Chainsaws, Grenades, and Waffles

So there I was, wearing a grenade vest with the self-proclaimed “Gator King of Florida” waving a pair of chainsaws in a boat down below and my ex-boyfriend balancing just a few shaky logs away from me.

“Babe!” Jam-Michael called, straddling two splintering logs. “Take my hand! We can win the Race together!”

“Yeah, ya best run back to yer pretty-boy boyfriend and enjoy yer last moments before I chop y’all up and feed ya to the gators!” yelled Joe Gator, revving a chainsaw in each hand.

I looked down and saw snapping alligators surrounding the Gator King’s boat as I balanced precariously on two tall log poles sticking out of the muddy water.

“I didn’t even want to run for president in the first place!” I yelled into the air. “I should be sitting at home watching the presidential candidates kill each other on TV like a normal person!”

“Well ya ain’t at home and once I kill y’all dummies —” the Gator King revved his chainsaws again “— I’m gonna slash taxes in half and start a breeding program that will create land-roving alligators that can run forty miles per hour!”

A volley of fireworks launched on the horizon, signifying the likes the Gator King’s declaration had gotten from the audience at home.

“Why would anyone even want that?!” I cried.

“Taxes are a little high, babe,” Jam-Michael said.

I glared exasperatedly at him. Jam-Michael seemed to catch himself.

“But you’re not gonna win, Joe-Tater!” Jam-Michael pulled a gun out of his back pocket and pointed it down at the candidate from Florida. “This year, the west coast is the best coast because Ore-gun and my super hot girlfriend from Killer-fornia are going to win the Presidential Race!”

“We can’t both be president!” I yelled.

“You can be my first lady then.”

“I told you, we broke up when you tied me to that conveyor belt with the kid from Razor-zona!”

“Babe, it was a trick,” Jam-Michael said, lowering his gun. “I had to trick North and South Scare-olina into letting me join their team.”

“You tied me to a meat grinder and I got covered in Razor-zona’s guts and would have been chopped up myself if the girl from Kill-inois hadn’t saved me!”

“And then you guys became best friends and teamed up and everyone called you the Kill Sisters because Killer-fornia, Kill-inois. It was really cool.”

“Yeah, it was really cool until you sliced her head off!”

“Babe, it’s a presidential election. These things happen.” He reached out to me with his non-gun-wielding hand.

I glanced from the chainsaw-wielding maniac in the boat below to my idiot ex-boyfriend balancing just a few shaky logs away then down to the snapping alligators in the muddy water. Death by alligator started to seem pretty appealing.

“Look y’all,” Joe Gator said, sounding tired as he lowered his chainsaws, “we’re the last three candidates standing and if one of us ain’t dead soon, the folks at home are gonna get bored and if the folks at home get bored, they’re gonna release something wild on us like a pack of bigfoots or zombies or those ladies who get mad at restaurant employees.”

Alligators snapped around him as Joe Gator moved forward in his boat and revved up a chainsaw, bringing it to the foot of one of the log poles on which I was balancing.

“Stop!” I yelled. I looped my thumb through the ring on my grenade vest. “If either of you comes any closer, I’ll blow all of us up to Barack Obama hell, I promise you.”

The Florida chainsaw maniac and Ore-gun idiot both leaned away.

“You,” I gestured down to the Gator King, “need two more kills to finish and win this race, and you,” I pointed at Jam-Michael, “are only trying to help me because I have this.”

I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a purple heart-shaped locket.

“Is that a Medal of Freedom?” the Gator King said, lowering his chainsaw in wonder.

“Yes,” I said. “Ore-gross over there needs it because even if he kills both you and me, he still won’t have enough kills to win the electoral kill-ege, meaning this Presidential Race will end in a recount and another election. This little baby,” I waved the locket, “would double his kill count and allow him to win. Plus, whoever wins with the Medal of Freedom gets a free t-shirt.”

“And free Waffle House for life,” growled Jam-Michael, dropping the nice-guy act as he raised his gun at me.

“Waffle House for life,” repeated Joe Gator in awe.

“Give me that medal,” Jam-Michael said, still pointing his gun at me, “and I’ll put you out of your misery peacefully; just one pain-free bullet to the brain and it’s all over. Then I can be president.”

“I don’t know why you’re bothering to threaten me with that gun. If you shoot me and I fall into the water, this medal is gone and those alligators have a better chance of becoming president than you ever will.”

Jam-Michael let out a growl and leaped forward, jumping from one wooden pole to the next. I pulled my thumb more tightly through the grenade ring on my chest and prepared to blast myself and the rest of the Presidential Race to oblivion when a loud revving filled the air.

Joe Gator had moved his boat and was sawing the foot of the pole Jam-Michael had just leaped onto. Jam-Michael pointed his gun and fired down at the Gator King, but his pole was shaking so badly that every shot whizzed into the water around the boat, missing Joe.

Jam-Michael couldn’t get enough balance to jump to another pole safely, but he also wasn’t falling. Why wouldn’t he just fall?

An idea suddenly hit me. Quickly, I shoved the Medal of Freedom back into my pants pocket, then unzipped the heavy grenade vest and chucked it at Jam-Michael, hitting him in the shoulder. To my shock, he caught the vest, but not before he lost his balance completely and toppled off the splintering wooden pole. Just as he hit the alligator-infested water below, he pulled the grenade ring, releasing an explosion of water, wood, and alligator guts. My pole shook and I fell just as the Gator King’s boat surged past me below, riding the explosion’s wave. I landed in the boat as it barreled past and drifted helplessly with the Gator King to the shoreline.

As the boat’s metal bottom crunched against the pebbly shore, I felt the Gator King stand up at the other end of the boat. One of his arms was missing and he was covered in alligator guts, but he was confidently holding a chainsaw with his remaining arm.

I glanced over and saw the other chainsaw lying next to me, along with Joe’s missing arm. I reached out and grabbed the chainsaw, pulling the cord to rev it up.

The Gator King’s eyes narrowed. “Y’all still got that Waffle House medal?”

I reached a shaky hand into my pocket and pulled out the purple heart-shaped locket.

Joe spat out a bloody tooth, looked at the bloody stump that had been his arm, dropped the chainsaw, and sighed.

“How abouts you and I cross that finish line together and y’all can split the Waffle House with me?”

With shuddering breaths, I nodded my head and lowered the chainsaw. The Gator King and I stepped out of the boat and hobbled to the finish line. As we crossed, fireworks exploded on the horizon. I turned and looked at the Gator King, seeing something in his eyes I hadn’t before.

“We survived,” I whispered. “We did it, Joe.”

“Waffles,” he whispered back.

Our heads leaned together and we kissed as the electoral kill-ege broadcasted our kill counts into the sky, the Medal of Freedom doubling mine.

And that’s how I married the Gator King of Florida and became President of the United States of America.