TheThirdofJulyby

A dewy July dawn washes over the Wampanoag Marsh as a Secret Service Agent types coordinates into his laptop, huddled amongst the reeds. A nearby beaver eyes his bare ankles hungrily. A tall handsome gentleman in full camo regalia, rifle over shoulder, hollers at him from a hundred yards away in a Southern twang, “Whaddyagot Sandusky?” He spits some chew out and watches the clouds.

The Agent rises to his feet. “Two pilots flying low under the radar from the North, Mr. President!”

President Henry Humphrey looks up to see a pair of beautiful regal American bald eagles swooping down over the marsh looking for a field mouse or a bunny or a delicious opossum. The President wets his lips, eyeing the birds greedily. His longtime hunting partner and running mate, Vice President Eddie Worcestershire, an idiot congressman from Northern Iowa, spits out a wad of Big League Chew and squints into the setting sun, following closely behind Henry. The President turns to whistle for VP Worcestershire. The big-eared VP nearly runs into his boss and Presidential spittle speckles his goofy face. The President throws down his cap in frustration, “Eddie!”

VP Worcestershire picks up the President’s hat, a bewildered look on his face as always, “Sorry Henry, I didn’t see ya there. You’re camoflauged.”

The eagles fly by and out of sight cawing mightily, perhaps even mockingly, and the President mutters something under his breath about people from Iowa, “Got dang it Eddie. Watch the skies! These birds ain’t gonna shoot themselves!”

Henry glances back at the Agent, “Hit me with something good Sandusky!”

“A bogey from the South, comin’ in hot Mr. President!”

President Humphrey whips around to see the eagle soaring right at him and hollers at Eddie, “Bird at seven o’clock!”

He has his finger squeezed around the trigger while Eddie simply squeezes his eyes shut and fires. The President lowers his rifle, releases the trigger and Eddie’s eyes bug out wide. President Henry Humphrey drops the rifle and staggers backwards in the muddy muck holding one hand against his reddening camo jacket while pointing with his right hand back behind Eddie.

“Seven o’clock’s…that way…you knucklehead.”

Eddie drops to his knees pressing both hands hard against his intestines, gasping desperately, “I thought…you said…eleven o’clock.”

Henry coughs up some blood and glares back at Eddie, his eyelids clouding his waning vision, “That…would’ve been wrong…too.”

The two men fall and begin sinking into the quagmire while Agent Sandusky stares in slack-jawed horror before, “Hey if you guys are done hunting, I’m just gonna bounce. I wanna get back to town for the fireworks tomorrow night.”

Richard Marche, the Secretary of Health and Human Services, is quietly typing up a report in his swank corner office on the top floor of the Hubert H. Humphrey Building on Independence Avenue, D.C. His secretary Alice runs into the office out of breath.

“Richard, turn on Fox News!”

Richard’s eyes light up, “What is it? Is it beavers?”

He swivels towards the television on his right and switches from the QVC to the News where a solemn Shepard Smith is reporting on a breaking story.

“…and the Vice President were both tragically shot in a horrible duck hunting accident in a marsh in South Carolina this morning. Details are unclear at this time but it is believed that there was no French involvement. The bodies are being transported back to Washington where autopsies will be performed shortly thereaft—“

Richard clicks off the screen and twirls his wheelchair around to face Alice, nearly tipping onto his side. He stares into her thick eyeglasses, his face paled white. “You know what this means?”

Alice nods, clapping her hands together, “We get the day off!”

Richard shakes his head no, “It means Clarence Calhoun is the President of the United States.”

“We take you now live to the Capitol steps where former Speaker of the House, President Calhoun is about to address a record D.C. crowd.”

President Calhoun adjusts his hornrims and licks his palm to whet the thinning combover that tops his dumpy visage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re gathered here today on the most catastrophic of American tragedies. But we must not dwell on the misfortunes of the past when the promises of the future lay so fruitful before us. There is a lot wrong with today’s America. The Jews control the media, the gooks control the schools, and the blacks—“

Alice flips around the channels as Richard slumps lower in his wheelchair. Every station has quickly cut back to a surprised anchor behind his desk, finger in ear. Richard buries his small head in his hand, “I knew this would happen, you can’t let a former Klan member take over the free world. I mean D.C.? He’s probably gonna get lynched.”

