February 25, 2019
This is a fictionalized account of real events that haven’t happened yet.
Marco Rubio pulled his Mazda Miata into the Miami Walmart parking lot. It was 2 AM, but he was wearing sunglasses to cover the murderous glint in his dark brown eyes.
He drove up along side a white truck with its bed covered with a canvas tarp parked near the dumpsters, and got out.
As he walked up beside the truck, the driver’s side window began to roll down. Then it got stuck. It rolled back up, and then down again, and it got stuck again. Then the man in the driver’s seat opened the door and stepped out.
It was Bernie Sanders, resistance leader and two time presidential candidate.
“I’ve been waiting here in this Walmart parking lot for you to arrive in this Walmart parking lot for two hours and several minutes, Marco!” Bernie shouted as he thrust his pointer finger downward toward grease-stained black asphalt of the Walmart parking lot to which he was referring.
“Where were you?” Bernie demanded.
“I ran into the Cubans,” Marco said.
Bernie now noticed the splashes of blood on Marco’s shirt and started twitching.
“Don’t worry, Bernie. I took care of them,” Marco said with a smirk.
“You’re a stone cold killer, Marco! You need to have some compassion! This is about democracy and human rights! We have to establish a safe-space for the LGBT community in Venezuela!” Bernie shouted, waving his finger around the empty Walmart parking lot.
“Bernie, you’ll never understand the things I’ve seen. The things I’ve done. But I want you to understand this: I did it all for democracy and human rights. Never forget that,” Marco said.
Bernie shifted his gaping jaw and twitched wildly.
“Do you have the supplies?” Marco asked.
Bernie walked around to the back of the truck and opened the bed. Assault rifles and rocket launchers were stacked to the top.
“Are we really going to need this many guns, Marco?” Bernie asked, hesitant.
“You and me are going to take down an entire South American dictatorship, of course we need this many guns. I’m not even sure it will be enough,” Marco replied. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now, old man.”
“My feet are sore, but they are a comfortable room temperature. Maybe my feet are even sweaty. I pledged to defend democracy and human rights the world over, and that’s just what I’m going to do,” Bernie said, twisting his head around like a bird.
“Alright then. The plane’s waiting for us. We’re scheduled to touch down outside of Caracas at 0800 hours and meet up with Guaido,” Marco paused then, looking at Bernie’s old, wrinkled face. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle this, Bernie?”
“I stand with the people of Venezuela, and I’m ready to do whatever it takes to bring them freedom,” Bernie answered with much less fidgeting than usual.
“Excellent,” Marco said. “Viva la revolucion.”
Under the brilliant Miami night sky, Marco and Bernie rolled up on the landing strip with their headlights off. They were met by three figures in flak jackets, ready to load the guns onto the small jet plane that the team had acquired.
When Bernie shuffled out of the truck, he recognized the trio as journalists Max Boot, Bari Weiss and Jonah Goldberg.
As they moved quickly to pull the weapons out of the truck and onto the plane, Bernie asked “so you folks are here to cover the revolution with journalistic integrity?”
“Not exactly,” said Boot with a grin.
“We’ve all been agitating hard for a military intervention in Venezuela, and with the Trump administration meeting our demands, the least we can do is head down and put a couple holes in anti-democratic heads,” Weiss said.
“It really is the least we can do,” Goldberg added.
“You’re true American patriots,” Marco said, slapping Max Boot on his buttocks.
As Bernie climbed up into the plane, he found another trio of Democratic freedom fighters: Nancy Pelosi, Theresa May and Angela Merkel were strapped in with AR-15s across their chests.
“Hello ladies,” Bernie said, nodding his head and avoiding eye contact.
“Watch it, Bernie – none of these freedom fighters are dreaming of getting raped,” said a familiar voice from the cockpit.
The man turned around and it was none other than Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu.
Bernie shuffled up to the cockpit to embrace his old friend.
“Bibi!” he exclaimed.
“Come here, you old commie bastard!” they embraced profoundly.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard you signed onto this gig. Have you ever even shot someone?” Bibi asked.
“I once tased a black man who tried to steal my car stereo,” Bernie said, blinking rapidly and jutting out his jaw.
Pelosi gave a shrill, short laugh that sounded like a yelp, but Merkel said “das rassismus!”
Bernie let out a deep, bubbling sigh and looked down at the floor of the plane. Luckily, Marco was climbing up in and ready to defuse the situation.
