“So, what you’re telling me is that we have to get to the President of the United States before the aliens seduce him,” Gregson said.
“And if he’s like JFK, they’re already pregnant with his baby.”
“Probably,” Vick said.
“And if he’s like Bill Clinton…”
“We don’t have any time to lose.”
“Gregson—we can’t all fit into your BMW—we’ll have to take the Cornel’s Hummer.”
“I can have a military transport plane pick us up and fly us over the capital,” Weathers said. “Let’s hope the President has strong character.”
“The Presidency is all about power, sex, and money. We can only hope he knows what he’s doing in the bedroom, war room, and bathroom.”
“Yeah—when our economy goes down the toilet.”
“Isn’t this the guy who printed 6 trillion dollars, threatened three nuclear powers with holocaust, and fondled a man in the bathroom—thinking he was a woman?”
“You’re right. We’re fucked.”
They left the pro shop. Gregson gripped the steering wheel—he always wanted to be at the heart of Bagdad in one of these beasts. Heavy metal music and 50 Cal machine-gun shells.
“Does this thing have a radio?” Gregson asked.
“Of course—it’s our primary means of communication.”
Gregson was doing 30-over the speed limit—and no cars honked. It might’ve been the military-grade vehicle he was driving, but he was pretty sure it was the machine-gun turret up top. The best way to protect yourself from society, is to carry a big gun, and let the liberals see it.
When they got to the airport—Vick and Cornel Weathers couldn’t wait to get off the ground—that meant—Gregson wouldn’t be behind the wheel.
“Just drive our Hummer up inside her,” the Cornel said. “She’s a big bitch but she’ll let us in.”
“Yes, sir!” Gregson parked in her rear.
“Now, attach the cables to the parachute platform.”
“We’re not going to jump out of this thing, are we?”
“No—we’re going to drive out, over DC.”
“You’re shitting me?”
“That’s what it’ll be like.”
The roar of the C130 caused Gregson to get aroused. It was a like a woman, being turned on. When all of her weight lifted off the ground, Gregson didn’t feel so self-conscious. They were airborne.
“When the lights turn yellow—get into the truck—and when they turn green, I’ll hit the reverse, and pull the chute. Until then, let’s smoke.”
The Cornel pulled three cigars out of his pocket. “Gentleman—we’re going to save the most hapless, corrupt president in history, so that he doesn’t end the West and the rest of the world. Why are you doing it, son?”
“I’m 70-years-old, Cornel. Now that I can live forever—I’d like to get laid again. How about you, Gregson?”
“Same here—the aliens are right. The suburban male lives for sex and dies for sex. It’s a masculine man’s motivation.”