Chapter 19 Nations
The tantalizing aroma of food permeated from the bustling restaurants in Chelsea Market. Families wandered through the vibrant shops and captivating attractions.
Children laughed as they rode the Seaglass Carousel, a magical carousel with glass horses and fish.
Tourists marveled at the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum. One could easily lose themselves amidst the labyrinth of the teeming crowd.
In the shadows of the piers, hidden among dark alleys and abandoned warehouses, was an old decommissioned fishing distribution depot from the fifties.
The roof had collapsed, allowing cracks of daylight to filter through the corrugated metal and Japanese knotweed. Graffiti covered the walls, and the floor was littered with debris.
Apart from the occasional drunken vagrant, the warehouse was completely deserted. This also made it the perfect place for Magister Gulag to hide in a white box truck.
Gulag had arrived at the warehouse earlier that day, having flown first class on a private jet to LaGuardia Airport.
He had enjoyed a leisurely meal of lobster thermador and chilled champagne. His stewardess, Suzie, had been most accommodating to his needs, all charged to the royal family's account.
Now to his behest, he was nestled behind a dumpster in a litter-strewn alleyway. Gulag had been watching the comings and goings of the people at Chelsea Piers for more than a few hours now, with a mixture of envy and resentment.
He, envied their freedom and their ability to live their lives in normalcy, something that he never had. He resented the fact that he was forced to hide in this squalid place - perspiring in gray maintenance overalls.
His eyes squinted from the mid-afternoon sun in the rearview mirror as a gaggle of tourists approached his vicinity. He checked his watch and then shoved the door open.
"You're all late, and what are you all wearing? You'd think this was a Disney Club convention."
"Sorry, Gulag," Asp said, wiping hot dog mustard from his chin. " It took longer than we thought getting through the market."
"Amateurs." Gulag glared at Dante, who was wearing a Statue of Liberty costume. "We had to improvise, Gulag."
Gulag wrung his hand in dismay.
"Dante, I don't want to know. Everyone get in the back and get changed, we have to go."
Gulag got in and pulled out of the alley, sending the mangy street cats flying out of the way as they gorged on rancid fish carcasses.
They Merged with the heavy traffic of the West Side Highway. Gulag weaved in and out of the lanes trying to make good time.
After a few miles, they were up First Avenue, past the skyscrapers of Midtown Manhattan. As he got closer to the United Nations Headquarters, he saw more and more billboards and placards with the words "United Nations Climate Hope Summit."
The billboards were all different sizes and shapes, but they all had the same message: the world was coming together to address the climate crisis.
Some billboards featured pictures of young people holding signs with slogans like "Save Our Planet" and "Climate Action Now."
Others featured images of melting glaciers and rising sea levels. It was clear that the city was excited about the summit and that people were eager to take action on climate change.
Waiting for a break in traffic, Gulag took a sharp turn and pulled up to the security checkpoint at the North Gate of the United Nations headquarters.
A large metal barrier blocked the road.
Two guards in blue uniforms and sunglasses were pitched up in a booth, armed with rifles, while explosive detection dogs sniffed around.
Gulag wound down his window as the guard approached the truck.
"Good afternoon," he said, in a thick Boston accent. "Can I see your driver's license and registration, please?"
Gulag handed over his falsified documents. The guard took them and glanced at them briefly before handing them back.
"Thank ya, now What's the purpose of yer visit?"
"We're here to do some maintenance on the air conditioners," Gulag said in a fake American accent.
"I'm the lead technician, and I need to check the pressure valves."
"Air conditioners? at the United Nations?"
He gestured to Barney, in the booth.
"Hey, Barney, what do we know about the air conditioning?"
Barney, a rotund man with a shaved head, shrugged. "Not much. They keep the place cool, I guess. The paperwork is in here somewhere."
"We're contracted by the UN to service all their air conditioners, it's just a routine check," Gulag said matter-of-factly.
Gulag reached into his pocket and pulled out a work order paper. It had an embossed United Nations blue stamp with a company insignia that said Global Cooling Solutions in bold black print. He handed it to the guard.
"Here's our work order."
The guard took the work order, looking it over. He then went to Barney in the plexiglass security booth.
"Barney check this over, I do not recognize this contracting company."
He slid the paper into the pass-through as it buzzed in purple light checking for any chemical residues.