“Merkel, don’t mind my friend here – he’s old, but he’s done more than anyone to work for racial equality in America,” Marco said, as he moved in to the cockpit to sit down next to Bibi.
“Yes,” Theresa May said. “I saw the video where you invited those exuberant colored females on stage to air their racial grievances. Jolly good show, mate.”
Bernie let out another deep, bubbly sigh and continued to look down at his shoes as the plane began to move.
During the 4 hour plane ride, Macro Rubio controlled the radio and played a series of Ricky Martin hits on repeat.
Bernie continued to feel awkward and uncomfortable around the three female politicians, as he and Jonah Goldberg had a conversation about their latest prostate exams and the latest men that they’d watched their wives have sex with.
Theresa May and Nancy Pelosi both fell asleep, each on one of Angela Merkel’s large breasts. Merkel stroked their hair and hummed a German lullaby.
As the sun began to rise over the Atlantic, Marco climbed out of the cockpit and woke the ladies.
“We’re approaching the drop point, ladies. You ready to jump?” Marco asked.
“I think I speak for all three of us when I say that I was born ready,” May answered.
The three put on their parachutes, and Bernie sat in awe at the bravery they displayed. He felt a tinge of shame at his own hesitancy for the mission.
“Okay, we’re at 13,000 feet, let’s go!” Marco said, as he threw open the the door, and the wind rushed in, shaking Bernie all around and messing up his hair.
The women moved toward the door quickly and showed no fear as they leapt out of the plane to save Venezuela from oppression and dictatorship or die trying.
Merkel was the last to jump, and Bernie caught the look of disgust on Bari Weiss’ face when the German Chancellor yelled “Allah Akbar.”
Who’s the racist now? Bernie thought. I never sneered at someone for saluting Allah.
Although no one remaining on the plane had asked for an update, Marco gave one after he managed to get the door shut.
“Okay, so the ladies are heading down to form the rear guard. They’re going to organize the peasants to rush Caracas and overwhelm the military when we give the signal. In ten minutes, the six of us are going to be landing at Guaido’s base on the outskirts of the city. From there, we’ll organize into squadrons, and move in to take down key targets and prepare for the free people of Venezuela to flood the city safely,” Marco said.
Bernie briefly believed that he was going to have a stroke as the plane was landing, but he remembered the bravery on the faces of the ladies as they parachuted out of the plane, and managed to keep his cool.
As they landed on the dirt runway, Marco shouted back at Bernie, “you alright back there old man?”
“I’ll be a lot better when I’m out of this seatbelt, it’s really rubbing my thighs raw. I have a swollen gland,” Bernie reported back.
When they climbed out of the plane, the real president of Venezuela met them on the runway. Juan Guiado was wearing a beige suit.
“Juan!” Marco shouted, and he ran and embraced him. The two began kissing on the lips, and ducked inside of a corrugated aluminum shed.
“We don’t have time for this,” Bibi said, agitated.
“There’s always time for love, Bibi,” Bernie said, putting his hand on the Israeli Prime Minister’s shoulder. “If not love, then what are we fighting for?”
Just then Bari Weiss came up behind them and put her arms around them both and began rubbing their nipples. She whispered into Bibi’s ear, “yeah, there’s always time for love. How about while Marco and Juan are getting reacquainted, we find a hut and you two be gay dads and I’ll be your helpless 4-year-old adopted son.”
“That sounds alright with me,” Bernie said.
“I’d jack-off to that,” said Max Boot.
“Me too,” said Jonah Goldberg, nodding.
“No!” Bibi shouted, moving away from Bari and Bernie. “This isn’t a bar mitzvah afterparty! We’ve got work to do here! We’re bringing democracy to Venezuela, so that all of the oppressed people of this nation have the freedom to engage in orgies and jack-off at each other!”
Hearing Bibi’s impassioned words, Bernie felt the breath of patriotic courage rising up in him.
“Max, Jonah, put your shmeckels back in your trousers and start unloading the weapons,” he said.
As Marco and Juan were coming out of the corrugated aluminum shed, a man in full jungle gear and facepaint emerged from the trees and made his way across the landing strip with a battalion of freedom fighters behind him.
“What are you two pansies doing in that shed? Giving each other GRIDS? I outta whoop your faggot behinds with my Bible!” the man shouted, and as he got closer Bernie recognized the man as Vice-President Mike Pence.
