I wrote this while incensed at Agent Orange and those like him, which I am nearly all the time. This is what they call channeling your anger into more appropriate venues. 😉
The story is complete in this posting.
Copyright © March 2017 by Theo Fenraven
Vice President Monroe met President Conroy in a small private conference room. They sat opposite each other at the polished oak table, not saying anything while the IT tech finished sweeping the room for electronics.
Dave Monroe thought Bobby Conroy looked tired, even stressed. He tightened his lips. It’s about to get a whole lot worse, you stupid son of a bitch. Dave had been VP for almost a year, and he’d come to hate Conroy with a passion he reserved for wife beaters and child abusers.
The tech left with his equipment, and they were alone. There were no windows in this room, and not much in the way of decor, so there was nowhere to look except at each other.
Conroy picked up a pen and clicked it on, off, on, off. “You called this meeting, Dave. What’s up?”
“You’ve seen the latest polls?”
Conroy made a face. “A small sampling of voters, and they were probably chosen for their bias.”
“Your policies are not popular. You’re taking too much away from the citizens. They’re getting more and more pissed.”
“Bullshit. The people love me. I got elected on those policies.” He clicked the pen; on, off, on, off.
Delusional fucker. Christ, he was in for one hell of a surprise. “Yesterday’s executive order was the final straw.” It proclaimed homosexuality was illegal and would be charged as a crime. Conroy had chipped away at human rights for months, but this one had lit a fire that would fry his sorry ass once and for all.
Conroy snorted. “Where are the riots, huh? Totally quiet today. Only the left-wing liberal twats are saying anything about it in the media, and few are paying attention to them anymore.” He leaned forward, a feral gleam in his eyes. “I own this damn country. I can do whatever I like.”
Controlling his temper with an effort, Monroe retrieved his cellphone and made a call. “It’s time.”
Instantly suspicious, Conroy half-rose from his chair. “Who are you talking to?”
The door opened, and a young man entered. Long shaggy dark hair accentuated piercing eyes in a pale face. Unlike everyone else in the White House, who wore expensive tailored suits and power ties, he was attired in a simple shirt and jeans, both black.
Dave smiled. “President Conroy, meet Morgan Black. He’s going to destroy you.”
President Conroy dropped the pen and reached for his cell, but no sooner had he removed it from his pocket than it flew from his hand and smashed against the wall.
Conroy gaped at the pieces on the floor. “How…?”
Morgan was abruptly leaning over Conroy’s shoulder, mouth against his ear. “I knocked it out of your hand.”
“You were standing at the door. You couldn’t have.” Conroy was regaining his composure. His usual bombastic self-confidence was again in evidence. “And move the hell away from me. How did you get over here so fast anyway?” He shot Dave an angry look. “Who is this asshole? Never mind. I’m leaving.”
He attempted to rise, but Morgan lightly rested his hands on Conroy’s shoulders, keeping him seated. “You’re going nowhere, Conroy.”
The president sputtered. “Dave, call Security.”
Dave was still grinning. “Any that are still in the White House no longer answer to you. This is a mutiny, you hateful fucker. A coup. We’re taking over.”
“What are you talking about? Who the hell is ‘we’?”
Morgan gazed fondly at Dave. “How does it feel, now that the moment has arrived?”
“Goddamn good. It’s been so hard, waiting for this day. It’s going smoothly elsewhere?”
“Yes. Our people are assuming command in every state in the country. Governments elsewhere are toppling into our hands as I speak.”
“And the media?”
“Also under our control.” Conroy’s shoulders trembled under Morgan’s hands. He squeezed, not gently. “Beginning to get the picture, Conroy? Your fascist reign is over. The people you and so many others have delighted in humiliating, beating, and murdering for centuries are now in charge.”
Morgan strolled away from Conroy. The president immediately got to his feet. Morgan let him get almost to the door before crossing the room in an instant to block the exit. Conroy stared, and Morgan let him see who he was, baring his teeth and extending his fangs.
The president pissed himself.
Morgan laughed. The stink of ammonia was sharp in his nostrils. “Dave, are they set up in the Oval Office?”
“They’re waiting for you.”
Morgan grabbed Conroy by the scruff of his neck. “It’s time to address the nation. I have a lot of goddamn things to say.”
“I need to… my pants. I want to change them.”
“Leave them on. I like the idea of you sitting in your piss.”
The halls were deserted, except for someone standing guard outside the Oval Office. The young woman was not armed; she didn’t need to be. No one unauthorized would get past her.
Morgan dipped his head to her in greeting. “Marnie. All quiet?”
“Totally.” She smirked at Conroy. “Someone had a little accident?”
The president turned red while the rest of them laughed.
Morgan reached past Conroy to open the door, then shoved him unceremoniously inside. “Pull a chair up next to the desk and sit. I want you to be seen.” Kevin and Michelle were behind a large camera pointed at the desk. “Ready?”
Conroy made a surprising last-ditch show of strength for someone with urine-soaked trousers. “What if I refuse?”
Morgan’s eyes flashed, and his fangs gleamed. “Sit.”
The president sat.
“Where do you want me, Morgan?” Dave asked.
“At my right hand, as in life.” Morgan pulled the vice president tightly into his arms and kissed him. “Christ, I’ve missed you.” It had been weeks since they’d been together. They had decided it was too dangerous to see each other during the last frantic days of preparation. “No plans tonight, I hope?”