Alices lands on CBS, “Um, Richard?”

An anchorwoman is caught in midthought, “I don’t want to say ‘lynch mob’ because that might be too strong a phrase at this point, but a large crowd of D.C. natives have lifted President Calhoun on their shoulders in an uncelebratorylike manner and they seem to be making a beeline for the Washington Monument Reflecting Pool…”

Richard grabs the remote out of Alice’s hand and shuts off the bad news. “I’ve got a crucial press conference to worry about.”

Alice turns to Sec. Marche grinning, “Three down. You’re ten spots away from being the President, Richard. What would you do with all that power?”

Richard doesn’t look up from the speech on his desk, “Robot Legs.”

A clerk takes the President pro tempore of the Senate, William Unshur, by the arm. He turns his back on the Senate floor as he learns of former President Calhoun’s “impeachment.”

Suddenly a shout from the back of the Senate chamber breaks the silence, “Sic semper tyrranus!”

This cry irks President Unshur’s interest, “Say, wasn’t that that Latino phrase John Booth yelled before he shot Lincoln?”

The clerk seems disappointed, “It’s Latin, sir.”
The President scoffs, “No, it’s Lincoln. But you’re new here, you’ll get the hang—“

Unshur is cut off midsentence and he drops to the floor. The clerk laughs, “No seriously Mr. President, they need to swear you in.”

Secretary of State Albert Filibuster casually walks up to the podium laughing, holding a pistol, “Yeah Billy Boy, get up. I just whinged ya.”

A crowd gathers around President Unshur and the clerk looks up after checking his pulse, “Sec. Filibuster, you killed the President.”

Filibuster laughs and rolls his eyes, “He’s fine. It’s a BB gun.” He holds up the pistol, “I’m just getting him back for the paintball attack last week. At least this asshole doesn’t have to buy a new suit. Get up Bill, we get it.”

Anthony Folger, Secretary of the Treasury, marches up to Sec. Filibuster, takes out a white glove and slaps him across the face with it, “Good sir, you have fallen my fair President and therefore I must challenge you to a du—“

Before Folger can complete the challenge and draw his pistol Filibuster plugs two BB’s in his forehead and continues his explanation as Sec. Folger falls to the ground mere feet away from where President Unshur lays dead.

“Now I did not kill no President. William and I have had a friendly back and forth of hitting each other with light firearms since our boyhood days in the Abalama legislature. Just tickle his armpits, that boy ain’t dead.”

The clerk tickles the President’s armpits to no avail and stands up to face Sec. Filibuster, “He’s dead. You shot and killed the President.”

Sec. Filibuster slowly backs away, “But I…BB…whinged…he’s, uh…So, I’m President now, right?”

Richard is giving a live televised press conference on the dangers of the coming Beaver Flu pandemic, a strain of influenza nearly five times deadlier than the Bird Flu that ravaged North America nearly a decade prior.

“We here at the Department of Health and Human Services urge the American public to steer clear of all beavers this summer. One single bite could mean dire consequences for you and yours. If a beaver approaches you, do not coax or entice it, leave it be. A man in Tecumseh, Georgia lost the tips of two fingers from a single beaver bite and he was dead before sundown. A woman in Marietta was stroking her pet beaver early one morning when it lashed out at her. She remains in serious condition. If all precautions are met than Americans should have a happy healthy beaver-free summer.”

After the giggling subsides, Richard begins to take questions from the fair and balanced media.

“Sec. Marche! Roger Douchebag, New York Times. Where do these deadly beavers most often congregate?”

Richard pulls the mic closer, “They tend to dwell in warmer climates, thriving in the deep underbrush.”

A hand shoots up in the back, “Sec. Marche, Sec. Marche! Stephen Shithead from the Washington Post. There are rumors that this new breed of beaver was brought over by the French because of the ongoing conflict. A sort of bioterrorism.”

Richard shakes his head, “This has nothing to do with France. It isn’t all about France. I wish we could go a day without hearing about France.”

“We interrupt this live press conference to bring you to Paris, France where former Secretary of Defense Buck Brown is about to address the nation on today’s events.”