Barney started to check the company's registration on the United Nations database. He typed the company name and hit enter.
Seconds later, a message popped up saying 'Global Cooling Solutions' was a registered United Nations contractor.
"Go figure, it checks out, Pauly wind it through," Barney said.
"Well, I think you've come to the right place," said Pauly. "But I'm going to need to have a look around your vehicle."
Gulag got out. "Of course, be my guest."
Pauly opened the tailgate at the rear, and found the 'Bloodies' in the back, wearing grease-stained overalls and eating out of metal workmen's lunchboxes.
"Hey, ya wanna baloney sandwich?"Dante offered.
"Thanks, buddy but I got a backlog happening here. Open your toolboxes please."
Pauly checked their workman tools, as the explosive dog jumped in, sniffing around the baloney sandwich more than anything.
Using a mirror inspection device Pauly checked under the truck for bombs. He also looked under the hood. Finally, he asked Gulag to open his bags.
Gulag opened his bags and Pauly searched them thoroughly. He even asked Gulag to take off his shoes.
"Sorry for the inconvenience. But these are the security measures we have in place to keep the United Nations safe."
"I understand, no problem, we don't want to let the rot in," Gulag said.
"Yeah, right. Barney, we are clear, let them through."
After clearing security, Gulag motored along the winding road up to the UN complex, trailing other service vehicles on the ground floor of the East Side.
As the iconic buildings came into view above the tree line, he instructed the Bloodies on the final phase of their plan.
Pulling into the loading bay, they gathered their tools and props, ready to blend in amongst the other workers.
The loading bay was a large and open space with high ceilings and concrete walls. A few forklifts were parked. Workers were sitting on wooden pallets smoking, taking no notice when Gulag parked up.
Loading and unloading trucks whiffed out the smell of diesel fuel and exhaust fumes. It was filled with crates and pallets of supplies, everything from food to furniture to office equipment. Security cameras pivoted on mounts with roaming guards on the lookout.
Wearing hard hats and carrying toolboxes, Gulag and the 'Bloodies' climbed out. They looked like everyday tradesmen, no different from the local electricians and plumbers milling about the loading bay.
Gulag reached for a roll of paper in his toolbox and unrolled it onto a rickety wooden table. His hands fanned out the crisp, white paper, careful not to tear the delicate sheet.
A detailed rendering of the entire United Nations was displayed for all to see, a rendering any draftsman would be proud of.
Gulag traced his finger along the fine lines and shading, his eyes scanning the complex network of pipes and valves.
He gestured to a section of the map.
"The water filtration system for the entire complex is in this basement, Asp, you will go there. Remember your training. Don’t fuck it up!"
Gulag stretched out a corner of the blueprint, trying to keep it from folding back in on itself. He pointed to the central air conditioning system.
"Once you have the water system under wraps.
Dante, you will then target the central air conditioning."
Just then, a security guard walked by. He looked at Gulag and the blueprint, but said nothing. He just kept walking.
Gulag returned to Asp and Dante. "OK," he said. "Are we clear?"
"It will be a walk in the park," Asp smirked.
"It's a cakewalk," Dante boasted. "This isn't the first building I've broken into."
Gulag started the timer on his watch.
"Ok, you know what to do, your 15-minute countdown starts now. If you are not back in time, you are on your own. Get on with it."
Asp and Dante waited for an opening until the security guards were distracted. Then they slipped out of the loading bay onto a mezzanine, with the blueprint and their toolboxes.
They moved like two serpents slithering into the service lift.
Gulag and the Bloodies watched them go, then they turned to their tools. Pliers, wrenches, and screwdrivers were laid out across the rickety wooden splintered table.
Two of the Bloodies pretended to inspect a long ladder pulled from the back of the truck. Gulag's eyes roamed the loading bay, watching for any sign of trouble.
Cobwebs flew past on the gray breezeblock walls of the open lift shaft as Asp and Dante stood side by side, their toolboxes at their feet, wearing hard hats and reflective vests.
The lift doors pranged apart. Facing them was a mechanical sea of running pumps. Motors whirred, valves opened and closed like pistons, their movements as smooth and precise as a well-oiled machine.
Asp and Dante instantly felt the humidity, their clothes began to stick to their skin. Thick and muggy, the air felt suffocated like a blanket wrapped around their bodies.
