her unitard hood and exposed two dazzling green eyes. Solu’s extraordinary eyes equipped her with a superhuman ability to pilot any vehicle through any set of obstacles. No matter how hazardous.
In place of her hood, Sian slipped on a sleek racing helmet. Sian’s laser green eyes cast an eerie luminescence throughout the Mooney’s interior. Peering through her face shield, Solu surveyed the surrounding activity while firing up the Mooney’s hot little engine. As a precaution, Solu switched on her hazard lights before throwing the Mooney into reverse and, with tires smoking, hurtling straight toward Officer Dentley.
Instantly alert to the danger, Dentley dove into her cockpit. Solu smashed Dentley’s door closed and then sideswiped her rear fender. Neither car was damaged enough to prevent a chase. While Dentley seized her radio and called for additional backup, the Mooney whirled past the other stationary cruisers and gave each a solid whack before hightailing out of the parking lot.
Wasting no time, as soon as Solu had launched her attack, the catman took to his heels. The cat was confident that Solu would keep the police occupied for at least the next thirty blippets. In approximately twenty-two blippets, Solu planned to exit the north end of campus via an unpaved service road. Solu would whiz four kilometers along a gravel track and, after activating the Mooney’s self-destruct sequence, Solu would launch the Mooney off of a three hundred foot seacliff. As the Mooney plummeted, Solu would eject a split sekkent before the Mooney exploded into a million scorched smithereens. SBC’s keystone cops would search in vain for Solu’s charred remains.
The black cat grinned. He was practically home free. While Sian drew attention to the north, the cat would escape unmarked to the south. After exiting SBC, the cat would proceed to his rendezvous at Diablo Point, a rugged, wave-washed outcrop two kilometers south of Santa Barbara College.
Aided by night-vision goggles, the catman hastened through the trees fringing SBC’s southern boundary. Locating a disused footpath, the cat padded silently along it despite its thick clutter of eucalyptus litter. Hyper-attuned to any sign of pursuit, the cat darted from tree to tree as he scurried along the dusty path. As the footpath approached the seacliff it plunged into a steep arroyo. The gulch cut a delightfully concealed route to the beach.
After placing one foot in the arroyo, the cat froze at the unmistakable crack of gunfire.
That was unexpected.
Peering through the trees, the cat grew indecisive. Solu had not outfitted the Mooney to withstand gunfire because the cat had assured her that the cops would never discharge their weapons on campus. While he dithered Smoggie started to steam and whistle like a tea kettle coming to boil. The tattooter was right. There was no way to help Solu now. The cat burglar would just have to hope that Solu was as indomitable as advertised. The black cat hastened into the arroyo and scuttled down to the beach.
A breeze whistled through the ornately eroded crevice. Combined with the thunder of low-tide breakers, every peep of the hubbub on campus soon faded. Adjusting audio controls beneath his right ear, the catman was able to resume monitoring the chaos on campus. Occasional pops of gunfire echoed through the arroyo and set the cat’s teeth on edge.
At the base of the cliff, the arroyo opened onto a wide, sandy beach. The cat hung back and scanned for signs of life. SBC’s nightlights cast a faint luminosity over the sand. The cat tinkered with his hood-mounted goggles. When he shifted to beach-life mode, the shoreline came alive with a riot of nocturnal activity. Birds, bugs, and other creatures of the night scurried across the sand unaware that the cat now spied their every movement.
Intriguing as it might have been for some, the cat had no interest in the peculiarities of intertidal marine life. He had eyes for one species only. An exhaustive survey of the coastline revealed that the nearest humans were several kilometers offshore in small fishing boats. When Smoggie confirmed that report, the catman heaved a sigh. For a few minutes it had been touch-and-go, but the cat was finally convinced that he had escaped SBC unmarked.
