Part 1
It is the year 2525, and a storm described as ‘apocalyptic’ is barreling down on Florida and Alabama’s Gulf Coast.
The TV reporters hyperventilate and exaggerate their inability to stand in a stiff breeze.
But this is a big one. The biggest they say since the National Weather Service upped the gender equality correctness by calling the boy’ hurricanes, ‘hisicanes.’
This is Hisicane Donald.
Millions of Americans stared, transfixed by the spiral on TV screens.
Counterclockwise swirling. Hypnotizing.
It looked like the cosmic spiral of our galaxy.
Everybody asked: When is landfall? Where is landfall? When is that TV reporter going to be conked in head by a wind-driven coconut?
Hisicane Donald’s path had been surprisingly fast moving.
And it is upon us now.
Some people had chosen to flee, pack up the car and head out. Others chose to stay, shoring up their houses with boards and their doors and yards with sandbags.
And some, hesitated, caught up in staring at the spiral and wondering if it is really worth running from or should they just ‘hunker down.’
This is historic. Never been seen before, the TV blared.
“This your first ‘herckun?’ Old timer nursing a 16-oz PBR asks.
Prosby had just walked in and sat down at the End of the Line Tavern.
“Oh no, no,’ Prosby said.