Clinch and Stench
By
Robert Pettus
“When will the space station be ready?”
“Within the next decade, undoubtedly.”
“We need to move faster than that—much faster. I’m getting older every day—I’m damn near eighty!—and I don’t want to die before I can get off this expiring, rotten planet. I won’t die before then…”
“You won’t die at all. Our immortality serum should be ready within the next three or four years. We’ve got the best doctors working on it; they’re making a lot of progress with the axolotls. They should soon know how to regrow cells in humans and then use cell regrowth medication to produce an anti-aging ointment.”
“I’ve seen hundreds of anti-aging ointments in television commercials. They’re a scam.”
“This one will be a true antiaging medication. When you use it, your body will literally regain youth. If you were to use too much of it, for example, it would be incredibly dangerous—a Benjamin Button sort of situation. But used under the correct dosage, and the right supervision, the cellular regrowth serum and the anti-aging ointment should effectively manufacture immortality.”
“I won’t be able to die?” said President Ebenezer Clinch, a bulbous, fake-tanned old man with wavy blonde, synthetic hair, “Not ever, right? Never!??!”
“You can be killed—murdered, for example—but you will never die of disease or old age.”
“Holy shit, we’ve done it! You bastard! You genius bastard!”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
The president then kicked around at the thick carpet of the Oval Office, manic elation painting his face, his lips quivering involuntarily as if they needed to tell someone, anyone, this wonderful news. He reflexively removed his phone and opened the X app and began typing, his pudgy, wrinkly fingers pushing numerous letters at once, the spelling and grammar a total mess, only some of it auto-correcting.
“That’s not a good idea, Mr. President,” said Steven Stench, billionaire businessman and tech investor responsible for the construction of new rockets and a nascent space station for temporary human habitation while Mars was terraformed well enough to provide permanent residence. He was also the primary investor in the new medicine, hopefully granting immortality to the ultra-rich, but he had yet to go public with that sketchy tidbit. He wasn’t yet sure how he should spin it.
It was a positive development, certainly. Immortality! What could be wrong with that? He just needed to figure out how to word it properly, so the public could understand it correctly.
The president, momentarily lost in his phone, not at all present, looked up startled from his glowing social-media device. At first glaring angrily at Stench, he then managed to see reason and put his phone back in his pocket, his post discarded.
It had taken several years, but after being told enough times to avoid posting so often, and after having to personally face the consequences of his posts, he had finally learned a small bit of restraint.
“That sill doesn’t solve our problem with the space station, though,” said the president, “I’m not sure I can wait a decade. That would require me to win reelection for a third time—not done since FDR—and even then, I’ve only got eight years.”
“Really?” said Stench, “I thought you would have the utmost confidence in your reelection, along with your ability to convince the populous to keep you as president even after the eight years. I have faith it will happen.”
“Oh, can it with all the faith malarky,” said the president, “None of our little followers are around at the moment; we don’t have to carry on the charade.”
“The act functions most effectively if it becomes subconscious,” said Stench, “Belief in faith, and in a Judeo-Christian ethic, is valuable, in a utilitarian sense, to the achievement of our goals. We must remain vigilant—we mustn’t slip up.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Clinch, somewhat disappointed.
The president continued scrolling social media, the businessman, Stench, looking on uncertainly from across the room.
“I’m not going to post anything,” said President Clinch, “I’m just looking at some news. Did you know they think the election was rigged? That the results were somehow invalid? What an absurdity!”
“Well,” said Stench, “You did say something similar after losing four years ago. There was the whole riot situation. Storming the Capital. Do you not remember?”
“That was totally different,” said Clinch, “I won the popular vote this time!”
“And you didn’t four years ago; that sleepy old, bald, forgetful centrist beat you.”
“Bite your tongue,” said Clinch, “He did not beat me—that election was rigged!”
“Do you not see what’s happening here? In this conversation?”
“I see that I’m questioning your loyalty,” said Clinch.
“Loyalty is not what’s important anymore. We are partners. Neither of us owe servitude to the other.”
“I’m your president!”
“And I’m your sponsor.”
“I could get a new one. We’re both rich. Either of us could fund this research.”