As he rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck, the cat began to feel constricted inside his protective hood. To remedy that problem, the catman pinched the fabric at the base of his throat. Instantly, a bright flash lit his fingertips and arced in a thin circle around his neck. With a hiss of escaping oxygen, the catman’s hood recoiled like a window blind into a tiny storage chamber at the base of his skull.
For the first time in an hour, Maxwell Muddle could feel fresh air on his cheeks. The evening breeze blew a chill across his forehead. Muddle raked the hair loose from his scalp and, feeling much perkier, he adjusted his backpack and trotted to the water.
Without the aid of audio amplifiers, the uproar on campus wafted to the beach in staccato bursts. SBC’s south lagoon lay between Muddle and campus. Some of SBC’s most venerable buildings ringed the lagoon. Without doubt, it was one of SBC’s most attractive features: a brackish inlet surrounded by sweeping landscaped lawns. As is often the case with superficial beauty, the lagoon’s charms were more artifice than reality.
It had cost SBC a fortune to carve a false front out of the shoreline’s natural cliff face. In addition, it required massive annual outlays to repair the damage inflicted by seasonal rain and storm waves. Still, the investment had paid for itself many times over. Dazzling sunsets over the faux lagoon attracted a never-ending stream of once and future alumni.
Muddle was about to turn south when a horrendous clamor broke out. The little blue Mooney with its horn honking ecstatically exploded onto the lagoon’s east lawn. Right on the Mooney’s heels came a fleet of black and whites. The sea of cruisers, with lights flashing and sirens wailing, mowed down hedges, tore up flower beds and annihilated wicker furniture. Fanning out behind the Mooney, the cops appeared to be gaining the upper hand. As it angled down the lawn, the Mooney flung itself into a dizzying spin. Hurling a cyclone of mud and sand, the Mooney staved off its pursuers as they collided into a demolition derby-style blockade.
Unnerved by this spectacle, Muddle summoned Smoggie to see if Sian needed help. The little smoke-bomb streaked across the lagoon to powwow with Solu. Moments later, Smoggie zipped back and perched on Muddle’s arm. Through their reptilian intermediary, Captain Solu informed Muddle that, as usual, she had her business completely under control. As for Muddle, Solu urged the meddlesome professor to devote the entirety of his remaining energies to minding his own business.
Muddle clicked his tongue. Message received.
Thinking they finally had the Mooney cornered, officers began springing out of their vehicles. Taking up positions behind their cars, the cops started peppering the Mooney with a hail of bullets. A stray slug shattered the Mooney’s driver side mirror into a cloud of glassy fragments. As if in outrage, the Mooney's hood, hatch and doors began flapping like bird's wings. With the Mooney’s appendages all aflutter Sian backed all the way down to the lagoon’s edge. There was no escape in that direction unless the Mooney could somehow sprout fins and swim. Puzzled by the Mooney’s tactics, officers along the blockade exchanged confused glances. Several holstered their weapons and edged toward their cockpits. Officer Dentley, who was cruising behind the barricade, bellowed into her PA system, "Hold your positions! We have the assailant cornered! I repeat, hold your positions!!"
At the bottom of the hill, Sian brought the Mooney to rest and throttled down to an idle. With its headlights directed at the ring of cars it looked like the Mooney had summoned the phalanx of cruisers to attend a bizarre after-hours lecture. During the lull, the sound of gunfire increased as several sharpshooters seized the opportunity to fire at a stationary target. One especially well aimed slug took out the Mooney's left headlight. The lamp expired with a dramatic explosion of glass and sparks.
In response to this affront, Sian tooted the Mooney’s horn ferociously. Moments later, the horn quieted only to be replaced with the high-pitched scream of the Mooney’s engine revving to the red line. With RPMs at the max, Sian dropped into gear with a transmission-mangling crunch. Fishtailing crazily, Sian tore up the slope and angled toward a tantalizing seam in the police blockade. The Mooney’s doors remained splayed open, evoking a bizarre, quixotic madness to Solu’s suicidal charge.
