Written by Butch

Monday, 21 August 2017

image for Courage Under Nuclear Fallout
Doomed From Every Angle

The Dopes were still alive and moved into the once-vacant fallout shelter in our next door neighbor's yard. How I wish they didn't survive the economic collapse, food crisis, power grid failure, nuclear radiation, radioactive ticks, acid banana cream pie rain, unselfies, or the pepperoni yogurt shortage. They are so awkward and strange. Who comes over to their neighbor's house and says, "Hi! How are ya doing?" I shook his third hand growing out of his right shoulder but my heart wasn't in it. I knew this was going to be a very un-fun day when I saw what was about to happen next.

Mr. Adlard Dope told me that our entire neighborhood was going to be under attack from the Methuselah Clan. This group was famous for their shared interest in 80's pop music…and killing their neighbors with kindness…and guns. I figured Mr. Dope was recruiting me for a suicide mission just like all the others before us. There was my grandfather who fought off the Methuselah Clan with pop guns that sounded real. Next, my father became the hometown hero when he and his group distracted them with a yard sale. My dad avoided a war and earned 12 bucks and 3 beavers. But, I was no hero like my ancestors. I knew of nothing courageous, was not motivational, and lacked leadership skills by twelve parsecs. Despite all of this, Mr. Dope asked me anyway, and I refused outright. He asked me again during lunchtime and I told him, "If you ask me again, I will kill you!" Finally, during a wonderful dinner of canned antelope, he asked me for a third time and I instantly agreed.

The crew consisted of myself, Mr. Dope's children: Bob and Hope. In the morning we met formally through the ritual eye gouge and then proceeded to walk armed (hand in hand) to the gates. Bob suggested we all skip in time, but I reminded him of how weird that would be and made us all walk like zombies. As we approached where the battle surely would take place, I smelled something that I have never had the opportunity to sniff. It seemed as if the Methuselah Clan was just beyond our gates baking spider-pumpkin pies with rodent salsa for dipping. I knew that if they were eating, then we just might stand a chance to either eat with them or destroy them. We stopped walking like zombies and entered the complex structure of our gate. It was a lot of stuff heaped up together to look like a wall. As we approached I knew that I was too scared to attack in any which way, so I tried something rather drastic.

I decided to open the door to let the clan in because they would never see that coming to them and I was scared stiff. My new friends attempted to convince me of better plans, but I knew better than those better plans. Then, after thirteen minutes of crying, they finally agreed to my plan. We will just open the door. After everyone was in place, I gave the word and Bob and Hope opened the door as I hid in a puddle of sludge with snots dripping out of my nose. Then, something amazing happened. The Methuselah Clan peered as one over at our open door and must have feared what was about to come out to challenge them. They probably thought of my brave grandfather or dad, but it was just myself and two friends hiding in sludge. Remarkably, the clan all turned and ran for the Awkward Butt Hills from which they came.

I was a hero when we made it back out our lovely shack and the Dope's knew that they had chosen the right person. Finally, I knew what it meant to be someone that the community can look up to. From now on, I will tell stories to our younger ones of how to avert disaster by simply shivering and crying in fowl-smelling gunk. I thought it would take more guts. Guts. This reminds me, it's dinnertime, rotten skunk guts will do fine.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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