Its warmth was only amplified by the heat generated by the machinery and the lack of ventilation amongst the miles of pipes and valves.
"What is our time, Dante?" Asp said, taking the blueprint from the toolbox and opening it.
"We have 9 minutes left," Dante replied. "But it looks like a maze in here."
"Then we better get our arses in gear. Look, Gulag has circled the chemical feed room and the VRF system it is at the far end."
With the blueprint as their only guide, Asp and Dante navigated the basement, stepping over loose wiring and the odd puddle of black oil.
They came to a red warning sign that said "Danger: Hazardous Materials".
"Dante, take the air conditioner units and work fast, we have 7 minutes left."
After several wrong turns, the telltale signs of the chemical room came into view through a slightly ajar door.
Asp entered the chemical feed room. It was a compartment without windows, filled with shelves of hazardous materials. Warnings such as "Danger: Flammable" and "Caution: Corrosive" were displayed on the wall.
Asp saw boxes of chlorine tablets, canisters of fluoride gas, bags of activated carbon, and spools of sediment filters. There was also a large tank with a pump injecting chemicals controlled by a timer or sensor of some kind. Radiating ultraviolet light bulbs.
Asp double-checked Gulag's circled diagram with an arrow pointing to the pumping tank on the blueprint.
"Ooh, bullseye," Asp said, grabbing two metal cylinders from his toolbox.
He unscrewed the main valve on the tank and began pumping bacteria-sized nanocapsules from syringes attached to the cylinders.
Soon the Ferox 13 would be coursing through the very veins of the pipeworks, serving the entire United Nations building.
As soon as he was finished, Asp went to check on Dante. Dante was standing on a plastic chair, with a serrated hacksaw cutting into the wires of the breaker box of the variable refrigerant flow system.
He worked quickly and efficiently, severing the unit like a surgeon cutting through flesh. Now the breaker box was a mangled mess of copper split ends, leaving the air conditioner unit to nothing more than a broken hulk of metal. With a thud, the compressor died, tripping the circuit breaker.
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"Asp I'm done, what about you?" Dante said, sweating profusely.
"As I said earlier, it was a walk in the park. Right, we've got 4 minutes, let's go."
A job well done, they closed their toolboxes and wiped oil stains on their overalls - to look like regular maintenance men.
Gulag was waiting in the box truck with the engine running when they returned to the loading bay.
Once all the were loaded back in the rear, Gulag drove out of the loading bay to the security exit. Barney and Pauly, the security guards, were checking through a black Mercedes Benz carrying a VIP.
Through the blacked-out visor of her side window, Auriel Ironheart, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, noticed a familiar face. She rolled down the window, looking at the driver of the box truck in surprise.
"Gulag!"
Gulag gave a little wink through his window at her, as Barney waved him through. His stopwatch counted down to zero, and Gulag merged back into the metropolis of New York City like they were not even there.
In the Mercedes Benz, the chauffeur rolled down the partition. Lo Chen’s dark eyes stared back at her.
"We are here, ma'am. I hope you enjoy the summit."
****************
At the front of the auditorium, a dramatic giant video screen served as a reminder that behind the polished suits and pristine personas lie individuals grappling with the complexities of global warming.
A haunting spectacle etched onto their wrinkled faces, as a montage of melting icebergs, burning forests and graphic slides of rising sea levels flickered to life. Violin music played in the background - sad children's faces stared back at them.
The world leaders watched the video presentation in silence as the "United Nations Climate Hope Summit." kicked into full swing.
Greta Thunberg the schoolgirl climate warrior stood at the rostrum addressing the United Nations General Assembly.
Flags lined the walls from all over the world, arranged around a semicircle. Delegates and world leaders sat in blue seats, while scientists and activists sat in green seats.
Greta Thunberg's voice carried over the high ceiling and polished wooden floor, like an opera singer's in the cavernous hall as the screen went dead.
"How dare you," she said, her voice trembling with emotion.
"How dare you steal my dreams and my childhood with your empty words.
How dare you continue to sit there and pretend that everything is okay when the world is burning."
Greta's spiteful bitter words waffled through the simultaneous interpretation system so that delegates could hear her speech in their native languages.
Press in the gallery snapped close-up shots of her sullen face from the back of the hall.