Guaido looked uncomfortable at having been caught engaging in sodomy by the most famous anti-homosexual activist in America. “Sir, I… Marco and I were just…” he began.
“Easy, Mr. President. You’re free to do whatever you want with your butthole, just like I’m free to disagree with your personal decision to do so. That’s what Democracy is all about,” Pence told the Venezuelan president. “You better get used to that freedom, because in a couple hours, this country is going to be a democracy.”
“Don’t let the fact that he campaigned to use electric shock on queer folk scare you. He’s a teddy bear, really,” Marco said to Juan.
“Just keep your distance,” Pence said. “I don’t want your sin germs on me.”
Pence then noticed Bibi Netanyahu, who had been sitting in the shade while the journalists unloaded the arms shipment. Pence bent down on one knee in front of him. With his head down, he said “My holy master, forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”
“On your feet, goy,” Bibi said. “We’ve no time for formalities. Give us mission status.”
As Pence explained the situation, weapons were distributed among his men. They were then split up into units. Each of the three journalists would lead a death squad in to take out top generals stationed throughout the city. Mike Pence would then march into the downtown through the main road, with the bulk of the troops, and get Guaido to the central square where he will announce Maduro’s death as the peasant hordes overwhelm the outskirts of the city.
“And as for me,” Marco said, “I’m headed for the presidential palace to take down Maduro. Bibi is going to drop me out of the helicopter onto the roof of the dictator’s lair, and I’m going to take him out the only way dictators can be taken out.”
Marco stroked the fixed bayonet of his M-16.
Bernie realized he hadn’t been assigned a job, and said, “okay, I’ll just stay back here and protect the base.”
“No Bernie,” Marco said. “You’re coming with me.”
Bernie swallowed hard, shivered and began to twitch.
“Okay, we’re approaching the palace,” Bibi said. “Get ready to drop in 90 seconds.”
Marco and Bernie were fitted with parachutes and ready for the jump. Marco had his bayoneted rifle across his chest, and Bernie was given two uzis.
Bernie was still twitching. He was shaking his jaw around wildly and blinking perhaps faster than he had ever blinked before.
Just then a missile wizzed by the helicopter door. It screamed like it had a jet engine attached to it.
“We got incoming!” Bibi shouted. “It’s a Russian MPADS!”
Bibi pulled up, dodging another missile.
“Lekes loche! The Russians are hacking my controls!” Bibi exclaimed, “You two have to jump – NOW!”
Marco opened the hatch.
“Bruder, are you going to be alright?” Bernie screamed at Bibi over the noise of the air outside.
“I’m going to have to override the Russian malware using Stuxnet!” Bibi said, pulling out a USB drive from his jacket. “I’ll handle this! Go!”
“Like I told you, fall toward the roof of the palace, your parachute will pull on its own!” Marco shouted.
And in the bravest moment of his life, without prompt from Marco, Bernie jumped. In the air, he didn’t feel anything like the fear he would have expected. In fact, he felt free. There was a type of euphoria involved in the weightless fall. Without even thinking much about it, Bernie did as Marco had instructed and fell towards the rooftop of the palace.
Something was wrong.
The rooftop was approaching ever quicker, and Bernie’s parachute hadn’t pulled. He reached down to fidget with the handle, but it was no use. It was stuck.
So this is how I’m gonna go, Bernie thought. Seventy-seven years of fighting for democracy, and I will die here, doing what I was born to do.
And he felt at peace. The roof would release him from his sore feet, his inflamed prostate and the swollen gland in his thigh, and he would forever be remembered as a hero. He was blinking slower now and for the first time he could remember, his mouth was closed.
Then he felt a force hit his back like he’d be kicked by a ninja. Arms wrapped around his chest.
“I got you, old man.”
It was Marco.
His parachute released, and Bernie felt a jolt that almost pulled his arms out of their sockets.
But when he looked down at the rooftop, he saw a group of white men in red outfits shooting at them.
“Bernie! Russians! I have to hold on to you, so you’re going to have to take them out – use the uzis!” Marco shouted.
Bernie reached down and gripped the Israeli-made guns, unbuttoned them from the holsters with his thumbs and began firing wildly at the Russians.
“You hit one!” Marco said, “But you’re going to have to aim! There are three more!”
Bernie steadied his hands, clenched his teeth and thought, this is for hacking our democracy.