Buckingham Willoughby Brown is standing atop the roof of the American Embassy. Jets scream above and bombs blast in the background as Buck Brown holds his helmet on tight while hollering at the camera, “It seems the presidential line of succession has fallen on me. Five men are dead, one is in jail, and I’m now your new leader. I wish I could be there in D.C. to help you all through this heady day but I must stay to fight the good fight here in France. We’ve taken Marseilles, Nice is ours and Paris is soon to fall. This war is taxing our nation’s strength but we will persevere in the name of peace, in the name of America, and in the name of democracy.”

Richard, watching from behind the podium, covers the mics and whispers to the Deputy Secretary standing on his left, “Isn’t France a democracy already?”

“Shh!”

Buck Brown ducks offscreen for a moment as an explosion shakes the foundation of the building he’s standing atop. He regains his composure and continues, “These French are fighting harder than we ever could have imagined. Their berets and baguettes may intimate a soft front, but they fight with the fire of a thousand flambés.”

Richard leans his wheelchair on the back two wheels and rolls his eyes staring at the ceiling.

Buck continues, “We will not give into their demands, we will not…wha—“

Suddenly Frenchmen with AK’s burst onto the roof, yelling “Arreter-vous! Arreter-vous!” The cameraman backs away from his device towards the ledge as a French soldier screams in his face, “Arreter-vous!” He shakes his head, cowering, “I don’t know what that means!” The soldier hits him with the butt of his gun and knocks him out. Another guy on the crew smirks and whispers to the intern on his right, “Good thing I didn’t tell them that I don’t know what that means either.”

The lead soldier grabs President Brown by the neck, holding the barrel against his temples, staring into the camera still broadcasting live, while the other soldiers surround the remaining Americans left on the roof.

“We ave your Zecra-taree of Zee-fence and ee will be exacu-ted at sundown if ahr zee-mans ahr not fool-feeled.”

A gasp of shock ripples through the crowd at the press conference and Richard drops back onto four wheels as he stares at the Frenchman on the screen.

“Sacre bleu!”

Attorney General Dick Bonaparte and Secretary of the Interior Anne Cantwell are driving along the Blue Ridge back towards D.C. after a long vacation when they hear the radio broadcast of the events unfolding in Paris.

Dick turns his attention away from the winding roads before him for a moment to find some easy-listening when a turn suddenly comes up too quick and Anne begins screaming. The car jettisons off the edge and soars a swooping arc over the Shenandoah Valley below. Two bald eagles fly level with the car for a moment, peering in on the doomed politicians, before the vehicle drops. Dick turns from the radio dial to Anne’s petrified screams, “What, what is it? You don’t like this station?”

Stock footage of a car’s brilliant explosion while in mid-plummet fills the television screen back in Richard’s office where the Secretary is flipping through the channels looking for a station not discussing the widespread French conspiracy to singlehandedly bring our government to a grinding halt in one day.

Richard begins daydreaming about a new wheelchair with all the fixins when the well-quaffed Secretary of Agriculture Thomas Hugh enters his office sipping a coffee and grinning down at Sec. Marche.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, short man.”

Richard looks up from the TV startled and smiles at Sec. Hugh, “What are you talkin about Thomas, Dick Bonaparte’s the President now…I think.” He glances down at the checklist they passed out earlier in the day and nods, “Yup, see? Bonaparte then Cantwell then you.”

Thomas laughs and leans against the handicapped rail near the door, “He and Anne are on one of their little trysts down South, they won’t be back for days and until then I’m the Acting President.”

Richard wheels himself out from behind his desk and plants directly in front of President Hugh, “So you’re in charge?”

Hugh chuckles and takes a sip, “Until you off me. What’s your deal Marche? You think cause you’re handicapped you can get away with murder? I’m onto you hotshot. The jig is up.”

Richard stares incredulously, “What jig? I’m not even next in line. There’s still the Secretaries of Commerce and Labor before you even get to me! You’re drinking too much of that stuff Thomas.”

President Hugh drains the cup, “Nice try bucko. Commerce and Labor? Ling Ching and Pablo Domingo? They’re not exactly qualified. It’s just you and me hombre. Make your move.”