The world leaders shifted in their seats. Some of them looked down at their laps, while others looked around the room, hoping to avoid eye contact with Greta.
"You are failing us," she continued. "But the young people are not going to let you get away with it. We will not let you destroy our planet. How dare you."
Greta Thunberg took a deep breath and closed her speech - the audience clapped in unison, giving her a standing ovation - her parents feeding off the attention.
She basked in the adulation. As the applause died down a loud sputtering sound erupted from the ceiling.
Everyone looked up in alarm as the air conditioning unit began to splutter and rattle. The mainframe gasped for its last breaths of cool air before finally cranking to a halt.
Sven Ingrid, the President of the General Assembly, stood up and walked to the podium. He was a short, distinguished-looking man, elderly with a shock of white Scandinavian hair.
"Thank you, Greta," he said, enunciating each syllable in a clear, strong voice.
"Your passionate speech spoke for millions of young people around the world who are concerned about the climate crisis.
We are just as concerned, and your words were heard loud and clear. We will not forget them.
I now call for a recess. The Assembly will reconvene in one hour for refreshments and food while the air conditioning gets fixed."
The delegates applauded. Greta knew the work ahead would be difficult, but she was determined to continue fighting for the climate. But not on an empty stomach.
"I'm going to get something to eat," she said to her friend, a young climate activist named Luisa as she walked down the steps.
"Do you want to come with me?"
Luisa nodded. "Sure," she said. "I'm starving. That was a great speech, you were really speaking for us."
Greta smiled. "Thank you, I'm glad you think so."
"I know it wasn't easy," Luisa said. "But you did it. You stood up to the world leaders and told them the truth."
"I had to," Greta said. "We can't afford to wait any longer. We need to act now."
Greta and Luisa walked out of the assembly hall and dissolved into the schmooz-fest of the lobby bar.
World leaders and delegates cut trade deals and discussed weapons contracts and territories, over a fragment two-course meal of Peruvian salmon ceviche. Followed by peach melba.
After the leisurely interlude, the world leaders were back in the assembly hall. They were all talking and laughing.
The President of the General Assembly, Sven Ingrid, stood up and tapped on the podium microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the summit will now reconvene."
The delegates fell silent, turning their attention to the podium. Sven Ingrid cleared his throat.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. I have the privilege of introducing the President of the United States, Mr. Donald Trump."
Bronzed from too many rounds on the golf course, Donald Trump stood up from his seat in the front row of the United States delegation. He was a tall, imposing man with orange hair. Wearing a dark suit and a red tie.
Flanked by his aides, who were all wearing dark suits and sunglasses. They looked like Secret Service agents, but they were actually just Trump's personal assistants.
Trump walked to the podium, perspiration dripping incessantly like tears in a cruel summer tragedy down his forehead. Then he cleared his throat, taking a big gulp of water.
"Thank you, Sven," Trump said, taking center stage.
"I'm honored to be here today to speak to you about the climate crisis. Is it me, or is it, like over 100 degrees in here? Somebody fire the air conditioner guy already.
And China and Russia aren't even here. That's really sad. They're the biggest polluters in the world, and they're not even here to talk about it.
But we're here, and we're going to make a difference. We're going to make the world great again."
Trump swigged more water. "But I believe that we can address this crisis without destroying our world economy. We can do this by investing in clean energy and by developing new technologies."
Trump wiped his brow, the heat getting to him. As he tried to continue his speech, he felt a twinge of something sinister taking hold in his chest. A familiar sense of arrogance and contempt surfaced that he'd never been able to fully suppress.
"Is something wrong, Mr. President?" Sven Ingrid asked.
"No, no," Trump said. It's nothing."
But he knew it was something. He sensed a savage, primordial urge taking hold of his body, like some reawakened ancient force.
His eyes went black, leaving behind an abyss devoid of compassion or empathy. Trump transfixed his unblinking gaze on Greta Thumberg, radiating nothing but calculated malice and cruelty.
"You know Greta! You are nothing but fake news. I'll tell you what Greta, I'm going to pull out of the Paris Agreement and I'm going to open up all our coal mines and oil fields.
These scientists and activists are all a bunch of liars. I will make America great again. And we are going to do it by ignoring the climate crisis, you little twerp."
