Hail to the Chiefs (7)
Oct. 27th, 2011 11:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolNixon and I stagger up to the grotto level. It's like a battlefield. The smoke has largely cleared and the lights are on, but many of them have been shot up. The tombs are pocked with bullet craters, and the forms of dead men lie slumped in niches and sprawled in bloody piles. None of them look presidential.
We turn west and mount the steps to the central altar. All at once Aaron Burr sprints into the chamber from the north and draws up short. He has a cutlass in one hand and an Uzi in the other. "Hello," he says, looking faintly puzzled.
And then Jefferson flies in from the south. He has a flamethrower strapped to his back. Where did the third president of the United States get a flamethrower? Sometimes it is best not to ask certain questions. "Hello," says Jefferson, including Burr in his greeting.
"It would seem," Burr says, "that our weapons are hardly suitable for a gentleman's mode of dueling."
"Absolutely," agrees Jefferson. "For instance, it's almost impossible for me to miss you with this thing."
"You were a terrible president," Burr remarks.
"And you were the worst vice-president," Jefferson replies. There is a pregnant pause.
"Hey, you know what we need right now?" says Nixon brightly.
"What?" I ask.
"Floor!" says Nixon. He drags me to the ground, a split second before bullets fly and gouts of flame fill the grottoes.
"So they were running mates?" I ask Nixon, who's on top of me. He smells like old leather and Brylcreem.
"Yeah," mutters Nixon. "Used to be that veeps got the Process too, just in case. But then things soured between Burr and Jefferson; that was the end of that tradition."
The fight moves off to the east. "We should get out of here," I tell Nixon.
"Yeah, gimme a second," says Nixon. He rolls off me stiffly. He's weeping a little black fluid again.
"How's your head?" I ask, concerned.
"Head's fine," grumbles Nixon. "Burr just shot me in the ass."
We limp a little slower than before up the spiral stairs into the Basilica. Teddy's at the top of the stairs, punching some Juiced-up bishop in the gut repeatedly.
"Fifty-eight!...fifty-nine!...." Teddy turns to face us. "Hey, you know what works, boyos? Body blows. They got no strength in the breadbasket, see, but as for messing up their brains, they ain't got none – see?" He smiles jacks downwards. "You're banged up, Rookie."
"Just a scratch," mumbles Nixon. "Okay, a gouge. A minor amputation, nothing more."
Teddy whistles. "Hey! Lincoln. Rookie's taken fire, undoubtedly while hiding under a pew or somesuch." Lincoln peeks in the doorway. He has a clawhammer. I want to know why Lincoln has a clawhammer even less than I wanted to know where Jefferson got a flamethrower.
"I'm sorry," says Nixon peevishly, "I can't hear you over the sound of how awesome I am. While you guys were playing rope-a-dope, or in Teddy's case fool-a-ghoul, I was busy sending Formosus straight to hell."
"So he's finally gone," says Teddy, a little wistfully.
"I didn't say I killed him," says Nixon. "I said I SENT HIM. To HELL."
"He did," I admit.
I help Nixon back to the exit from the Basilica. Lincoln and Teddy form up with us. Grant joins us at the Treasury door; he has a fire hose, the valve still dripping. This tops my list of things I do not want explained.
"Our Rookie is all grown up," Teddy crows, bursting with pride.
"That's nice," says Nixon gloomily. "For starters, you can stop calling me 'Rookie'."
"Oh, absolutely," says Grant. "We just have to figure out what else to call you instead."
"Something that works off the rearrangement of the head topography, I think," Teddy suggests.
"The Head of State," Grant suggests.
"The Capitol Dome?" Teddy muses.
"All the President's Meninges," Grant counters.
"You guys are terrible comedians," Nixon gripes. "I'd advise you not to quit your day jobs, but, you know, term limits."
The passage to the Treasury building overlooks a recessed courtyard to the west of the Basilica, the Plaza of the Roman Protomartyrs. As we pass by the arched windows, a tiny door that opens onto the cobbled street blows outwards. A man in black leather rides out on a motorcycle. He and the bike are on fire. Grant and Teddy reflexively draw rifles and shoot at the cyclist as he turns and speeds away. Lincoln rears back and lets his clawhammer fly through the window; it tumbles end-over-end a hundred and fifty feet and buries its claw in the cycle's rear bumper. The motorcyclist peels out and loops out of sight on the winding Vatican Hill roads; a second later the building vibrates, and the chopper streaks noiselessly overhead in hot pursuit.
Jefferson trots out the side door and drops his flamethrower. Teddy finds a side stair and we join Jefferson in the Plaza. "Delano, please tell me you got him," he says into his communications link.
"That's a negative," Delano reports back. "He motored right into the river, and I lost him. Given that he was still burning right up until he hit the water, I don't think we'll ever be seeing Aaron Burr's hair again. But Burr himself…"
"Shit," says Jefferson. For him, I know, taking Burr out isn't just a job. It's personal.
"Anyway," says Delano, "I'm coming back for pickup. Find me a good dustoff space; we have to be back stateside pronto. We have a new mission, and JFK still has the B-Squad busy down in Antarctica."
Jefferson looks with concern at Nixon. "We're a little dinged up right now, Delano," he says. "What exactly do they need the Chiefs for, anyway?"
"There aren't a lot of details," says Delano, "but it sounds like the Wounded Knee Lakota have risen and are threatening to blow up Mount Rushmore."
The Chiefs all look at each other. "Dibs on my head!" Teddy and Jefferson say at the same time. Lincoln is too cool to call for dibs on anything, Grant is too drunk, and Nixon is in no shape to do anything except be fitted for a chrome skull prosthetic.