From her position behind the barricade, Officer Dentley spotted the seam that Solu was hoping to exploit. Yanking her car into reverse, Dentley floored her accelerator and smashed the gap closed a millisekkent before the Mooney’s arrival.
Not to be outdone, in the same fractured instant Solu whipped the Mooney into a wrenching right turn. Instead of dissipating its momentum on a fruitless collision with Dentley's bumper, the Mooney slewed sideways and plowed door-first into the squad car. The Mooney’s hydraulic door yielded under the bone crunching impact, but only momentarily. Rather than smashing shut, in the blink of an eye, the door collapsed to absorb much of the impact and then sprang back; much like the action of a vaulter’s pole and achieving much the same effect.
To the astonishment of all, the Mooney sprang into a high, twirling arc above the thunderstruck police officers. After completing no less than three barrel rolls—throughout which Solu saluted the cops with a Vulcan peace sign—the Mooney hit the ground on the uphill side of the blockade. Solu tooted the Mooney’s horn jeeringly before tear-assing back to the center of the campus.
While her fellow officers gaped, Bernice Dentley shook her head. Why did the craziest stuff always happen on her shift? Surreal as it may have been, Dentley and her colleagues still had a job to do. Disbelieving the words even as she uttered them, Dentley roared, “Attention, all units! We have a fleeing suspect to apprehend! Return to your vehicles and resume pursuit! Let’s move!”
The officers responded like they were lost in a waking nightmare. One after another, the cops fumbled into their cockpits, revved their engines and set off in pursuit of the psychotic Mooney.
Fearing that the Mooney’s lease on life was dwindling fast, Muddle spun on his heel and raced toward Diablo Point. Muddle jogged in the dense, wet sand closer to the surf. In addition to finding firmer footing, Muddle was eager to erase all evidence of his passing as quickly as possible. Although his overstuffed backpack groaned with each footfall, Muddle breezed along with only the slightest effort. Among his unitard’s many amazing features, Muddle’s favorite was its strength-enhancing tensioners.
Like most professors, Muddle spent the majority of his time behind a desk. Although he kept reasonably fit, Muddle was no prize fighter. Without the unitard, even a brief sprint would have left Muddle hopelessly winded. With the unitard, Muddle could shoulder backbreaking loads while chugging along at a pace that would humble most track stars.
Muddle restricted his pace to minimize damage to his backpack. While the unitard was nigh on indestructible, Muddle's backpack was much less remarkable. Gentle as his pace had been, Muddle had already popped several of the pack’s double-stitched seams. The good news was that there was no point in hurrying. According to Smoggie, seven blippets remained before Muddle’s 8:45pm departure. The less time Muddle lingered at the rendezvous, the better.
As he approached Diablo Point its crags became clearer and more intimidating. A fresh breeze lashed the Point and whipped up whitecaps that pounded the barnacle-crusted rocks.
Diablo Point was famous for its unique wave break that, when conditions were just right, afforded surfers a quarter-myle of rideable, but treacherous swells. Over the jahrs, more than one surfer had misjudged the baffling array of hidden rocks and shifting currents and had been claimed by “the Devil.” Or, at least, that’s what locals whispered to out-of-towners.
Muddle slowed to a walk as he approached the Point. Once again summoning his bio-scanning goggles, Muddle inspected his surroundings minutely. In the midst of his search, a shooting star streaked overhead. Muddle cursed and fell flat to the sand. Just to be safe, he remained on his belly while completing the rest of his survey.
When he was satisfied that there was no human activity, Muddle sprang to his feet and jogged to a hump of sand on the north side of Diablo Point. He shrugged off his backpack and dug through it until he located a small, pen-shaped object. Holding the device lengthwise, he twisted in opposite directions. In response, the pen stretched into a meter long, ultra-thin transponder.