The United Nations delegates, whose faces once were draped with optimism and hope for a brighter future, now crumpled in sheer horror as the unmistakable words escaped Donald Trump's lips.
One ill-timed comment sparked the first shove, and within moments, diplomatic courtesies were forgotten in the ensuing scuffle.
Chaos unfolded within the hallowed halls as Ferox 13 stealthily infiltrated every sinew of their bodies.
Trump's fingertips traced invisible paths representing continents along the polished surface of the majestic wooden Diaz, leaving faint marks from his crusty fingernails.
"Oh, by the way, I want the media to get this. This is not fake news by the way. If you're watching, President Wang of China, and President Pushkin of Russia.
My red button is the biggest, in fact, my red button can blow the entire United Nations out of the water. What do you think about that?" Trump said brazenly.
Greta Thumberg sprang from her chair with a fervor likened to an undead creature, locking onto her target Donald Trump. Scum hung from her lips like a toxic residue clinging to the edges of her words.
"How dare you!" she screamed. "You are a monster! You are destroying our planet!"
Luisa followed her creating an effective diversion by ramming straight into Trump's bodyguards like a bowling ball knocking down pins for a lucky strike. They had never experienced such unnatural strength from a small woman before.
Gripped by an evil rage. Greta Thumberg reached the podium undeterred and stood face-to-face with Trump. The once gentle pool of her hazel eyes was now an inferno of a thousand suns.
"You are a liar! You are a fraud, I am going to kill you, Donald!"
Trump smiled "Oh, you think so Thumberg, there's nothing you can do to stop me."
In a chilling and apocalyptic scene, the world watched live footage in shock as Greta Thunberg, the young Swedish climate activist moved like a honey badger in a personal duel with the giant orange bear of America.
She was quick with vicious swipes and feints, but she was no match for Trump's power.
With practiced moves from his appearance at Wrestlemania. Trump lifted her off the ground like Hulk Hogan with an authoritative and thunderous power slam.
She flew like a ragdoll off the center stage. Then Luisa followed up to no avail. Double power slam.
"you're both old fake news," Trump said, both lying on the floor immobilized.
It didn't just stop there. Gripes seeped out to all the delegations. Aurilor Ironheart was trying to bite the Argentine president's neck, licking her old wounds from her time in the Falklands.
Greece and Turkey were in an all-out brawl over terrorism and territory. Trump moved into the melly with his eye on the president of Mexico.
Globally, people in homes and offices were glued in front of their screens as scenes of chaos at the UN were transmitted by all the news channels.
At Bloomberg's headquarters in New York, lead anchor Alisia Brown stared intently at the footage. She tapped her earpiece.
"Jessica, can you describe what you're seeing there right now?"
The camera cut, to Jessica, surrounded by shouts and screams.
"Alisia, it's total pandemonium. The fighting has spread everywhere - I see the Brazilian delegation squaring off with the Saudis over there," she gestured briefly before ducking, as a chair flew by.
"The security forces are struggling to get control. They're using tear gas but it isn't working. We need to leave, now! Nobody is holding anything back anymore. Trump has just knocked the President of Mexico."
Jessica's camera crew swiped around to Trump in the rafters. In a blatant lack of respect for international relations, he was now with his bodyguards having a showdown with the President of Venezuela.
"Oh god, she's just brought out a live weapon, I have to get out of here."
"Who has a live weapon, Jessica?"
"Greta Thunberg. She is coming toward the press gallery with a rifle."
Through the viewfinder, Greta came into the frame like a haunting vision of fury. Gripped by an evil rage. Nothing could stop her now.
Her normally calm face was now twisted, icy eyes burning with lunacy. Frizzy pigtails had come undone and flew loose in the chaos like the mane of a feral beast.
She darted between delegates and security forces, taking out President Adamdski of Poland with predatory swiftness in a rain of bullets, the wooden stock of the rifle gripped tightly in her slender hands.
Its long metal barrel gleamed under the spotlights, leveled straight at the camera.
"How dare you lie about the climate?" she screamed, a vein throbbing maniacally in her pale neck. Saliva smeared her lips.
"I'll show you what your future looks like!"
Jessica and the camera crew backed away slowly, but Greta closed in with disturbing speed.
The gaping maw of the rifle bore down on the lens like the mouth of some ravenous monster.
For a split second, her gaunt face filled the entire frame, twisted features mere inches from the camera in a frenzied grimace.