Richard is more confused than anything else, “Make my move? What are you—You know, for an Acting President, you’re acting like an asshole.” He begins to turn back towards the desk when he sees Hugh out of the corner of his eye drop the cup and draw a revolver from behind his back.

“This is for President Humphrey and Vice President Worcestershire and President Calhoun and President Unshur and—“

Richard waves him off, “You don’t have to go down the list again, I didn’t have anything to do with today. It’s all just a series of incredibly earth-shattering mind-blowing coincidences. Put that gun away will ya?”

Hugh shakes his head and points the revolver between Richard’s eyes, “There’s nowhere to run, uh roll, Marche. I don’t know how you did it but you did it and I won’t let you do it again.”

Richard begins to think fast on his feet, uh wheels, “Maybe I already did it again. You drank that coffee awfully fast.”

President Hugh lowers the revolver and his eyes dart around the room, “You mean you…you…”

Richard nods impatiently peeking out the doorway, “Yeah yeah I poisoned you, hours of endless pain, enjoy. Will you just put that damn gun away?”

He steers himself back behind his desk, Hugh drops his gun, gets on all fours and begins coughing, “Oh. Oh god! I can feel it coarsing through my veins!”

He stares up at Richard quietly arranging memos on his desk, “You monster!”

He rises to his knees and raises his hands above him dramatically, “What have you done to me?!”

He dives for his pistol, shoves it in his mouth and before Richard can say, ‘Don’t shoot yourself in the head on my newly carpeted floor,’ President Hugh shoots himself in the head on Richard’s newly carpeted floor.

Alice runs into the office, “Oh gross! Warn me next time there’s brain matter everywhere. I thought a cola can popped.”

Richard returns to his stack of memos, “Be a dear and get some paper towels, will you?”

A Secret Service Agent pulls up in front of the Hubert H. Humphrey Building to escort President Marche to the White House. On the ride there a feeling of exultant joy overcomes Richard and he grins devilishly as he sees Alice waiting for them at 1400 with a brand new state-of-the-art LectroRide 5005, the finest in wheelchair technology (“Why walk when you can slide, on the LectroRide. LectroRide 5005, because legs are for suckers”). He slides comfortably into the Ride and holds the joystick to the right as he spins donuts around the front lawn laughing.

“It ain’t Robot Legs but it’s the next best thing! Wheeee!”

He slides up to Alice and she leans down so he can whisper in her ear, “And the other thing I asked for?”

Alice nods, a bit frightened of her boss’ drastic change, “It just arrived from England. It’s waiting on your desk in the Oval Office…Mr. President.”

He begins to bounce in his seat as Alice jumps up and down clapping.

“Oval Office, can you believe it?”

Richard steers himself toward the House and Alice and several Secret Service Agents follow.

“Let’s go knock em on their asses.”

“My fellow Americans, as we gather tonight on the eve of the Fourth to celebrate our nation’s freedom, we must also remember those who have fallen. The ten most powerful men and women in the free world have been killed imprisoned or captured. The War with France has taken a turn for the worse and the dreaded Beaver Flu pandemic is poised to ravage our land. Difficult times call for difficult measures.”

Richard takes a moment to adjust the bejeweled golden crown atop his head and continues on, “Which is why I have decided to enforce Martial Law. This may seem drastic but I assure you it is in the nation’s best interest.” He tries to stifle back a maniacally sinister laugh.

“There will be a nationwide curfew of 6PM and all media outlets will be shut down to avoid any unnecessary information leaks. It’s a daunting point in time to be a leader but I assure you, people of America, I’m fully capable of leading. You might say I’m handi-capable.”

President Marche smirks at the lameness but a jerk cricket in the corner of the room begins chirping loudly. He glares at the cricket, it stops, and Marche flips to the last page.

“If all precautions are met than Americans should have a happy healthy beaver-free summer.”

Richard frowns down at the pages before him as stations nationwide join programs already in progress.

He floats silently on his LectroRide over to Alice, “That last page was off the beaver speech wasn’t it.”

Alice cringes, “Yeah, I’m sorry Rich, it must’ve slipped in there by mistake.”

Richard nods, “Well I’m sure they got the gist of it anyway.”

He begins to wheel himself towards the elevator then turns back to his longtime secretary, “Oh and one more thing Alice. You’re fired.” He smiles and continues upstairs to the Lincoln bedroom.