“You are not rich relative to me,” said Stench, opening the blinds of the windows and pointing outside to the group of protesters ever-present outside the White House since the end of the election, “Your wealth is much closer, mathematically speaking, to any of those random individuals outside. I am far richer than you. In fact, if you combined the wealth of every single one of these people out there—how many are there? Thousands, easily…--with your wealth, the group of you would still be well short of matching me. Not even halfway there. The only thing keeping this agreement between us two-sided is your status as the Commander in Chief of the US military along with your horde of politically minded sheep.”
Clinch’s face reddened with fury, but he said nothing. He knew it was true. He needed Stench, perhaps even more than Stench needed him.
Stench wouldn’t be dead in ten years without the aid of immortality medication. Clinch likely would.
Clinch calmed himself—so incredibly difficult for him to do; so unnatural for him—and reached into his desk and opened a minifridge serving as one of its drawers and took out a can of diet coke. He cracked it open and loudly slurped up the bubbling fizz before smacking his lips and taking a deep breath.
“I have to talk to the American people today,” he said.
“I know,” said Stench.
“What do you think I should say to them?”
“I’m sure you’ll wing it like you always do—seems to have worked out pretty well for you so far.”
“For us, so far.”
“Right, for us.”
“I’d still like to hear your opinion, if you don’t mind.”“You should tell them we’re making the country great.”
“I always say that.”
“Well, say it several times, but in slightly different ways, then start badmouthing our competitors.”
“Sleepy baldie?”
“No. We’re finished with him. Focus more generally on the democratic establishment—everyone in that miserable clique. Focus on how every politician over there is bought; how they function only as emissaries of corporate overlords.”
“That’s a fact. I’ll make sure to mention that; I’ll get nasty with it.”
“Good. And the more you’re on social media afterward, the better—even if it’s negative publicity. You’re past the point of negative publicity being harmful, in most situations, so feel free to get crazy with it, just make sure to avoid unveiling any of our plans. You don’t need to gloat.”
Clinch wasn’t sure he agreed—he thought Stench might be trying to manipulate him, in case he needed to dispose of him later. Clinch could never let that happen. He would have to think about this more; it was a tricky situation. His image—his Cult of Personality—was everything, he knew. It was the only thing keeping him out of prison; the only thing keeping him alive, in all honesty.
“If anyone asks you specific policy questions,” Stench continued, “be as vague as possible.”
“That’s what the typical politician does,” said Clinch, “I’m not the typical politician.”
“You weren’t the typical politician—that’s how you built your base of sheep—but you need to be more typical, now. Your base of sheep will never abandon you at this point; at least not if you can avoid saying anything wildly against their deepest beliefs. Say nothing even remotely pro-choice; never say anything bad about Christianity, or God in general; never say anything good about China, or even the EU, for that matter; never say anything about the possibility of gun-control. Tell them gas prices are getting cheaper; they love that.”
“But we’re planning to control the firearms of the citizenry, right?”
“I’m not sure. There’s a high likelihood it will be necessary soon enough. Once knowledge of our immortality ointment gets out, and once climate change becomes so obvious that even the most dimwitted observer will have trouble denying it, and once the populous find out about our plan to leave the planet and head to the space station, and to eventually colonize Mars… There will be questions, and possibly an uprising. Your sheep are capable of rioting, as we’ve seen; we need to make sure they don’t riot against us. At least not until we can get out of Dodge and leave them trapped, roasting in the oven.”
“How will we convince them to turn in their weapons? They’re fucking obsessed with guns!”
“That’s what we need to be thinking about. We can spin it, right? We can make them want to do it; make them think it’s a good thing…”
“I’d say we could,” said Clinch, “We’ll pretend we need as many guns and as much ammunition as possible to help mobilize for a war against China. Or shit—better yet, a civil war against the liberals. We’ll say we’re going to deliver the weapons to the brave militia who volunteer to fight alongside the US Military against the satanic democrat-commies. We won’t force them, in the true sense of the word, but we’ll make it clear that if they don’t donate their weapons, they’re un-American… And anti-Jesus. We’ll make it a holy war.”
“That’s a hell of an idea,” said Stench, “A new crusade…That could certainly work.”
“That’s what we’ll start working on, then,” said Clinch, “I’ll tell my people to get on it.”
“Could you talk to the Saudis about it, too?” said Stench.