" Greta no!" Jessica cried out, throwing up her hands uselessly. The last thing seen was Greta's finger tightening on the trigger before the feed went dead, replaced by Alisia's terrified expression back in the studio.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we've lost our correspondent at the scene. All we can do now is pray for anyone still trapped in that building."
She turned at the producer's signal.
"We're getting breaking news - Russia and China have issued a joint statement. Let's go to China for the reaction from President Wang..."
The scene cut to a grand hall in Beijing's Zhongnanhai leadership compound. President Zhi Wang stood surrounded by aides, his serious expression reflected in the sea of lights and cameras.
"Citizens of China, today we are witnessing shocking events at the United Nations. While violence should always be an absolute last resort, the actions of certain leaders today cannot go unanswered."
He let the translation sink in for global audiences.
"For decades, China has advocated for peace and mutual understanding between all nations.
However, peace requires responsibility from every side. When some seek only conflict and chaos, they threaten the stability and prosperity of us all.
To our friends who share our beliefs, know that China stands with you. And to those who would destabilize global order, I say this - any move against China or her allies will be met with a swift and decisive response. We strive for harmony, but we will not hesitate to defend our people and our interests."
The scene shifted to the Kremlin, where President Pushkin gripped the podium.
"Comrades..." he began. “Today the so-called leaders of the free world have forgotten that every person on this Earth is deserving of dignity. Through their actions, they have made a mockery of diplomacy and sown seeds of fear across the globe.
Russia does not make threats lightly. But we will not stand idly by while bullies reign unchecked.
To those who feel small in this crisis, know you have a strong ally. And to those who brought us to this precipice, take heed - any move against Russia or her allies will be your last."
His voice dropped to a dangerous rasp. "Push us no further into this darkness you have created. The consequences of further escalation do not bear thinking of."
Fights broke out across the world as ATMs quickly ran out of cash. People rushed into supermarkets, carts in tow, grabbing anything they could get their hands on.
They stocked up on food, water, and other supplies, preparing for the worst. Shelves emptied from preppers at the sight of doomsday on the horizon.
The chain effect was one of panic and fear. Cars honked their horns on gridlocked roads. Investors and homeowners saw the prices of their homes vanish in a blink of an eye.
Out in the quiet Catskills, the white box van wound its way through sparse forests of maple and birch, their autumn leaves just starting to turn brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow.
Gulag held up a hand quieting the chatter from the Bloodies
"Listen..."
Coming from the static-filled radio was a broadcast from CNN:
"We're receiving reports that protests have now erupted in dozens of cities worldwide," the anchor said.
"In London, protesters stormed Parliament chanting. Riot police are struggling to contain clashes in Paris, Berlin, and other major European capitals."
She adjusted her earpiece.
"I'm getting word that thousands have occupied Wall Street and shut down the New York Stock Exchange... we'll have more on this developing situation after the break."
Even Gulag was surprised at how well it was coming together.
"Bohemian Rhapsody, gentlemen?"
Emerging from the trees to driving rock music, and an impromptu chorus from the Bloodies, Gulag had a view of rolling green hills sloping down to sparkling lakes. There was a hut at the foot of one of the hills.
He parked the box truck in a stony car park of a weathered old tavern called The Wayward Traveler, sitting solitary on a back country road - it was a simple two-story building with peeling paint, with a wooden sign creaking in the breeze.
They Scrubbed grease from their hands. Aromatic scents of frying food drifted from inside. They Stepped through the screened door, finding an empty bar - save for a lone lumbar jack.
Behind the bar, a grizzled man in a faded check shirt focused on the crackling little television.
"Looks like the end of the world is upon us," he called out.
"World War Three has broken out at the UN."
"I'll drink to that, Brock." The lumberjack downed a whole pitcher and burped.
"Line up another one."
Brock's eye was on the large group of maintenance contractors, as he pulled the beer pump.
"Didn't think I'd be serving to my last customers. The world's gone mad out there - you all look like you could use a drink. First rounds are on the house before we're all dead."
Brock lined up tall pitchers of beers for everybody. Gulag and the Bloodies took stools. On the static-filled TV, scenes of chaos looped endlessly from the UN.
Gulag raised his glass.
"To the end of the world. And may all your deaths be swift."