“Frisk me! Search me! But don’t waste time. If I’m not in there in five minutes, the president dies!”
“Sir, please keep your voice down and stay where you are!”
He walks on. Towards the security detail.
“Sir! Please remain…”
“You have to listen to me! I need to get in there right now!”
“Sir! Please stand back!”
“Sir! Please stand… Please keep your hands where I can see them!”
I’m just trying to get some ID.
“Sir! Keep your hands…”
“Here! Take a look! I’m from the DAA!”
The engager studies the plastic card.
“I’m not familiar with any such agency sir! Please kindly return behind the line like everybody else, nice and easy.”
“The DAA is the Department of Alien Arbitration, believe me, you’ve not heard about it. Now if you’d let me… ”
The offender pushes past the engager. The engager grabs the offender by his arm.
“Sir, you are not going in. Not on my watch. Now if you’d…”
The offender shakes him off and runs past the wailing metal detector into a hallway not visible to the excited onlookers behind the rope barricade.
The engager follows him speaking hastily in the coiled wire device attached to the side of his face. He too soon disappears from sight.
In the hallway, under the blind spot of a sweeping camera, the two re-unite.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes, everything is set”
“Go well, my brother”
The middle-eastern engager handcuffs the offender with his hands at the back and puts a gun to his head just as five members of the secret service rush in from the other side with their arms tensed, holding their pistols in the rigid air.
“I’ve got him”
“God job, we’d take it from here”
“I need to see the president!”
“You have the right to remain silent, please use it.”
The newly arrived security detail leads the stranger away, leaving the engager behind. Their backs are turned to the smile on his face.
The small party walks through the hallway making several automatic turns and the offender is behind, being dragged along by the arm by two suited men to either side. They are being viewed from an overhead camera, rendering in black and white. They eventually stop at a nondescript door and the leader of the party knocks. It is opened from inside and they all go in.
Suddenly, the offender emerges, brandishing one of the guns wielded by his former captors. Smirk on his face.
“Control center secured. Carry on suckers!”
A gang of unnumbered heads are seen waiting in a dark van, shielded by curtains that give a peek of what seems like an international conference. A small, suited caucasian man is currently speaking global economic gibberish, his back turned to the waiting surprise. The leader of the bunch comments into the walkie-talkie he holds in his left hand. His right hand attends an automatic rifle slung at his neck.
“Good job! We’re going in.”
He signals into the darkness.
From the view of the audience, an armed militia of mixed sexes begin to march on stage in strict formation. The female kind are provocatively clad. Ripples of fear and surprise weave through the crowd. The leader of the fifteen insurgents walks toward the podium and pushes aside its occupant. The aged man falls on his back, stunned and whimpering.
The leader bangs a boot on the stage floor. Once. His arrangement of soldiers reply with two strong bangs in chorus, and four of them break formation from the tail ends of the arrangement and dismount the stage in a spectacular flip jump. They land in sync with a thud and take positions that secure all of the hall. Members of the audience formerly considering escape hurriedly return to their seats.
Bang. Chorused Bang Bang Bang.
The soldiers left on the stage spread out to cover the remaining space. They are all female. Pretty.
Bang. Bang! Chorused Bang.
Two muscular male soldiers emerge from the curtains carrying a very large box. It seems to be quite heavy. They arrive at the front of the formation and slide the box forward haphazardly. The lid swings open, the inside dark.
“This is the bomb!”
The panic in the audience intensifies.
“We do not have any demands”. His accent is East African. He is caucasian.
“We are Here. To blow you away!”
Chorused bang bang.
“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”
An explosion. Smoke and screams. Darkness
A loud techno pop tune, with a pulsing bass and an intense electric feel.
The smoke begins to clear amidst the screams. A spotlight comes on and there is a very skinny, poorly dressed caucasian female on the floor of the stage, sprawled in a mock sexy pose with black soot and shrapnel lying all around her, and sprayed in her golden hair.
She is wearing ridiculously long heels and strips of army clothing. She is Lady Gaga and this is another pop video.
Chorus bang bang bang.
All the male soldiers take off their army fatigues, to reveal their ripped chests and suspenders.
Engager is outside, back in front of the crowd. He dips a hand in his suit jacket to surreptitiously gloat over his autographed Lady Gaga CD. He shrieks like a girl.
Offender is back inside the control room, working the sounds, and the lighting controls, and monitoring the results on a multiple of viewing screens. Bodies in black suits are strewn around him, unconscious.
Gaga and her pop army begin to dance to a song she sings about love and famine and pestilences and how she wants a nuclear warhead in her Hiroshima. Love, sex and pestilence. Love, sex and punishment. The leader of the militia abuses her on stage, shoves her hard, pulls her hair and exhibits other televisable forms of sadism at various points in the song where his dancing skills are not required.
Guns are trained on the panicky of cross-section delegates as they are all forced to sign a certain ‘Sex-pestilence’ agreement.
The weak old speaker on economic issues is actually a talented ‘popper-of-lock’.
When the song ends, the soldiers shoot into the cross-section of dignitaries, killing everybody.