By Nabocchan.
It was the same bar, the same faded posters, the same peeling wallpaper as it had been the past five years. As it would be for the next fifty.
President Obama
sighed. If he was so full of power and influence, why did everything
feel so hollow?
He turned to the
barkeeper, a tired, graying man coming up on his sixties.
“The usual.”
The barkeeper's
reaction was barely perceptible; he had hardly a nod left to spare,
even for the commander-in-chief. That was what working at the same
dead-end shithole his entire life had left him with. A crippling
addiction, a bad back, and thirty thousand dollars of debt.
But the President
had problems of his own tonight. Without a word of thanks, he downed
his whisky and tapped for another. Michelle was out for the night, on
a important PR campaign.
Good. He didn't
want her to see him like this.
Suddenly, Obama
turned to the barkeeper.
“You see the
news?”
“Nah, can't
stomach it. A buncha murders...” The barkeeper chuckled in
anticipation of his own joke. “...And not a single one is me.”
The President
looked up in concern. He had never really noticed how deep the bags
under the man's eyes were, how tired he looked when he was standing,
like he was already sinking into the grave. But there was nothing to
say.
“Well, Putin –
you know, president of Russia – he's been causing trouble in the
Ukraine. Seems –“
“Yeehhhh, that
kinda bullshit's your job,” the barkeeper interjected. “And
if there's one thing you've gotta take from me, it's to never mix
work and drinking.”
“Well, to be
honest, the whole thing's been awful for me.“
“No shit.”
The President
pursed his lips. “No, not like that. What I mean is, this is making
daily news, and... It doesn't change a damn thing!”
“The Ukranians
would disagree.”
“Yeah,” Obama
emptied his third glass. “Yeah, well. I just wish something would
happen for once, you know?”
In every culture,
there exists a desperate faith in the power of a heartfelt wish.
Maybe it's just grasping for hope in a world with none to go around,
or maybe from the depths of the President's despair blossomed a
single spark of power. Maybe a passing drone was as good as a
shooting star, and the universe lent an ear to the leader of the free
world. Or maybe coincidences are just coincidences... Regardless, as
a streak of lightning burnt away the night for a moment, Obama felt
somehow that nothing would ever be the same.
“In tonight's
news, President Vladimir Putin has announced –“ The
announcer's voice grew distorted, as a wave of static crashed upon
every screen.
“Hey, where'd the
fuckin' game go?,” shouted a voice from the back.
“The game...” A
cloaked figure emerged from the shadow, darker than a silhouette in a
fine silk suit. “...Has just begun.”
Willard Mitt Romney
smirked.
“You!”, gasped
Obama.
“Ah, yes,”
Romney announced to the bar. “Me. Did you think I was
dead, Barack? Gone?”
“Well,“ Obama
began.
“Wrong!”
Romney screamed. “Wrong, wrong, wrong!”
“Ahem.” The
former presidential candidate straightened his tie. “Are you
familiar with the King of Games, Barack? Yu-Gi-Oh.”
Laughing at the
President's shocked expression, Romney continued.
“Tonight, we'll
be playing a... winner-takes-all match.”
He handed Obama a
thin stack of cards, slapped him on the back with mock cordiality,
and broke back into laughter.
“Of course, as
that's only half a deck, I'm afraid you're going to find victory
quite... elusive.”
“You bastard!”
“Face it,
Barack. First I'm going to defeat you in Yu-Gi-Oh, then I'm
going to take your office. You'll lose... everything.”
Romney glanced up
at the still-static television, as if checking a broadcast.
“Ah! And then, I
can sort out Putin... Like you never could. Prepare to d–ehhhhhh?“
“SORT OUT
PUTIN?”, a voice boomed from the corner of the bar.
“NOBODY
DEFEATS VLADIMIR PUTIN!”
By some
cosmic confluence, Russian President Vladimir Putin stood framed in
moonlight, holding up half a deck of trading cards.