In a blaze of bullets, he saw two of the men go down.
But the remaining Russian shot a hole through their parachute.
“Damn it, Bernie!” Marco shouted. “Give me one of those!”
Marco then clenched Bernie hard across his chest with his left arm and used his right to deliver a headshot to the last remaining Russian on the roof.
“Great shot, Marco! You got him!” Bernie exclaimed. “Those bastards never should have messed with human rights!”
And seconds later they made a hard landing on the roof of the presidential palace.
As the two freedom fighters made their way into the gilded palace, Marco whispered, “Maduro’s throne room is on the third floor.”
“What floor is this?” Bernie asked.
“Five,” Marco replied.
They made their way into a stairwell and into an opulent hallway. The walls were decorated with decadent flowery red wallpaper, and the trim was made of solid gold, inlayed with diamonds.
The chandeliers were made of solid diamonds that looked like they had been glued together. The rugs were made of Chinese silk, inlaid with diamonds.
“Rugs inlayed with diamonds. This is how dictators live off of the backs of the poor,” Marco whispered.
“Soon the people will be free, Marco!” Bernie replied, trying to get Marco to keep focused.
Just then a golden door at the end of the hall swung open, and the biggest man Bernie had ever seen emerged. The ceiling was 11 feet high, and the man had to crouch to keep his head from touching it.
It was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Russian, who must have been 350 pounds of solid muscle.
This is the face of evil, Bernie thought. This is the dark face of the usurpation of freedom and democracy among the victimized brown people.
The Russian drew two samurai swords from his back.
Marco fired his rifle at the Russian, but the massive Aryan superman was able to deflect the bullets using the swords. One of them ricocheted right past Bernie’s dome.
Marco threw down the rifle and reached for a decorative diamond-encrusted Spanish rapier mounted on the wall. As he assumed a dueling stance, the Russian grinned, showing a mouth full of gold teeth.
What happened next happened faster than Bernie’s old eyes could manage to follow. The two men danced back and forth across the hallway, bouncing off the walls and leaping over one another. Whenever their swords touched, sparks flew off. Finally, the Russian scored a blow, a slice across Marco’s chest, and he went down. The Russian kicked him, and he didn’t move.
Then, the large man walked over to Bernie, grabbed him by his shirt and picked the old man all the way up off the ground, holding him out in front of him as Bernie’s dangling feet swung around like worms on hooks.
“что это? Еврей?” The Russian asked.
“Нет! Я коммунист! Этот кубинский капиталист похитил меня!” Bernie replied, and raised his right hand to show the Russian his hammer and sickle ring.
The Russian squinted to look at the insignia on the ring, “Флаг России…?”
And just then Bernie sucker-punched him in the nose.
“But I’m the other kind of communist!” he yelled, hitting him with a left hook, “the kind that respects LGBT rights!”
The Russian tumbled back, pulling Bernie with him. He tightly gripped the old man, and Bernie thought he would crush the life out of him… but just then, a sword came down and split the huge Aryan superhead in half, right down the middle.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Marco said, throwing the diamond-encrusted rapier on the floor.
“You’re just in time, Marco! I thought I was finished!” Bernie exclaimed, rolling out from under the Russian’s treelike dead arm.
“Maduro is just one floor down. Let’s move.”
Looking out the window, Bernie was able to see Mike Pence and his team shooting people in the street.
“Looks like Pence is taking care of business!” he said.
“Yeah, you can count on Pence. He might not agree with my lifestyle choices, but I respect him. He truly believes in democracy and human rights, and he’s willing to put his money where his mouth is and go to war with any country that disrespects the principles of America,” Marco said. “He’ll take the city center, but it’s up to us to take down Maduro. Everything hinges on that. And there is only one way to kill a dictator – and it’s not with bullets.”
Marco rubbed his bayonet forebodingly once again.
They turned down a hallway, and Marco stopped and signaled for Bernie to be silent.
“There, at the end of the hall – that’s Maduro’s throne room,” he pointed at a solid gold, diamond-encrusted door.
“No guards?” Bernie asked.
“The guards must have gone out to try and stop Pence. But Maduro is going to be a challenge all on his own.”
“More of a challenge than that huge Aryan swordsmaster?”
“Yes. You know, there is only one way to kill a dictator…”
“The bayonet, yeah, I get it. Laying it on thick there, Marco.”
