View Full Version : The Bunker (PG-13)

01-12-2005, 05:44 AM

To Posterity:

I write to you from a bunker in an “undisclosed location”, not even I know where I am, like a lunatic. I should’ve asked her when I had the chance, but then again, back then, she would’ve said no. I was a nobody then, now I am a president (of the United American Federation to be exact). She was so beautiful: tall, curvy, with long and supple blonde hair, and striking green eyes. Her lips were perfect, kissably cute. How I wish could go back to the old days, me a loser of a college student, but at least I could’ve asked her.

I used to be proud of the title Virgin President, but now I despise it. I have never felt true love, never felt the warmth of a woman next to me. Is that so much to ask? A respite from loneliness? Truth be known, I built my empire for her. If only I could’ve asked her, but now it’s too late.

That damned alliance with the Republic of Hollywood; I should never have signed it. If I hadn’t signed it, I wouldn’t be at war with the remnants of China and Russia and I wouldn’t be in this bunker. The bunker was originally for one, but now holds three: myself, Natalie Portman (Hollywood Secretary of State and actress from such greats as Star Wars Episode II) and Keira Knightley (that infernal actress from such box office blunders as Pirates of the Caribbean and King Arthur). Since they were such close allies, they got to hide with me.

The bunker has only one double bed, no way in hell am I sharing a bed with those two, because I know what’ll happen. I’ll be sandwiched between them like a damned sardine in a tin with oil. I’d rather sleep on the cold hard floor. I am scared of the day we decide to clean ourselves up. Based on the specifications of the bunker, those two women and I will have to shower together, and that shower isn’t that big. If the actresses don’t kill me, the boredom will. The only connection to the outside world is satellite radio, mostly for picking up government and military so I can be kept apprised of the war, not that it matters what I know. The bunker is quite small, except for the mammoth storage room. Its cold and dank a couple hundred feet underground. The only saving grace is a copy of the Holy Bible (King James Version to be exact). Get it? Saving Grace? I am sorry, but there is very little to be happy about.

I am too young for this, only 20, yet I occupied an office for elders; what does it matter? I hope I survive, if only to see her again. I’ll suffer the inhumanity of the bunker, of Portman, of Knightley, of the boredom, but let me see her again. I can suffer remaining a virgin awhile longer, but this loneliness, this despair, it started at the Big One, but what does any of it matter? Will I live to see her again? Will I die, as though I lived, a Virgin President?



To Posterity:

My first night went badly. I can honestly write that I tried to sleep in the bed with those two actresses. Can I help it if I need room to move around? I mean, here I am, sandwiched between two people, forced to lie on my side, with no place to put my arms. Portman, ever the problem solver, wrapped her arms around me and said I should put my arms around Knightley. I would’ve laughed at it all, if it hadn’t been me stuck like this. It reminded me of the Lewis structure of CO2. Me the Carbon with two damned Oxygen atoms attached, hugged together in closer proximity, like a pi-bond. I learned that night that when I am less than arm’s length from other people, I don’t sleep. I need my space, my privacy.

Finally, I decided it was too much and just slept on the floor, using my left arm as a pillow to rest my head. All I got for that was a numb arm and back pains. Nothing like sleeping on frigid concrete to get the blood flowing. Why does this always have to happen to me? Why? Why? Why? I was a good president, I mean well. I can’t take it…I know I can’t. It’s too close and too lonely. No one around for me, no general or friend or dear acquaintance.

Why do I want to survive? Why? It doesn’t matter, but I want to see her again, confess my true feelings like I should’ve done in that other life, before the troubles. I will survive, if only to love her. This torment can’t be endless, my armies will win and they’ll be back for me, won’t they? Fieldmarshal Schroedinger and General Heisenberg assured me this wouldn’t last forever. I hope they’re right.

I want to see her again.


To Posterity:

I didn’t sleep well the past two nights. It’s not just the floor, even when I do finally sleep; I wake up, having to pace with nervous energy. Loneliness sucks. I feel it in every bone and muscle. I paced half the night away. I’m cold, tired and lonely.

Last night, that Portman woman woke up, saw me pacing, and then had the nerve, the NERVE, to try and hug me! HOW DARE SHE! I am the President of the United American Federation. Damn her! Damn loneliness! DAMN MY VIRGINITY! I shouldn’t be lonely; I’m the President. I did the right thing. I signed that treaty and now I suffer for it. Why me? Stuck here in this bunker with those women!

I was so infuriated when she hugged me. She put her arms around me and had the chutzpah to rest her head on MY shoulder, the President’s shoulder! I could’ve, no, I should’ve, punched her one for that, but NO, I couldn’t hurt a foreign leader, but this is all her fault. I should’ve let the Chinese and Russians win that war, I should’ve stayed out of it. I help them and have only a stay in a damned bunker to show for it. Why? She better not hug me again, I am the President and I’m lonely. I can’t stand it all.

When I get out of this hellhole, I’ll tell Erin what I must. I love her and I want her. I’ll be honest. I don’t want to die a virgin. I don’t want to die lonely. I realize my fallacy: I am a human being, not a political automaton; I just want to feel loved. Is that so much to ask? I need love, not just want. I thought the power of my Presidency could sustain, but I realize now, too late in the bunker, that it won’t. I would give up my position for her, for lovely Erin, but now it doesn’t matter. I am stuck in this cold, dank and hopeless bunker with those two actresses. It doesn’t matter anymore.


To Posterity:

A week trapped in this bunker…one week. One single solitary infinitesimal-on-the-grand-scale week. Who knew that one week could be so long? So torturous? Each day is worse than the last. I still don’t sleep well, now I shiver on the floor, the cold biting into me like my incessant loneliness. Following my usually infallible logic, today will be a day of complete suffering.

Yesterday was terrible. It was decided by commission (I had nothing to do with it) that it would be our day of showering (more like reckoning). I didn’t want to have to shower with those two. It’s just…wrong. We all walk into the bathroom, myself extremely nervous, but those damned women didn’t seem too upset. It’s a damned conspiracy against my sanity!

We all agreed (on my vehement demands) that we should remain in underwear, after all, nudity would drive me over the edge into blissful insanity. I didn’t tell them that though, they wouldn’t understand. The last suffering would be having to waltz in the shower naked with them! IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN! NEVER! NEVER! I’ll hang myself from some random high protrusion before I let that happen! Unfortunately, they declined to wear…well…you know what I mean…bras! DAMNIT ALL THEN AND DAMNIT ALL NOW!

I walked into the shower with them, very nervous. I was careful not to brush up against either woman, so, like any man of reasonable sensibilities; I scrunched up in the far corner of the square shower. I didn’t want to be near them. When the water came one, it should’ve been relaxing. I remember I used to enjoy showering, a time to think and let the stresses of the day wash away. The warmth was always comforting, just like a blanket.

But I hated this shower. There was no privacy, no peace. I just wanted it all to be over. Just like sleeping, showering requires privacy. How can I relax with those two damned actresses close by? HOW? Well, I couldn’t, so I suffered then like I suffer now.