Assaying the low-lying dune, Muddle tested the ground with a toe while casting an appraising eye to the horizon. Finally settling on a particular spot, he stabbed the antenna deep into the sand. Once planted, Muddle touched a tiny sensor atop the antenna. In answer, the curious device emitted a pinpoint of bluish light that, ingeniously, was only detectable by vessels approaching from the sou’west.
Muddle checked his tattooter. Smoggie hacked up the news that Muddle was still three blippets ahead of schedule. Although he was usually a stickler for running precisely on time, Muddle desperately hoped that the transponder might encourage his transport—How had Thud described it? “...a right proper lanskip!” —to arrive a few blippets early.
Now that he was on the cusp of departure, Muddle was assailed by anxiety. In addition to an overpowering sense of urgency, Muddle felt painfully exposed. Practically crawling out of his skin, Muddle trotted back to his pack to search for any other devices that might hasten the lanskip’s arrival. Thus distracted, Muddle was caught napping by an armed intruder.
“What-o, old chap! You must be that dashed Muddle bloke everyone’s nattering about. Ay, what?” An absurdly overdressed man whose accent hovered somewhere between Glasgow and Barkingmad hastened toward Muddle, “Would you be so kind as to hoist your clappers, mate?”
Heart in his throat, Muddle’s mind screamed. Who is this!?!
The stranger was tall, slim and wore an impeccable evening suit. The bespoke gent also carried a pistol that he aimed at Muddle’s vitals, “I say old bean, would you mind dancing a caper?” The dapper dude whirled a finger to illustrate, “You seem a right cob and, I’d rather not gawp your mug when I plink you.”
“Plink me?!?” Muddle cried, “Why are you going to plink me?”
“Ach!” The Brit groused, “Would that I knew, mate. Just between us punters, the spyin' game i’n’t what it used to be. Not by ‘alf, but...” The agent’s eyes took on a dreamy cast,”...back in me salad days! Those wuz a merry mess of capers! Gurgling vodka, ponking biglies, snogging petunias. Ah, those were the days, Jim! But now it’s come to this…?” He snorted at Muddle, “...Special Branch has me punching timecards for wankers like you! I despair for the profession, mate, I really do...”
“Hey, wait a sekkent!” Muddle squeaked, “Did you say Special Branch?”
“Err…” The agent squinted at Muddle, “...I may ‘ave, ya’ ruddy berk… What of it?”
“Oh, nothing...” Muddle gulped, “but, y-...you’re not that notorious secret agent who goes by the name of…Bunk...are you?”
“Heh-heh, 'at’s right mate,” The assassin never tired of introductions, “Me name is Bunk…” Pause, “...James Bunk.” The double-O extended his right hand, “Pleased to meet yer, guv.”
“Oh...great...thanks...” Muddle shook Bunk’s hand gingerly, “Y-...you’ve racked up quite the body count during your career haven’t you...eh...Bunk? Heh-heh...”
“Oh, that.” Bunk harrumphed, though he was clearly pleased to be infamous by reputation, “Anyone could have done it, laddie. Anyone…” Bunk stole a moment to check the time, “Crikey! I'm late fer me bridge club.” Frantically, the double-O thrust his Saltwater PPK into Muddle’s sternum, “Right! Cough up the secret code Beano, or I’ll do you a treat!”
“Er…” Muddle looked lost, “...sorry, Bunk, I have no ide-…”
Suddenly, less than a kilometer offshore a three-masted Yankee Whipper erupted from beneath the waves.
Muddle’s jaw dropped. Pointing at the ship, he quailed, “D-...did you see that, Bunk? That ship popped out of the water like... a champagne cork!”
“Bloody ‘ell…!” Bunk cried, “I’ve never seen the like, ‘ave I?"
Before Bunk could say any more, the Yankee Whipper began firing its cannons. Bursts of cannonfire revealed that the Whipper was hot on the heels of a smaller boat. The Whipper’s prey looked more like a half-submerged bank vault than a seaworthy vessel. Nonetheless, Muddle felt a thrill of delight when he spotted a pinpoint of bluish light on the bank vault’s prow.
