Ice
cream not available.
A
thunderous crack marked the arrival of the Mothership, emerging from the white,
fluffy clouds above Las Vegas. The ship, metal panels flaming from reentry,
banked right above the city, engulfing it in a large shadow. Two tri-finned
steel disk-shaped fighter crafts deployed from the Mothership's hangar with a
screeching roar, and dove toward the evacuation routes.
"Ron,
before you go," Jimmy started, but was briefly interrupted. Three A-10
Warthogs, sent to intercept the Zetan attackers, flew down the Strip. Amidst
the chaos, he continued, "Send my regards to the President."
Barb,
halfway down the steps, waved at him frantically, to tell him to hurry up. Four
F-47s, in a triangle formation, spearheaded by a gray Boeing E-3 Sentry,
trailed the first attack group. "I'll be fine," Ron said with a
smile, unable to reassure himself. The writer trailed off, "You know I
love a good challenge." He watched as the casinos shook and their windows
shattered, hordes of people headed toward the freeways, and the Italian ice
vendors made their desperate last pleas to fleeing customers, all cast in the
beautiful, afternoon desert sun.
"One
mango ice, please," Ron requested, handing three dollars to a Mexican
woman named Gloria, who had an Italian ice stand. For a few seconds, he felt
"tropical," as he watched the palm trees burn.
"You
need to be careful, my friend," Jimmy Haystack warned Ron as he loaded
rounds into the ammunition belt of his M249 SAW machine gun. "Because
neither you nor I know who's really writing this story." Baring his squad
automatic gun, he took one last look at Ron, tipped his leather cowboy hat, and
strolled off into trouble.
"Love
you," Barb said to Ron as he got in, kissing him on the cheek. Mike,
donning a yellow Hawaiian shirt adorned with parrots and pineapples, while also
extremely drunk, attempted to make small talk with the driver of their Cougar
6x6 MRAP. "I felt he used too many caapi stems, but it was still a very
good sauce," the janitor said. Laura sat next to him, sipping on her third
margarita of the day.
"Are
you going to start driving, or are you too tired from mugging poor
people?" Dr. House addressed Joshua, the Jamaican officer in charge of
driving them.
They
continued on Las Vegas Boulevard, through downtown toward the airport, escorted
by two UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters, a few police cruisers and motorcycles,
along with a Military Police unit. "Nellis Air Force Base scrambled twenty
F-47s," Benny said to Dr. House, looking out of the tiny bulletproof
windows. "They're just around two minutes out."
"As
if we'll last that long," said Dr. House, in a cynical tone. Three more
Zetan fighters descended upon the avenue, flying at monorail level, as they
fired upon the helicopters. One of the choppers' fuel tanks were hit, lighting
it in a fiery blaze. It spun out of control, slicing the buildings that flanked
the road before slamming into the monorail track. The explosion knocked the
four-car train off the concrete beam, leaving it hanging precariously.
Another
disk spiraled toward the convoy, narrowly dodging the Lucky 38 casino. As it
swooped down, the Zetan pilot aimed for the tan Cougar 6x6, blasting away until
the last second. The craft fulminated into bits and pieces of metal, raining
down on the armored vehicle. The ill-fated alien pilot landed right on the
front windshield, and coated it in gray blood before rolling off. "Looks
like it's gonna be cloudy with a chance of gray meat," Ron joked.
"Intel
suggests that the Zetans may be building a satellite array the size of
Africa," Benny said, skipping over the joke, to Ron's dismay.
"I
think we should just blast it out of the sky," Mike suggested.
Sipping
on another margarita, Laura high-fived Mike, and excitedly exclaimed, "We
kill problems like they're babies!"
-
Written
by Jerry Zervas on 3/6/26.
DO
NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME (i.e. email me)
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