Dave laughed. “Other than celebrating like a mofo?”
They shared a private moment, then Morgan reluctantly pulled away. “Let’s get this show on the road. And they are going to want a show.”
Morgan shoved the president’s chair, with him in it, to his left so he could sit behind the desk, with Dave standing at his right shoulder. Conroy was still contemplating making a run for it.
Morgan set him straight. “Don’t even think about it. One of us would be on you in a heartbeat. Just sit there and look–oh, I don’t know–presidential?” Everyone in the room, except for Conroy, guffawed.
It was two o’clock on a sunny winter afternoon. The curtains were open, letting in lots of natural light. Morgan lounged in the president’s chair. “This is pretty comfortable. How much did the taxpayers fork over this, eh? Ten or twenty thousand? Christ, you people have gotten away with so much. I despise politicians, sucking off the public teat, and getting rich and bloated on the labor of others. Forcing your bigoted, racist view of the world on everyone else. This administration has been particularly disgusting. I’m thrilled we were able to put our plans in motion at this time.”
“You might want to save that for the camera,” Kevin said lightly.
Morgan composed himself. “Yes. It feeds to all stations when you turn it on?”
“Just give the word, and you’ll be talking to America.”
Morgan straightened. “The media blackout is over. Release the fucking hounds.”
“Good afternoon. My name is Morgan Black, and my people have just taken over your government and country.” He paused for dramatic effect, then gestured at Conroy. “Your president is under my control, as is the White House, Washington D.C., the military, and, well, pretty much the whole country. How did we accomplish this? How did we organize so thoroughly but quietly, no one caught even a whiff of what was coming? I’ll tell you in a minute. In the meantime, those of you with low blood sugar or who are jonesing for a hit of something might want to run off and fetch your drug of choice. This is going to take a while.”
Morgan leaned back, swung his feet up on the desk, and laced his hands over his stomach, getting comfortable. Michelle gave him a thumbs-up; she was watching him on the monitor.
He looked up. “Did you know the presidential seal is on the ceiling? Very pretty. You never see that when a president addresses the country from behind the desk. It’s the Resolute desk, by the way, made from the timbers of the H.M.S. Resolute blah fucking blah. Look it up if you want to know more. I first heard about it when I watched the second National Treasure movie. Kevin, what was that called?”
“Book of Secrets. I like the part where they thought Cage kidnapped the president.”
Morgan smiled, then cleared his throat. “Okay, citizens. You’ve had time to go potty and whatever. Moving on.
“President Conroy is a dick. His advisors are dicks. Ninety-nine percent of Congress are dicks. We’ve cleaned house. Vice President Dave Monroe will henceforth be addressed as President Monroe.
“You’re wondering who the hell I am. The answer to that is complicated, but I’ll begin with a demonstration.”
Morgan dropped his feet to the floor and sat up, yanked Conroy’s chair closer, grabbed a fistful of his thinning hair, pulled his head back, and sank his teeth into Conroy’s jugular. The ex-president cried out and briefly struggled, then went lax. Two tiny streams of blood crept down his neck and disappeared under his shirt collar.
Morgan straightened and turned to the camera. His lips were red, and his fangs dripped blood. “Tasted like shit, as I knew he would.”
Michelle moved briefly into frame to wheel out Conroy’s body.
Morgan thanked her, then wiped his mouth. “My tale begins decades ago. Come closer to the fire, friends. I’m going to tell you a story.”
“I knew I was gay when I was six. So did everyone else, because I was bullied regularly, in and out of school. I was a skinny kid, and short for my age, and I got beat up a lot. You straights–you heterosexuals“–he said the word as if it burned his tongue”–have no idea what it’s like to be feared and reviled for something you can’t help. Even the allies didn’t fully get it. There’s a reason why suicide among LGBT people is so fucking high. It’s because of you. Your intolerance and hatred for anyone different has killed far too many innocents.
“I decided to do something about it.” He propped his feet on the desk again and looked directly in the camera. He’d been preparing for this moment forever, and he fully intended to glory in it.
“My IQ was tested when I was twelve. It’s way the hell up there. Somewhere around 160, I was told. I put that brain power to work on this problem and eventually came up with what I thought was an elegant solution.” He didn’t bother telling them about his endless search for investors or the years he’d spent holed up in a lab, playing with genes.
“Are you aware of how many people on this planet are homosexual, bisexual, trans, or intersex? And then there are the asexuals and non-gendered. The percentage is higher than you know, somewhere around 30 percent. And almost all of them felt disenfranchised from straight America. They suffered at your hands, and they grew ever more bitter and angry.” He grinned, showing fangs that were once more gleaming white. “I created a new kind of person–me–and then I made a bunch more, and they went out and turned a few, and they, in turn, made more. Get the picture? It was the domino effect.
“Sunlight doesn’t destroy me. I see my reflection in a mirror. Silver is one of my favorite metals. Your crosses and holy water have no effect on me.” Kevin had placed an iron bar on the desk earlier. Morgan picked it up and bent it like a twig. “I have superior strength and speed, and I will outlive you all.” He tossed the bar on the desk. It landed with a heavy thud.
“It’s a whole new ballgame, folks. The LGBT control your country–the world, actually–and every one of us is a vampire.” He put his feet down, leaned forward, and stared into the camera. “The next question you should be asking is, are the queers of the world going to treat you the same way you treated them?”
His grin was evil. “It’s dinner time, and we’re starving.”