A hail of cannonfire shattered the ocean aft of the vault. The Yankee Whipper’s crew adjusted their trajectories and quickly loosed another volley. Each time a cannonball struck the vault, a resonating “Ka-Thunnkkk!!” rattled the teeth of the beachfront observers.
“Cockles and mussels…!” Exclaimed Bunk. “Ee’s for it now, i’n’t ‘ee, luv?”
“Is that supposed to be a question?” Muddle growled, “‘Cause I didn’t understand a thing you said.”
Being a historian, it irked Muddle that the Yankee Whipper’s cannons fired more rapidly than they should have. However, Muddle didn’t dwell overlong on that mystery because, ever since it had surfaced, the Yankee Whipper had been cruising upwind against the current without any detectable means of propulsion. Muddle wondered if he had taken one too many headache tablets that afternoon.
Luckily for the bank vault, it had enough thrust in its engines to outpace the Whipper, but only just. As the vault closed in on Diablo Point, it switched on its deck lights. Muddle howled, “Nooooooo!!” The professor suspected that igniting party lights while under fire was not considered a ‘best practice’ among salty sea dogs.
“Smoggie," Muddle barked at his tattooter, "I need a pair of night-vision binoculars!” As soon as Smoggie deployed the binoculars, Muddle scanned the vault from stem to stern. Muddle was pleased to spot a fine mesh of laser-shielding whenever a cannonball struck the vault.
Under magnification, Muddle could see that the vault was merely the upper tier of a much larger vessel. As Muddle marveled at the ship’s titanic wake, the boat collided with a wave that boosted its prow just high enough to expose the ship’s moniker: Star Truck CNN-1701.
Bunk tapped Muddle’s arm, “Oi. Is it just me, ducks, or is them crates ‘eadin’ straight for the rocks?”
In its zeal to outpace the Whipper, Star Truck's skipper had failed to consider other existential hazards. The Yankee Whipper had herded Star Truck into a trap. What the Whipper could not accomplish with its guns it would delegate to El Diablo’s maw.
"Ka-Rrunnccchh!!" At full throttle, Star Truck torpedoed headlong into El Diablo’s submerged boulders. For a moment, the collision popped Star Truck’s bow completely out of the water, but the ship’s defiance of gravity was short-lived. Star Truck slammed down on a battlement of serrated rocks that crunched deep into its hull.
In a desperate attempt to jostle off the rocks, Star Truck’s skipper gunned its docking thrusters. Alas, instead of shaking free, this maneuver only jammed the stranded ship deeper into El Diablo’s gullet.
When the docking thrusters proved ineffective, Star Truck fired its primary jets. The skipper gunned the engines for all they were worth. A long roostertail spewed from Star Truck's stern. The ungainly vessel shuddered and held fast.
“AAaaagggh, no!” Muddle howled, “You’ll rip out the bottom!” Heedless, the luckless skipper gunned Star Truck's engines higher and higher. Each added decibel drove a stake deeper into Muddle’s fast-breaking heart.
Eventually, with a gut-grinding Scccrrunchh!! Star Truck blasted free of the rocks. Sadly, the skipper's woeful miscalculations had condemned Star Truck to a watery grave. The ship went down like a cold beer in July. "Glug-glug-glug..." There was no sign of survivors.
“The fools!” Not knowing what else to do, Muddle appealed to Bunk, “You’re a secret agent, aren't you?! You must know what to do in situations like this!”
“That’s a bad job, that is.” The double-O shook his head, “I prefer the ‘ollywood endings, I does. This 'ere...” He gestured at the swirls of foam marking Star Truck’s demise, “...this is rubbish. It’s like a Swedish film.”
Muddle frowned, “What are you babbling about, Bunk? This isn’t a movie.”
