The party was supposed to end at midnight. With all the technology you would think that they could predict a blizzard.
It’s 3 in the morning and we can hear the distant bombing of Lesser King Square over the roar of the wind. Joel, a tech billionaire, grumbles, “Who bombs in a blizzard, seriously.”
“Shut up, wiseass,” I tell him. I am desperate he not wake up
Tessa the protester. If she knows there’s action, she will freak. She just finished an hour long tirade about civilian casualties, environmental costs of war, lies in the media, etc, etc.
The worst thing about Tessa is we all agree with her. She is just so sanctimonious. Is there anything worse than someone who is accurate and grating, correct and constantly confrontational? Who uses the evil as wood to feed the flames of their self-righteousness?
These thoughts flit nakedly through my mind as Tessa’s eyes pop open.
“Do you think the war machine stops for a simple blizzard? Hah! You haven’t a clue. Their vulgarity knows no impediment. Do you have any idea how much money is made by Science Advancement Corporation every time a drone strike is successful? Where you hear the screams of babies, they hear the ka-ching of blood money dropping into their coffers.”
Lightning strikes this mansion of shallow thought. The explosion rocks the entertainment center and a plasma TV falls from the wall, bashing Tessa in the head. Grateful for the silence, we don’t even check her pulse. The party is over. We need to sleep.