“Why them?” said Clinch, “I’m getting about fed up with them—so arrogant and spoiled.”
“As am I—no doubt; but we need them. They’re rich, for one, and they’re uniquely skilled at working both simultaneously with us and against us—at least as the public sees it—in order to sow mass confusion and disinformation, which is obviously beneficial to us. The more confused people are, the more they’ll shove their heads in the sand and stick blindly with us. When the ignorant become confused, they usually double down and pretend they have the answers even harder, which is a win for us.”
“Please tell me we’re not giving the Saudis the immortality ointment or letting them come to Mars. I can’t stand that playboy prince.”
“We are. They’re rich, and I need to make money. Also, as I’ve mentioned, we need their help.”
Clinch stamped his feet and for a moment it looked like he may throw himself to the ground and kick his feet around like a toddler having a tantrum.
“I can’t escape those bastards,” he moaned.
“Well…” said Stench, “Mars is a big, undeveloped place. It will be like a Wild West. You’ll be able to construct your own little bubble, get your own rover, and live lonesome if you want—forever! Like on Star Wars, on Tatooine. You won’t have to see anyone you don’t want to see, at least not for several centuries; at least not until the planet becomes more densely populated.
Clinch had never seen Star Wars—he wasn’t a fucking nerd like Stench—but he thought of living by himself in some barren, red wasteland, with nobody to talk to other than perhaps his family—for centuries! And an intense anxiety crept up his spine and he almost passed out.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Stench, reading his mood, “You’ll still be connected to social media. You’ll even be able to communicate with people on Earth, if you want. You can concoct ideas about how you’re going to save them from roasting with the planet; you can keep your Cult-of-Personality right up until the end. And who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to develop a following on Mars as well.”
Stench knew he had absolutely no intention of allowing that to happen, but he also knew he needed to pacify the president.
“I am going to save them,” said Clinch, “I’m their savior!”
“Right you are,” said Stench, “But you and I both know there must be some casualties along the way. We are talking about the death of one planet and the colonization of another. This is big stuff.”
“I know, I know,” said Clinch, coming to his senses, “You’re right.” He then looked at his laptop on his desk and saw that it was time for him to make his appearance; to talk to the people.
“Time to head out?” said Stench.
“Indeed,” said Clinch.
The two of them stepped out of the Oval Office and exited the White House, where they each got into a black vehicle, which joined a motorcade bound for the Lincoln Memorial, where Clinch would deliver his address.
I could just as easily walk there, thought Clinch along the way, staring vacantly through the deep tint out at the ravenous crowds both for and against him, But I can’t walk anywhere these days, can I? That’s why I’m getting so goddamn fat… It isn’t my fault… It’s these people’s fault… They stalk me!
With that thought, Clinch momentarily felt positively about his impending move to Mars. He opened the box to a Big Mac that had been left for him and took a bite, special sauce covering his lips. Blinking several times, emotional and confused, he pulled out his phone and began writing a post.
This one would really set everyone against him straight!
Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. His short stories have been published in numerous magazines, webzines, and journals. His first novel, titled Abry, was published by Offbeat Reads and later re-issued by Flick-It-Books. His second book, Taxidermy Soul, was published this year by Anxiety Press. His third book, Tales of Abry, was published this March, also by Flick-It-Books. He lives in Kentucky with his wife Mary, daughter Rowan, and pet rabbit Achilles.
By
Robert Pettus
“When will the space station be ready?”
“Within the next decade, undoubtedly.”
“We need to move faster than that—much faster. I’m getting older every day—I’m damn near eighty!—and I don’t want to die before I can get off this expiring, rotten planet. I won’t die before then…”
“You won’t die at all. Our immortality serum should be ready within the next three or four years. We’ve got the best doctors working on it; they’re making a lot of progress with the axolotls. They should soon know how to regrow cells in humans and then use cell regrowth medication to produce an anti-aging ointment.”
“I’ve seen hundreds of anti-aging ointments in television commercials. They’re a scam.”
“This one will be a true antiaging medication. When you use it, your body will literally regain youth. If you were to use too much of it, for example, it would be incredibly dangerous—a Benjamin Button sort of situation. But used under the correct dosage, and the right supervision, the cellular regrowth serum and the anti-aging ointment should effectively manufacture immortality.”