Alice glares at him as he rolls away and she immediately gets on her cell to Little Italy.

President Marche is awoken by a loud thumping sound early the next morning. He opens his eyes and squints through the blackness to see two burly men on both sides of the bed going at his legs Mafioso-style with Louisville Sluggers; or maybe they’re Rawlings, it’s too dark to tell.

Richard yawns and the two men are startled out of their intense beating. The one on the left glances over to the one on the right, “Did he just yawn?”

Richard blinks his eyes into focus, “What’re you guys doing?”

The one on the left—Vinny—drops his bat, “Jesus, you think he’s a zombie?”

Richard clears his throat, “Your President just asked you a question. What are you doing?”
The one on the right—Guido—looks down glumly, “We’re beating you, sir.”

Richard rolls his eyes and swings his lifeless legs over the side of the bed, calling his LectroRide over with the remote control. He hops into it and turns to face his tormentors.

Vinny slaps his forehead and Guido points at the Ride, “Ohhh shit, that’s what that is.”

Guido nods, “I thought it was some sorta back massager.”

Richard presses a button and it starts to rumble, “Oh no, it’s got that too.”

Vinny smiles, “Sweet.”

Richard nods toward the door, “You guys better get out of here, the Secret Service’ll be up any minute.”

The two men scurry for the door and Richard calls out to them as they leave, “Oh yeah, who sent you?”

Guido looks at Vinny, “Uhhh, the French?” They make a break for it, giggling all the way back downstairs.

Downstairs in the War Room, General Whar Monger is already up, half-smoked stogie in hand, watching the Big Board—a giant Lite Brite map of the world, showing global troop positioning: friendlies and enemies. He has a sullen emaciated look like he hasn’t slept in six days.

President Marche pokes Monger’s thigh and he looks down, “Oh Mr. President, I’m sorry I haven’t slept in seven days.”

Richard stares at the Big Board, “A week?”

“What?”
“Week.”
“Yeah we’re looking pretty weak, those bastard frogs took us by surprise.”
“Frogs? I thought it was beavers we had to be worried about.”

“The French, Mr. President. The War?”

“Right, those damn toads.”

The General removes his General’s cap and wipes the sweat off his General brow, “I’m afraid I’ve failed you Mr. President. The War is lost. The French have us.”

Richard shakes his head, “Those damn tortoises.”

Gen. Monger stares down at President Marche, “I don’t think you fully understand the situation here Mr. President. The French won. We’re now standing on French soil. The French United States of America, though they might wanna change that name…”

President Marche shrugs his shoulders, “I’m not too concerned. I’m half-French ya know. Marche is French for…something. Some sort of meringue pie I believe.”

There’s a knock at the door and French President Jacques LeJacques enters to accept American surrender.

Gen. Monger stands next to President Marche as the French President signs the peace treaty. Whar scratches the nape of his neck and glances down at Richard, “Guess I better bone up on my French.”

Richard chuckles and his crown almost slips off, “You said bone.”

On the morning of July Fourth President Marche hands over control to the French president and our once great nation becomes the French United States of America—they never did change that name. Former President Marche takes his crown and his LectroRide and heads up to Nova Scotia to look for a cozy loghouse on the water.

The rest of America bundles up and heads North as well, not wanting to be constantly reminded of their defeat every time they buy a burgair at Le MacDonuld’s or go to see a football game and are rudely met with a futbol game. Much of France and Quebec immigrate to the Colonies and soon enough there isn’t an Englishman in sight.

French rule does not last long though as the Beaver Flu begins to tear its way across the continental French United States. The ill beavers begin to multiply at a drastic rate and by August of that year there are sixteen fluish beavers for every one French-American. By September the beavers have complete control. The entire populations of French-America, France and Quebec are wiped out and Canada becomes the world’s greatest superpower.

The once all-powerful French United States of America is no more; it’s now the Beaver United States of America, I guess.

Overall the last month has been a learning experience for everybody who survived. Never trust the French; pay attention when hunting bald eagles; don’t get lynched or poisoned or even pretend poisoned; never play with BB guns; watch out for sharp curves; and stay away from beavers.

God bless French Beaver America.