It’s the 3rd day of Government Shutdown.
The animals at Central Park have been released for lack of food and water and health insurance. They quickly turn the suburbs into a jungle where few dare treads.
Office workers, forgotten and chained to their desks, scream in desperation as they begin chewing their own arms off to free themselves.
Tens of thousands of Women “Marching for Rights They Already Have” in pink hats walk down the empty streets while bits of unsigned legislation blow by like tumbleweeds. They fall silent as no one listens or cares. Feminism dies a silent and long overdue death as their homemade signs fall by the wayside.
Politicians stand in line at the Capitol, empty Starbucks mugs trembling in thin, shaking hands as they beg for spare change, while awaiting their meager ration of watery gruel.
Makeshift Farmer Markets spring up in intersections. Office Workers quickly create massive lines to trade staplers and sticky notes for food. It quickly dissolves into chaos as there are no farmers in DC.
Accountants and Lawyers choose sides according to their profession. They begin hunting each other with makeshift bows and spears.
Two bums begin fighting over a half-eaten Big Mac. The fight ends violently when Donald Trump strangles Chuck Schumer to death with his own tie. Bloodied but victorious, Trump holds the burger aloft as he screams in joy, only to be overcome by the screeching bureaucrats who pour out from the nearby sewer drains and smother him with red tape.
The Postal Service begins looting local police departments. They mount weapons, spikes, armor, and Barbie Doll heads on their vehicles and drive down sidewalks. But as fuel runs out, they soon turn on each other.
World War Two vets, refusing to allow the sacred ground that holds their memorials to be blocked off with barricades and orange cones again, set up fighting positions and a steady stream of aimed fire from M1 Garands surrounds them with a no man’s land 500 yards deep.
More Vets, bearded and grizzled, ride their iron steeds of Harley-Davidson through the yellow tape surrounding the Vietnam Memorial and begin covering their faces and arms with camo paint. Dozens of men in Biker Vests slip into the concrete jungle to begin taking ears.
The city turns in upon itself.
Bits of ash from burned regulations rain from the sky. The steady stream of screams grow faint as the mounds of unburied dead grow. Only the mournful wails of the living and the screams of freed zoo predators can be heard at night.
A torn and tattered American Flag waves silently in the breeze above the Capital Building as it burns.
The Lincoln Memorial weeps a single manly tear.