"Good work." Captain Henry shouted back as he leapt onto the recently trampled grass.
A mixed group of military men and Secret Service goons in blazers hurried up to the helicopter, their heads all ducked carefully beneath the rotor while Captain Henry stood erect.
"You with the 773rd?" A colonel in field fatigues asked.
"No, my unit is classified. I need to speak to the president." Captain Henry started to push past the Secret Service and military men towards the Whitehouse.
Someone gripped his arm firmly.
"You can't, he's doing his sticker books right now." It was one of the human shields.
"You had better get your fucking hand off me boy." Captain Henry shrugged out of the Secret Service man's grip. "This world is going to shit and I don't care if the president has got his hand up a dead whore's ass right now. I need to talk to him."
The Secret Service man screwed up his face in anger and was about to say something else. Captain Henry didn't really feel like listening to it and he gave the man a friendly head butt that knocked him out cold. It also popped a stitch somewhere inside his bandages and blood began to trickle down his nose. He shot murder from his eyes at the rest of the group and returned to walking towards the Whitehouse.
Three other people tried to stop him on his way to Bunker One beneath the Oval Office and three other people were quickly knocked unconscious. When he swung open the door to the president's private room within the bunker he was not pleased with what he saw.
The president was laying face down on a bed, his lower legs crooked up like a teenage girl clipping out pictures of Johnny Depp from Rolling Stone to tape to her bedroom wall. He was wearing only a pair of lightly soiled white underwear and his arms were covered with Spiderman stickers.
"Can I have a snaaaaaaaaack?" The president pleaded with Captain Henry.
"Oh God." Captain Henry felt sick to his stomach.
"Plllllease. I ate all my corn at lunch! Can I have a fruit roll-up?" The president jumped out of bed and tugged at Captain Henry's sleeve.
Captain Henry felt like he was about to throw up when the president did it for him. The Commander in Chief bent in half at the waist and puked up his lunch onto the concrete floor of the bunker. Captain Henry could see swirling lines of blood in the vomit and there was no mistaking the shape of two teeth.
"Now you see why no one was permitted to speak with the president." The voice belonged to a slim middle-aged woman with harsh facial features and either a little too much or not quite enough makeup.
The most notable thing about her was that she was accompanied by four women dressed in all-too-familiar form-fitting black armor. Each of the women had a strange rifle slung over her shoulder and between the four they were carrying a blue plastic bag shaped suspiciously like a human body. Steam drifted up from the plastic in spots.
"You!" Captain Henry reached for his pistol but the woman in the business suit was faster. She stepped quickly forward and delivered an agonizing knee to his groin, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back in a single smooth motion.
"Actually I don't believe we've met Captain Henry, but it is a pleasure to finally be introduced to the legendary leader of the Gamma Strikers." Her words were icy venom in his ear.
"You bitch! All of my…all of my men are…"
"Dead? Yes, you have a habit of getting all of your men killed. I'm surprised we keep sending you on those missions personally, but you're just so damned gullible."
"Can I have a snack?" The president interjected, wiping vomit from his mouth.
FEMA director and NWO operative Maggie Bogdanovitch fired a single bullet through the president's forehead.
"Get rid of the body and activate the new one." She instructed her armed companions. "As for you Captain Henry, your country has need of you in its moment of peril, so you will live to fight another day. But I think we need to sit down and have a little talk first."
The electrified prod hit Captain Henry in the small of the back and he was unconscious before he was even aware that something had happened.
Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic follow up to "Baby Got Back" has serious unintended consequences.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
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