Stupid on Fire

No one could ever have guessed that the apocalypse would start with a malfunctioning spray tan booth and an overcooked ten-piece box of chicken nuggets from the O’Connell’s drive-thru three blocks down from the President’s official residence. When Norman Maldonado had taken office two years ago, there were many who doubted his ability to lead the most powerful nation on Earth. There were those who questioned whether the heir to the Plush toilet paper fortune turned reality star of Filthy Rich fame could handle being the leader of the free world. Admittedly, he had struggled. This presidential gig was hard. But the country was still standing. At least until today, anyway.

As he sat in the concrete bunker below the presidential residence, Norman did something he hardly ever did: reflected upon his own actions and the potential consequences. But then again, what was he supposed to do without Internet access, television, or cell reception? One of the agents on his protective detail had offered him a worn copy of a book called 1984, but Norman wasn’t that bored. He remembered 1984, and it wasn’t pretty. He had lost quite a bit of money in the stock market, and his third ex-wife, a former fashion model who had just turned thirty, had spent half the year in muscle shirts, ragged pin-stripe jeans, and parachute pants, convinced that they were all the rage.

Norman’s day had started well enough. His protective detail had taken him to O’Connell’s, his favorite fast food restaurant, where he had eaten not one, but three breakfast sandwiches and washed them down with a large soda. He had spaced out a bit during his daily intelligence briefing, suffering from mild indigestion, but his Chief of Staff had fetched him some antacids and promised to explain what non-proliferation and embargoes were later. Afterward, he had called that nice young general who had taken control of the Republic of Elaria by riding down Capitol Boulevard in a tank. Norman loved tanks. And he couldn’t understand what the fuss was about that photo the two of them had taken together just a couple of weeks ago. People kept telling Norman that he needed to socialize with other world leaders instead of playing so much tennis and watching The Daring and the Doomed, but then when he tried, they criticized him and said horrible things about him on TV. He had just finished a meeting with the speaker of Congress, who informed him that his efforts to reduce financial assistance for the poor so that he might remodel the southern wing of the official residence and get rid of that hideous green wallpaper and finally install smart home lighting so that he wouldn’t stub his toe anymore in the middle of the night when he had to go to the bathroom or wanted a midnight snack had passed in both chambers by two votes. Then, he had gotten some distressing news.

The first lady and fifth Mrs. Maldonado, a rather talented (if he did say so himself) former adult film star who had retired at age thirty-two to marry Norman had been photographed en flagrante delicto with the pool boy on a chaise longue by a paparazzo who had managed to make it past the agents guarding the official residence to hide in some shrubbery near the new Olympic-sized swimming pool Felicia had begged Norman to have built for her birthday. After weeks of cajoling, Norman had given in and gotten permission for contractors to begin working on the pool. At first he hadn’t seen the need to hire Todd, a muscular, young man who frequently worked outdoors shirtless on the grounds of the official residence these days. But Felicia assured him it was necessary to hire someone in good shape for such a physically demanding job, like making sure the pool filters didn’t get clogged with dead leaves and algae and changing the chemicals to make sure the water didn’t get funky. Norman had finally relented. Judging from the photos, Felicia hadn’t even had the decency to remove the heart-shaped locket he had gotten her for their last wedding anniversary. Norman couldn’t understand why Felicia would want to cheat on him. He knew he had gained some weight recently, but he was still an attractive man. At least, that’s what his secretary assured him during their weekly rendezvous in the coat closet in the east wing. Norman was so hurt by Felicia’s betrayal that he wasn’t sure he was feeling well enough to attend his weekly meeting in the coat closet this afternoon. Or maybe that was just the indigestion again. Norman wasn’t sure.

Just in case he decided to go, Norman decided he needed to look his best, which meant a fresh spray tan. Rather than have his protective detail wait in the lobby of Beach City Tanning again, Norman had purchased an automatic spray tanning booth for the official residence and had it installed in the Foster bedroom, which he had converted into his personal salon amidst much public outcry. Admittedly, it was a little weird to have that bronze bust of Adrian Foster, famed general of the War of 1742, staring at him with his powdered wig and judgy looks, but whatever. Maybe his Chief of Staff could move the bust to a better location. Norman made a mental note to add this to Julian’s to-do list.