Just then, the golden door swung open.
A bone-chilling voice, reverberating through the walls, said: “Entra, mi amigos.”
Maduro’s throne room was the most opulent thing Bernie had ever seen. The walls were lined with gold-plated and jewel-encrusted human skulls. And there, atop a throne of skulls in a multi-colored jogging suit, sat the dictator Maduro. The psychopathic madman who had stripped the Venezuelan people of all of their freedoms, denied them of their democracy, and taken away their human rights.
Marco moved in toward him first, while Bernie took up the rear, his twin uzis drawn at his sides.
Marco approached Maduro’s throne and spit on the floor.
Maduro let out a howling laugh that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and said in Spanish: “Little capitalist, you think you can defeat me in my own palace, built in the name of the people I guide with my excellent socialist leadership?”
Marco responded in Spanish: “You lie, Maduro! Your socialist utopia is nothing but a dictatorship! The people want freedom!”
The dictator laughed deeply once again. “I rule in the name of the people! I am the will of the people! This is what they want! Socialism!”
“What the people want is toilet paper!” Marco screamed, his face reddening. “They want toothpaste! And you’re hoarding it!” He pointed to stacks of pallets of toilet paper and toothpaste in the corner of the throne room.
“That is for personal use!” Maduro shot back.
“There must be 20,000 tubes of toothpaste there on those pallets! No one can use that much toothpaste!” Marco now seemed exasperated. Confronting the dictator was draining him of his vital energies. He was remembering the suffering of his people under the dictator Fidel Castro.
Bernie came up behind him and began giving him a neck-rub, “don’t let him get to you, Marco!”
“Let us be done with it then!” Maduro shouted, standing up. “Put down that rifle, you know that bullets can’t kill me! Fight me like a man!” Maduro then started contorting his face in ways that made him look like Jim Carrey in the movie “The Mask.”
Marco threw down his rifle and raised his fists.
Just then, Maduro floated up into the air and began zig-zagging around above his throne of skulls. Like a flash, he drop-kicked Marco. The Florida Senator was able to roll out from under him, and karate chop him in the neck.
The dictator let out a cry and shot across to the wall and climbed up it, across the ceiling back toward Marco. He dropped down in a flying scissors maneuver, and squeezed Marco’s torso.
Marco elbowed him in the nose, and was able to wrap a half nelson on his left side. He tried to force Maduro’s right arm forward, but Maduro leaned in and bit a chunk out of Marco’s right arm.
Marco screamed, and Maduro wiggled loose, doing a flip directly into the air and landing on the ceiling again.
When Marco was distracted by the blood pouring from his arm, Maduro dropped from the ceiling head first and slammed his head into Marco’s head. The heads bounced off of each other and both men appeared dazed.
Marco was laying on his back, but was able to throw himself up and wrap his legs around Maduro’s neck. Maduro went down, and Marco was on top of him. Marco tried to squeeze him to chokeout, but it was no use. Maduro’s neck was simply too strong. But neither could Maduro get any hold on Marco. They were in a Venezuelan standoff.
But then Maduro started chewing through Marco’s pants.
“He’s going to chew your dick right off!” Bernie shouted.
“Bernie!” Marco shouted. “Grab that gun! You have to stick the bayonet up his -”
“-I know where I have to stick it!” Bernie replied, and grabbed the gun.
Maduro tried to flip around to guard his anus, but it was no use. Bernie heaved the rifle, and stuck the bayonet right up his butthole.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” The dictator let out a brutal cry that Bernie believed must have been heard throughout the entire country.
He convulsed and died.
“Whew,” Bernie said. “That was a close one!”
Marco started laughing wildly.
And then the walkie talkie buzzed.
“Marco, this is Pence. Did you get Maduro?”
“No,” Marco replied and let it hang for a minute, taking a deep breath. “Bernie got Maduro.”
“Bernie?” Pence replied. “Well I’ll be damned. I didn’t think that old red scoundrel had it in him.”
Bernie felt joy welling up in his heart. Venezuela would be liberated. And it was he who made it possible.
“We’re in the center square,” Pence said. “The journos took down the generals. The ladies are moving the peasants into the city. Guaido is getting ready to give his speech. I’ll send some of our guys up to get the body. The people are going to want to see it. Good job, boys. You are both great Americans, and this is truly a great day for American democracy.”
“Over and out.”