We Prepare
for the END
written by
jaron summers (c) 2024
This is a tale of tribulations and survival under the shadow of an impending cataclysm, World War III.
I discovered my beloved consort, wringing her pretty hands over the prospect of worldwide conflict and horror.
Unlike the common riffraff who might simply shrug and proceed with their daily trivialities, I, possessing an entrepreneurial spirit and a spade, embarked on a quest to delve deep beneath our humble abode.
With the determination of a mole on steroids, I excavated a sanctuary some 250 feet beneath the earth’s surface, through bedrock and despair, to construct our utopian refuge, affectionately dubbed “The Happy Nest.”
Within our subterranean fortress, fortified against the potential ravages of an IBM missile strike, I established our “basement” bunker.
Here, we were equipped with the essentials for a protracted siege: fuel for three years, provisions for five, and water for six.
And, of course, satellite television to observe the folly of the surface world as it presumably engaged in a bout of self-destruction lasting no more than a trio of days or maybe mere minutes.
Upon the war’s conclusion, I assured my bride, we could emerge to a world scarcely populated, where the cacophony of traffic would be but a memory, and the silence a sweet symphony to our ears. She and I would help reboot the world. Cleansed by fire.
We would continue to foster brotherhood and sisterhood and teach Christian values.
My dear wife mused upon a world unburdened by the scourge of taxes or the din of ne’er-do-wells. Yet, the specter of attending to survivors was ever on her mind.
“We would never allow irradiated victims to suffer and then starve to death in pain,” I promised her.
To that end, I had secreted a dozen military grade rifles with night scopes beneath our sanctuary. After all, in times of apocalyptic calamity, one must concede to the exigencies of one’s own survival and comfort.
My wife who had once balked at the notion of firearms, now realized she had to temporarily set aside her pacifism and offers of refuge for our many friends.
I convinced her that for the good of the human race we would use firearms and we would need to be ruthless if we were attacked. Or sensed danger.
She finally agreed but raised the specter of a zombie apocalypse, a contingency I had anticipated.
To that end, I had a cache of chainsaws at our disposal–we were prepared to decapitate all zombies.
Thus, dear reader, did we stand, a testament to matrimonial ingenuity and foresight, prepared to face the morrow come what may–our love, rifles and chainsaws ready for whatever the fates might decree.
Not everyone could survive in post-apocalyptic world. Expectations needed to be adjusted.
In the words of Mark Twain himself, “The secret of getting ahead is getting started,” and start we had by preparing to finish off any surving neighbors or so- called friends, friends who didn’t lift a finger to help us build our bunker.
They laughed behind their beers. Who’s laughing now?