“Course it’s a movie,” Bunk rounded on Muddle, “What else would it be?”
“Wait...what…?” Muddle suddenly felt woozy. Having nothing to clutch for support, Muddle collapsed dizzily to the sand, “Aww, geez…” Muddle complained, “...my stomach’s churning, I...I can’t catch my breath…”
“Don’t worry, guv.” Bunk checked the ammunition in his handgun, “I’ll have you right in two shakes...” The double-O stood over Muddle and cocked the pistol, “Any last words?”
Try as he might, Muddle couldn’t clear the cobwebs. Bizarre images swam in and out of his consciousness. Muddle tried to swat them away, but in his delirium, all he could do was groan, “ugghh...”
“What a tosser!” Bunk jeered, “For the last time, you 'opeless wanker, ‘ave you any last words?”
The rising tide flung a mischievous wave far up the beach. Bunk cursed as the sweeper soaked his shoes. The cold surf also jolted Muddle out of his delirium. Muddle’s vision cleared just as Bunk leveled the PPK at his nose. The professor gaped at the gun and then shouted, “Oh, my stars, Bunk! Watch out for that giant clam!!”
Meanwhile...
“White supremacy is an outrage!” Uranus Blowhard was holding his first cabinet meeting. “Just look at yourselves! Every one of you is a rich white snob!”
A few of Blowhard’s sniveling secretaries tried to defend themselves, but el Presidente wouldn’t hear of it. “And don’t tell me white privilege is a fiction! ‘Cause it’s everywhere you look! For crying out loud…” He appealed to the heavens, “...we’re meeting in the White House! What more evidence do you need?”
“But Mr. President…?” One of the reporters in the Free Speech Cage cried out, “...aren’t you a white supremacist too?”
“Eh?” Blowhard scoured the room, “Who said that?”
“Eek!” The guilty party raised her hand, “I...I’m Argy Bargy, sir, your Faux News correspondent.”
“Hmmpf…” Blowhard scoffed, “…I expect Faux News reporters to show a little more subservience.” The orange blob pointed at his mug, “Do I look like a white supremacist?”
“Er…” Argy Bargy’s tongue refused to cooperate.
While Argy Bargy was carted off to the dungeon, Blowhard turned to his cabinet team, “What about you weenies? Do you think I’m a white supremacist too?”
Blowhard’s cabinet was even more tongue-tied than Argy.
“Nothing?” Blowhard’s lip curled, “You can’t answer a simple question?” Like most despots, Blowhard derived great pleasure from making his lackeys squirm, “It doesn’t take genius to see that I am not a white supremacist. How could I be?” The President rolled up his sleeves to expose creamsicle orange arms, “Truth be told, there is no one I despise more than white supremacists.”
Ironically, Blowhard’s cabinet chose that of all moments to morph from white to green skin.
“That is why I am pleased to announce that, as of right now…” Blowhard lingered gleefully over the moment, “...white supremacy is dead.”
You could have heard a feather drop in the meeting room.
“Say it with me brothers and sisters…” Blowhard sallied shamelessly to the top of his own mountain, “A new day has dawned. I hereby decree that henceforth Amerricans will celebrate Argust 15, 2124 as day-one of Amerrica’s Post-Paleface Period." Blowhard whipped out a hankie and theatrically dabbed his dry eyes, "No longer will heartless white overlords persecute Amerrica's communities of color.”
From sea to shining sea pasty-faced old boys broke out in a cold sweat.
“Beginning right now…” Blowhard rapped his knuckles on the table, “...I am calling upon all Amerricans to join me in creating a kinder, gentler pigment-loving society. At long last, Amerrica will no longer be held hostage by corrupt white supremacists. Instead, Post-Paleface Amerrica will be governed by only the best and brightest...” Blowhard’s face twisted into a self-satisfied smirk, “...Orange Supremacists!”