“Zacroy svoy
peesavati rot, sooka!”, Putin roared. “AMERICAN PRESIDENT,
WE WILL COMBINE TO DESTROY THIS MAN!”
Obama
pondered the alliance for a moment, then nodded grimly.
“The enemy of my
enemy,” the President recited. “Know who said that, Mitt?”
“Of co–“
“My left hook, bitch!”
“My left hook, bitch!”
Clutching his jaw,
Romney picked himself off of the floor, dusted off his luxury jacket,
and eyed Putin warily.
“F-fine,” he
stammered, “I'll take you both on!”
Romney appeared to
gather himself. “If you win, you'll prove the strength of your
bond, and I'll return to obscurity. But if you lose...”
He smirked.
“I'll send
you both to the Shadow Realm!”
Obama and Putin
faced each other and nodded.
“It's time to
duel!” the barkeeper shouted, caught up in the moment. He swept
the glasses from the counter in a shower of glistening shards,
throwing down a playmat.
“Each player
begins with 8000 LP! Mr. Romney, as the challenger, you may play
first!”
“BULLSHIT”,
yelled Putin. “PUTIN ALWAYS GOES FIRST!”
But Romney
had already begun his turn.
“I place a card
in face down defense position,” the ex-candidate growled,
“and end my turn!”
“OLD AMERICAN
MAN IS FUCKING SCRUB!”, Putin commented. “NO TRAP OR
SPELL! I PLAY MIGHTY HARPY BROTHER AND DECLARE ATTACK ON PUNY MONSTER
COWARD”
“Putin,
wait,” Obama said. “Sometimes a trap... isn't a Trap.”
Romney's face split
into a predatory grin.
“Hahahahahaha....hahahaha....haha....ha...”
he began, “Ha. You've attacked my...”
He flipped up a
Giant Soldier of Stone.
“Giant
Soldier of Stone, with 2000 defense! Score, Romney! Romney
wins! Romney! I win!”
“Not yet,” cut
in the barkeeper. “They lose 200 life points.”
“END TURN! PASS
TO WEAK SCRUB MAN!”
“Putin, wait!”
Obama was holding a Waboku. But it was already too late.
“I draw!”.
Romney drew. “I set!”. Romney set. “I end!”.
Romney ended.
Putin snatched the
first card from his half of the deck.
“THERE ARE
RUSSIAN SPEAKERS IN YOUR ASS, FAILED PRESIDENT MAN. I MUST OWN IT FOR
PROTECTION OF THEM. HARPY BROTHER, STRIKE!”
“It's
called Sky Scout now,” corrected the barkeeper. Not a single person
cared.
“WHY DOES YOUR
MONSTER HIDE ITS FACE? BECAUSE IT IS EMBARRASSED!”
Putin attacked
Romney's face-down monster again.
“Struck down by
the fist of justice!”, Romney taunted, revealing a Man-Eater Bug.
“Destroy your monster!”
Quietly, he also
sent Man-Eater Bug to the Graveyard.
“EMBARRASSED...
BECAUSE YOU OWN IT. THAT IS THE REASON.” Putin continued, but his
heart wasn't really in it.
“YOUR TURN.”
“Putin, please!”
Obama pleaded. “We didn't even summon a creature this turn!”
Romney drew again,
and summoned Blazing Inpachi in face-up attack position.
“So...” he
folded his hands in glee. “It's come to this, eh? I'll switch Giant
Soldier to attack position, and attack you directly with both... for
3150 life points! Eh, your turn.”
“Team Not-Romney,
you are at 4650 life points,” announced the barkeeper.
Obama glared at
Putin, but was surprised to see the man's face buried in his hands.
“AMERICAN
PRESIDENT... I FEEL... WEAK.”
The President
nodded.
“Sometimes,
Vladimir, we all do... It's okay.”
“OKAY?”
“OKAY?”
“That's the
meaning of being human. I think I've realized that today; sometimes
it's enough just to find the strength to fight... for a new day.”