“I won’t be able to die?” said President Ebenezer Clinch, a bulbous, fake-tanned old man with wavy blonde, synthetic hair, “Not ever, right? Never!??!”
“You can be killed—murdered, for example—but you will never die of disease or old age.”
“Holy shit, we’ve done it! You bastard! You genius bastard!”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
The president then kicked around at the thick carpet of the Oval Office, manic elation painting his face, his lips quivering involuntarily as if they needed to tell someone, anyone, this wonderful news. He reflexively removed his phone and opened the X app and began typing, his pudgy, wrinkly fingers pushing numerous letters at once, the spelling and grammar a total mess, only some of it auto-correcting.
“That’s not a good idea, Mr. President,” said Steven Stench, billionaire businessman and tech investor responsible for the construction of new rockets and a nascent space station for temporary human habitation while Mars was terraformed well enough to provide permanent residence. He was also the primary investor in the new medicine, hopefully granting immortality to the ultra-rich, but he had yet to go public with that sketchy tidbit. He wasn’t yet sure how he should spin it.
It was a positive development, certainly. Immortality! What could be wrong with that? He just needed to figure out how to word it properly, so the public could understand it correctly.
The president, momentarily lost in his phone, not at all present, looked up startled from his glowing social-media device. At first glaring angrily at Stench, he then managed to see reason and put his phone back in his pocket, his post discarded.
It had taken several years, but after being told enough times to avoid posting so often, and after having to personally face the consequences of his posts, he had finally learned a small bit of restraint.
“That sill doesn’t solve our problem with the space station, though,” said the president, “I’m not sure I can wait a decade. That would require me to win reelection for a third time—not done since FDR—and even then, I’ve only got eight years.”
“Really?” said Stench, “I thought you would have the utmost confidence in your reelection, along with your ability to convince the populous to keep you as president even after the eight years. I have faith it will happen.”
“Oh, can it with all the faith malarky,” said the president, “None of our little followers are around at the moment; we don’t have to carry on the charade.”
“The act functions most effectively if it becomes subconscious,” said Stench, “Belief in faith, and in a Judeo-Christian ethic, is valuable, in a utilitarian sense, to the achievement of our goals. We must remain vigilant—we mustn’t slip up.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Clinch, somewhat disappointed.
The president continued scrolling social media, the businessman, Stench, looking on uncertainly from across the room.
“I’m not going to post anything,” said President Clinch, “I’m just looking at some news. Did you know they think the election was rigged? That the results were somehow invalid? What an absurdity!”
“Well,” said Stench, “You did say something similar after losing four years ago. There was the whole riot situation. Storming the Capital. Do you not remember?”
“That was totally different,” said Clinch, “I won the popular vote this time!”
“And you didn’t four years ago; that sleepy old, bald, forgetful centrist beat you.”
“Bite your tongue,” said Clinch, “He did not beat me—that election was rigged!”
“Do you not see what’s happening here? In this conversation?”
“I see that I’m questioning your loyalty,” said Clinch.
“Loyalty is not what’s important anymore. We are partners. Neither of us owe servitude to the other.”
“I’m your president!”
“And I’m your sponsor.”
“I could get a new one. We’re both rich. Either of us could fund this research.”
“You are not rich relative to me,” said Stench, opening the blinds of the windows and pointing outside to the group of protesters ever-present outside the White House since the end of the election, “Your wealth is much closer, mathematically speaking, to any of those random individuals outside. I am far richer than you. In fact, if you combined the wealth of every single one of these people out there—how many are there? Thousands, easily…--with your wealth, the group of you would still be well short of matching me. Not even halfway there. The only thing keeping this agreement between us two-sided is your status as the Commander in Chief of the US military along with your horde of politically minded sheep.”
Clinch’s face reddened with fury, but he said nothing. He knew it was true. He needed Stench, perhaps even more than Stench needed him.
Stench wouldn’t be dead in ten years without the aid of immortality medication. Clinch likely would.
Clinch calmed himself—so incredibly difficult for him to do; so unnatural for him—and reached into his desk and opened a minifridge serving as one of its drawers and took out a can of diet coke. He cracked it open and loudly slurped up the bubbling fizz before smacking his lips and taking a deep breath.