On his way to the Foster salon, as he called it, Norman stopped by Julian’s office to pick up his lunch, which his Chief of Staff had ready and waiting for him at precisely noon each day. Today, Julian had picked up one of Norman’s favorites, the ten-piece box of chicken nuggets from O’Connell’s. Norman popped one of the deep fried morsels into his mouth as he wandered down the hall, chewing thoughtfully. The nuggets were a bit dry today, as though they had been sitting underneath the heat lamps a bit too long. He would have to speak to the manager next time he swung through the drive-thru in his motorcade. This wouldn’t do.

Arriving in the Foster bedroom, Norman changed out of his suit and stepped idly into his new tanning booth, still chewing the unsatisfactorily crunchy bites of breaded chicken and ruminating about his marital troubles. He pressed the button to start the machine, but nothing happened. Perhaps the nozzles weren’t functioning correctly again. He had had some intermittent troubles from his new purchase, and some of the online reviews he read during his phone calls with the rather long-winded prime minister of Azureland identified this as a potential problem. Norman couldn’t shake the feeling he was forgetting something, but he wasn’t quite sure what it could be. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten to offer condolences to victims of another natural disaster, he thought, as he leaned in to inspect the nozzle nearest his face, squinting one eye. That was embarrassing.

As the jet suddenly whirred to life and a stream of dirt-colored mist made contact at near point-blank range with Norman’s left eyeball, he realized what he had forgotten: his goggles. As Norman cried out in pain, clutching his eye, a particularly dry chicken nugget crumb went down the wrong way, and he realized that he couldn’t breathe. Thinking quickly, Norman staggered from the tanning booth in all his glory and reached for the medical alert button that Felicia had gotten him for their anniversary. At first he had been insulted, but perhaps the thing might be useful after all.

In his hurry to call out for help, Norman made one small mistake. Instead of his medical alert button, he reached instead of another device sitting on the armoire, one recently acquired by the President. For some time, Norman had insisted that the nuclear football was too cumbersome. He didn’t need all of the reading materials that came with it. And he certainly didn’t need authorization from Congress or anyone else to launch a nuclear strike in the event the nation was threatened. Norman Maldonado was a man of action, damn it. And as the commander-in-chief, he needed to be able to act swiftly when the time came. He kept the code sheet, but abandoned all the other contents of the briefcase in favor of a small console that looked like something children used to play videogames. Although his political opponents and much of the country was horrified at the proposed change to national defense policy, enough members of the legislature were loyal to Norman for it to pass. Unfortunately for Norman and the rest of the world, in his partially blinded fervor to get the obstruction removed from his windpipe, he didn’t look closely enough to distinguish his medical alert button from the nuclear controller.

Norman scarcely had time to wrap himself in his bathrobe before his protective detail, along with Julian, came bursting through the door, aghast at not only the recently initiated nuclear strike against Verland that would plunge the world into darkness but also at the sight of the leader of the free world bent double, coughing and choking on the carpet like a housecat trying to bring up a particularly nasty hairball. As Julian desperately performed the Heimlich and Agent Wolfe’s handheld radio announced that bombs were incoming from Verland, Norman finally realized what he had done. This was bad. Worse even than the time he had wiped barbecue sauce from his fingers onto a nineteenth century, hand-stitched, antique tablecloth during a state dinner with the King and Queen of Coronia. Worse even than the time he had thrown up all over the Prime Minister of Sarkovia after deciding to host a diplomatic summit at Magic Fun Land. Poor Norman hadn’t been able to ride a tilt-a-whirl or eat funnel cake since then, the press had made such fun of him.

Norman hastily put on his slippers as his protective detail hustled him down to the concrete bunker beneath the official residence. He was sitting there, morosely wondering if this would all blow over in time for his meeting in the coat closet, when agents ushered his wife into the bunker. Felicia flung herself at Norman with a wail, her makeup smeared by the tears coursing down her face. At first Norman thought she might want a comforting embrace (and maybe even a pat on the bottom). However, as his hand made contact with her backside, Felicia hauled off and smacked him before retreating to the far side of the bunker, as far from Norman as she could get. Norman clutched his stinging cheek, wondering if his day could get any worse. Surely, this would blow over eventually, right? They had to let him out of here. The survivors would look to him for leadership. Norman’s misdeeds always seemed to blow over eventually. The barbecue sauce came almost entirely out of the tablecloth. You could barely notice it, especially if you weren’t looking for it. And surely the President of Verland would call to talk things over soon, right? Even the Prime Minister of Sarkovia hadn’t held a grudge forever after the Magic Fun Land incident. Maybe Julian could send a nice apology card. It was all going to be ok, right?