Obama turned to
Romney.
“Mitt... If you
stop this now, you can walk away. Things will go back to how they
were.”
“How they
were?” Romney began to cackle maniacally. “How they were?
I'm nothing, less than a ghost – an ex-candidate!
No... I'll die before I return to that.”
“AMERICAN
PRESIDENT, WHY SUDDEN SHIFT IN ATTITUDE”
President Obama
motioned to Putin, drawing him in and showing him his hand. The touch
lingered just moments too long for its purpose, like the beautiful
warmth of a summer promise. Putin felt... alive.
“We can do this,
Vladimir.”
“TOGETHER?”
“Together.”
Hands atop
each other's, the two leaders drew a card.
“We play a
face-down card...”
“AND END OUR
TURN!”
The room
collectively gasped. Was this defeat the premature end of a wonderful
blossoming?
The next turn
seemed to happen with agonizing sluggishness, as if a flower had been
cut at the peak of its bloom and was tumbling to the ground, petals
bouncing vibrantly in the sun they had never had a chance to see.
Romney drew a card,
and attacked before summoning, seemingly blinded by his arrogance.
“NOT TODAY,
AMERICAN AGGRESSOR”
“He's right,
Romney.” Obama turned to Putin. “Should we reveal our trap card?”
The two became lost
in each other's eyes, drowning in the perfume of lustful innocence.
“Ahem,” said
the barkeeper.
“WABOKU”, Putin
declared triumphantly.
“Means fuck
you in Japanese,” Obama appended. “Err, not really. I'll
consult my foreign policy adviser. But fuck you.”
“Is that the
best you've got?” Romney laughed. “Enjoy your last moments,
gentlemen... I summon... Blue-Eyes White Dragon!”
“A
powerful engine of destruction,” the barkeeper breathed in awe.
“But that's not
all!” Romney was taunting now, flaunting to the room like he was
giving a campaign speech. “I equip two Axes of Despair,
raising its attack to 5000!”
“Two...
Axes of Despair?”, a mother from the crowd asked in shock.
A loud crash
pierced the stunned silence. A man in a Yankees cap had dropped his
mug and was simply staring in abject horror as Pabst pooled against
his sneakers unheeded.
A baby began
crying, mourning the death of innocence. Simple love would not be
enough to save the Presidents. At least the two would die together,
bound eternally by bittersweet release.
“It all comes
down to this,” Obama whispered to Putin.
“If this doesn't
work, I want you to know –“
“SHH, IS NO NEED.
PUTIN KNOWS EVERYTHING.”
The leaders closed
their eyes in silent prayer and drew their last card.
“No way...
They're invoking the heart of the cards!” gasped the
barkeeper. “To think, I would live to see such a thing...”
Romney was forcing
his smile now, grinning so hard his teeth grated together.
“Well? Barack?
Vladimir? Gentlemen? What did you draw?”
Obama and Putin
opened their eyes at once, nodded, and flipped the card. Wordlessly,
they revealed their hand: all the parts of Exodia, testifying to the
presence of justice deep inside the cold void of the universe.
Somewhere, vibrant spring broke upon the colorless world.
“I-Impossible,”
gasped Romney. “Impossible!”
“You lose
again, Mitt.”
“EXODIA –“
“Obliterate!”
Howling
shadows rose up to embrace Romney, dragging him through the
floorboards to a place worse than hell... Massachusetts.
“Challenger
Mitt Romney... has been defeated!” screamed the barkeeper. He
was so ecstatic that he fell upon the glass-sprinkled floor, rolling
orgasmically in crimson slush as his tired heart gave out. They say
his soul ascended visibly right there, entering the constellations.
Obama turned to
Putin, swept in victory... but Putin was gone. Afterward, he would
claim to have no memory of the event... but he knew. Obama knew he
knew. He saw it in the glint in his eyes, in the set of his strong
arms.
And sometimes, knowing has to be enough.
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