His fat sweaty palm collided with the hard plastic again. The small opaque casing was the only thing keeping his hand from meeting with the sinister red button beneath.
He did not know that all he had to do to unlatch the casing, was to push down the small grey metal latch beneath it. It would release with a pop, like the lid of a mason jar, loosing the ruby red butterfly inside and allowing him release a mushroom cloud over every continent. The chrysalis for a generation.
But he could not.
Instead he would suffocate, we all would.
In this vexing vacuum he had created and we had helped sustain. Like the perfect conditions in a hot house for a parasitic plant that eventually burns down the whole glass house with it’s incendiary seedlings.
He simply wanted to pollinate. Except he did not know what that meant — not really. Perhaps he wanted to fornicate. The only things he was able to fawn over anymore were money and his psychotic preoccupation with being “the most important man in the room”. Talking, always talking.
So we would suffocate, not burn. Because his bloated fingers could not find the latch, did not even know the latch was there. Had not listened when somebody had told him (as somebody was duty bound to have done).
Lost in a sea of executive rush orders and hack-job commands from on high.
Now screaming like a toddler he stood jabbing helplessly. In a bunker, somewhere toward the centre of the earth, slowly getting warmer all the time.
(Originally Posted to Medium.com)