"Who gets Washington's head?" I ask. The Chiefs fall silent.
"What happened to Washington?!" I demand. They say nothing.
God fucking dammit!
Finis!
We turn west and mount the steps to the central altar. All at once Aaron Burr sprints into the chamber from the north and draws up short. He has a cutlass in one hand and an Uzi in the other. "Hello," he says, looking faintly puzzled.
And then Jefferson flies in from the south. He has a flamethrower strapped to his back. Where did the third president of the United States get a flamethrower? Sometimes it is best not to ask certain questions. "Hello," says Jefferson, including Burr in his greeting.
"It would seem," Burr says, "that our weapons are hardly suitable for a gentleman's mode of dueling."
"Absolutely," agrees Jefferson. "For instance, it's almost impossible for me to miss you with this thing."
"You were a terrible president," Burr remarks.
"And you were the worst vice-president," Jefferson replies. There is a pregnant pause.
"Hey, you know what we need right now?" says Nixon brightly.
"What?" I ask.
"Floor!" says Nixon. He drags me to the ground, a split second before bullets fly and gouts of flame fill the grottoes.
"So they were running mates?" I ask Nixon, who's on top of me. He smells like old leather and Brylcreem.
"Yeah," mutters Nixon. "Used to be that veeps got the Process too, just in case. But then things soured between Burr and Jefferson; that was the end of that tradition."
The fight moves off to the east. "We should get out of here," I tell Nixon.
"Yeah, gimme a second," says Nixon. He rolls off me stiffly. He's weeping a little black fluid again.
"How's your head?" I ask, concerned.
"Head's fine," grumbles Nixon. "Burr just shot me in the ass."
We limp a little slower than before up the spiral stairs into the Basilica. Teddy's at the top of the stairs, punching some Juiced-up bishop in the gut repeatedly.
"Fifty-eight!...fifty-nine!...." Teddy turns to face us. "Hey, you know what works, boyos? Body blows. They got no strength in the breadbasket, see, but as for messing up their brains, they ain't got none – see?" He smiles jacks downwards. "You're banged up, Rookie."
"Just a scratch," mumbles Nixon. "Okay, a gouge. A minor amputation, nothing more."
Teddy whistles. "Hey! Lincoln. Rookie's taken fire, undoubtedly while hiding under a pew or somesuch." Lincoln peeks in the doorway. He has a clawhammer. I want to know why Lincoln has a clawhammer even less than I wanted to know where Jefferson got a flamethrower.
"I'm sorry," says Nixon peevishly, "I can't hear you over the sound of how awesome I am. While you guys were playing rope-a-dope, or in Teddy's case fool-a-ghoul, I was busy sending Formosus straight to hell."
"So he's finally gone," says Teddy, a little wistfully.
"I didn't say I killed him," says Nixon. "I said I SENT HIM. To HELL."
"He did," I admit.
I help Nixon back to the exit from the Basilica. Lincoln and Teddy form up with us. Grant joins us at the Treasury door; he has a fire hose, the valve still dripping. This tops my list of things I do not want explained.
"Our Rookie is all grown up," Teddy crows, bursting with pride.
"That's nice," says Nixon gloomily. "For starters, you can stop calling me 'Rookie'."
"Oh, absolutely," says Grant. "We just have to figure out what else to call you instead."
"Something that works off the rearrangement of the head topography, I think," Teddy suggests.
"The Head of State," Grant suggests.
"The Capitol Dome?" Teddy muses.
"All the President's Meninges," Grant counters.
"You guys are terrible comedians," Nixon gripes. "I'd advise you not to quit your day jobs, but, you know, term limits."
The passage to the Treasury building overlooks a recessed courtyard to the west of the Basilica, the Plaza of the Roman Protomartyrs. As we pass by the arched windows, a tiny door that opens onto the cobbled street blows outwards. A man in black leather rides out on a motorcycle. He and the bike are on fire. Grant and Teddy reflexively draw rifles and shoot at the cyclist as he turns and speeds away. Lincoln rears back and lets his clawhammer fly through the window; it tumbles end-over-end a hundred and fifty feet and buries its claw in the cycle's rear bumper. The motorcyclist peels out and loops out of sight on the winding Vatican Hill roads; a second later the building vibrates, and the chopper streaks noiselessly overhead in hot pursuit.
Jefferson trots out the side door and drops his flamethrower. Teddy finds a side stair and we join Jefferson in the Plaza. "Delano, please tell me you got him," he says into his communications link.
"That's a negative," Delano reports back. "He motored right into the river, and I lost him. Given that he was still burning right up until he hit the water, I don't think we'll ever be seeing Aaron Burr's hair again. But Burr himself…"
"Shit," says Jefferson. For him, I know, taking Burr out isn't just a job. It's personal.
"Anyway," says Delano, "I'm coming back for pickup. Find me a good dustoff space; we have to be back stateside pronto. We have a new mission, and JFK still has the B-Squad busy down in Antarctica."
Jefferson looks with concern at Nixon. "We're a little dinged up right now, Delano," he says. "What exactly do they need the Chiefs for, anyway?"
"There aren't a lot of details," says Delano, "but it sounds like the Wounded Knee Lakota have risen and are threatening to blow up Mount Rushmore."
The Chiefs all look at each other. "Dibs on my head!" Teddy and Jefferson say at the same time. Lincoln is too cool to call for dibs on anything, Grant is too drunk, and Nixon is in no shape to do anything except be fitted for a chrome skull prosthetic.
"Who gets Washington's head?" I ask. The Chiefs fall silent.
"What happened to Washington?!" I demand. They say nothing.
God fucking dammit!
Finis!
