Exploding high in the stratosphere, America’s latest filled the screen with brilliant white.
Observing from an expansive black leather chair in the impressively appointed conference room of Airforce One, the president shifted uncomfortably.
“Mister President, reports coming in, 100 megaton yield, no fallout, looks like a success, sir!”
The president felt his stomach lurch. “Good work, any collateral damage?”
The Secretary of Defence answered condescendingly, “We’ve had all our top guys on this, sir.”
–Goddamit! The president recalled the previous evening when he and the First Lady had hankered after a chicken curry. An aide had been sent out for a native Indian dish, returning with something aromatic and fiery. Very fiery.
“OK, … I need the restroom.”
The president tried not to run. Once inside, he braced his knobbly brown legs and gripped the towel rail tightly.
There was a loud knocking on the door.
“Mister President, looks like the proverbial’s gonna hit the fan, sir!”
The president broke into a hot sweat, conscious of a cascading sound, accompanied by a pungent stench.
Suddenly a shock wave hit the aircraft, causing the extractor vent above his head to break loose and come crashing down. The fan hit the proverbial.
Featured in the book, To Cut a Short Story Short: 111 Little Stories
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