So there we were, hunkered down in Hallandale last night, like one of those bands of early Christians hiding out in the catacombs and staring into the darkness, hoping against hope not to see torchlight coming through the gloom because that kind of change was just simply not good for children, atheists, and other living things. Luckily, within our blacked-out lair in Lanskyland, all was silent, if not calm.
“They’re not coming,” said my father, the sainted “Che” Kahane. “They wouldn’t dare.”
“They’re feeling pretty bold these days,” demurred my Uncle Joe. “Fresh, even.”
“You’ve been watching too much Fox News lately, Uncle Joe,” I said. “You’re starting to sound like Bill O’Reilly.”
Uncle Joe recoiled like a vampire from a crucifix. “Shame on you!” he shouted. “You should know better than ever to utter that name in my presence. Ted Baxter, now that’s okay. But the world’s worst worstest person — never.”
“Quiet,” ordered Che. “You’ll wake the dead or, even worse, Glenn Beck.” He turned to me. “David, peek out the window and see what you can see.”
“Sure, Pop,” I said, and began prising some of the nails out of the board my uncle had nailed across the picture window to prevent the assault he was sure was heading our way before the coming of the new dawn.
“Nothing yet, Pop,” I said with as much cheer in my voice as I could muster. Wait a minute — was that . . . ? No, it couldn’t be. . . . I decided to keep my mouth shut.
My eyes traveled to the sacred portraits above the mantel, flickering by the light of a lone votive candle: Lenin, Dzerzhinsky, Armand Hammer, and the upturned visage of the Emperor Barack Hussein Obama II, Lord of the Flies and Protector of the Holy Cities of Honolulu and Chicago. For a brief moment I felt better about life. Then I remembered where I was, and what night this was.
Uncle Joe’s plangent voice — a fine if somewhat wobbly baritone; you should hear him sing “Joe Hill” – once again broke the silence. “Was it only two short years ago that the oceans stopped advancing and the earth began to heal? When we finally defeated Bushiburton & Co., restored honor to Amerikkka, sent the deficit soaring into the compassionate trillions, devalued the currency to egalitarian banana-republic levels, humbly bowed to various princes and potentates, and mooched expensive vacations and trips abroad from the taxpaying suckers? When BO2 had ascended to Woodrow Wilson’s throne and admonished his subjects to become worthy of him? And now look at us — holed up here like the original cast of Night of the Living Dead. Why do they hate us? Why? Why?”
I hated to see a grown man cry. “Look on the bright side, Uncle Joe,” I said. “BHO the Second is still going to be president for another two years. Just think of all the progressive mischief we can get up to. Hell’s bells, imagine what our lame-duck Congress can perpetrate from Wednesday to January if only we can keep our spirits up!”
At the word “spirits,” my dad trembled a little. “This is how I felt the night before Reagan-Carter,” he whispered softly, dredging up old memories. “Before Reagan-Mondale. Before the Carnera–Max Baer fight. And I had them all, plus points!”
“Dad,” I said, “you weren’t even born in 1934.”
“Yeah, but with my luck I would have laid a bundle on Carnera,” he said. “I’m telling you, David, as they say in one of your crappy movies, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Look out the window again.”
I peeked out once more. This time there was no mistake: Something was moving out there in the night. Something wicked, this way coming. Now I knew how Macbeth felt watching Birnam Wood approach him like a red-bearded Grim Reaper. But I chose to remain silent.