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Barack Obama against the Land Pirates of Wichita
The Audacity turned, and opened her gun ports. One volley did us in, cracking her air skirt and making shrapnel of her aft turbine and sending her sinking, deflated, to the ground. After that, there was nothing to do but sit and glumly watch the prairie sharks gather.
A cry went up. The Audacity had pulled astern of us, and dropped anchor, and pinned us with her swivel guns. I heard a snap of cording, and a thump, and then the man Obama stood on our deck, still gripping the rope he had swung over on.
We stared. Perhaps it was the fact that he was nine feet tall; perhaps it was his eyes, which were as gentle and compassionate and fierce as a mother bear’s; perhaps it was his armor, each chain link of which had been forged from the smoking remains of the Liberty Bell. Not even the Ronpaul’s man thought to raise a hand against him.
“Bravely fought!” he cried. “Who is your captain?”
We pointed mutely at the corpse and, I swear, I saw a single tear trickle down his face. He wiped it away and I gasped, for I suddenly understood why the Ronpaul wanted him dead; his hand came away gilded with dust, for Obama cries tears of molten gold.
“Bravely fought indeed,” he whispered, and walked among us. The entire time I have been with him, I never saw Obama give a single thought to his own safety. “I am the Prince of Outlaws, and, I am sorry to say, that puts this ship under Bandit Law. Your fuel I will take, for you no longer have need of it, and any loose valuables, but your lives are your own. You may accompany me if you wish, for my band of merry thieves is small as yet, and I always have need of brave women and men. If not, I will leave you alone; we will lend you use of our radio or flares, to signal for help, or we can dispense prairie mercy to those who prefer it.”
We mulled it over: the only ones likely to rescue us this far out were traveling Romnists, and they would only save stranded sailors if they agreed to become one of the Pope’s salt wives. The Sturmfrunten shrieked and quivered and thrust his face up towards Obama. “I would rather die than betray the Ronpaul!”
Obama laid one shovel-sized palm upon the quaking creature’s forehead and, with infinite compassion on his face, brought his fingers together. “Civic responsibility begins with personal responsibility,” he explained, with brains still dripping from his clenched fist.
After that, the vote was unanimous. Obama embraced each man, and called him brother. He shook each of our hands, staring us firmly in the eye, and in this way divined the fiber of our character, and our futures, and our true names, by which we could be bound or commanded. These last two he kept to himself.
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