“I have to talk to the American people today,” he said.
“I know,” said Stench.
“What do you think I should say to them?”
“I’m sure you’ll wing it like you always do—seems to have worked out pretty well for you so far.”
“For us, so far.”
“Right, for us.”
“I’d still like to hear your opinion, if you don’t mind.”“You should tell them we’re making the country great.”
“I always say that.”
“Well, say it several times, but in slightly different ways, then start badmouthing our competitors.”
“Sleepy baldie?”
“No. We’re finished with him. Focus more generally on the democratic establishment—everyone in that miserable clique. Focus on how every politician over there is bought; how they function only as emissaries of corporate overlords.”
“That’s a fact. I’ll make sure to mention that; I’ll get nasty with it.”
“Good. And the more you’re on social media afterward, the better—even if it’s negative publicity. You’re past the point of negative publicity being harmful, in most situations, so feel free to get crazy with it, just make sure to avoid unveiling any of our plans. You don’t need to gloat.”
Clinch wasn’t sure he agreed—he thought Stench might be trying to manipulate him, in case he needed to dispose of him later. Clinch could never let that happen. He would have to think about this more; it was a tricky situation. His image—his Cult of Personality—was everything, he knew. It was the only thing keeping him out of prison; the only thing keeping him alive, in all honesty.
“If anyone asks you specific policy questions,” Stench continued, “be as vague as possible.”
“That’s what the typical politician does,” said Clinch, “I’m not the typical politician.”
“You weren’t the typical politician—that’s how you built your base of sheep—but you need to be more typical, now. Your base of sheep will never abandon you at this point; at least not if you can avoid saying anything wildly against their deepest beliefs. Say nothing even remotely pro-choice; never say anything bad about Christianity, or God in general; never say anything good about China, or even the EU, for that matter; never say anything about the possibility of gun-control. Tell them gas prices are getting cheaper; they love that.”
“But we’re planning to control the firearms of the citizenry, right?”
“I’m not sure. There’s a high likelihood it will be necessary soon enough. Once knowledge of our immortality ointment gets out, and once climate change becomes so obvious that even the most dimwitted observer will have trouble denying it, and once the populous find out about our plan to leave the planet and head to the space station, and to eventually colonize Mars… There will be questions, and possibly an uprising. Your sheep are capable of rioting, as we’ve seen; we need to make sure they don’t riot against us. At least not until we can get out of Dodge and leave them trapped, roasting in the oven.”
“How will we convince them to turn in their weapons? They’re fucking obsessed with guns!”
“That’s what we need to be thinking about. We can spin it, right? We can make them want to do it; make them think it’s a good thing…”
“I’d say we could,” said Clinch, “We’ll pretend we need as many guns and as much ammunition as possible to help mobilize for a war against China. Or shit—better yet, a civil war against the liberals. We’ll say we’re going to deliver the weapons to the brave militia who volunteer to fight alongside the US Military against the satanic democrat-commies. We won’t force them, in the true sense of the word, but we’ll make it clear that if they don’t donate their weapons, they’re un-American… And anti-Jesus. We’ll make it a holy war.”
“That’s a hell of an idea,” said Stench, “A new crusade…That could certainly work.”
“That’s what we’ll start working on, then,” said Clinch, “I’ll tell my people to get on it.”
“Could you talk to the Saudis about it, too?” said Stench.
“Why them?” said Clinch, “I’m getting about fed up with them—so arrogant and spoiled.”
“As am I—no doubt; but we need them. They’re rich, for one, and they’re uniquely skilled at working both simultaneously with us and against us—at least as the public sees it—in order to sow mass confusion and disinformation, which is obviously beneficial to us. The more confused people are, the more they’ll shove their heads in the sand and stick blindly with us. When the ignorant become confused, they usually double down and pretend they have the answers even harder, which is a win for us.”
“Please tell me we’re not giving the Saudis the immortality ointment or letting them come to Mars. I can’t stand that playboy prince.”
“We are. They’re rich, and I need to make money. Also, as I’ve mentioned, we need their help.”
Clinch stamped his feet and for a moment it looked like he may throw himself to the ground and kick his feet around like a toddler having a tantrum.
“I can’t escape those bastards,” he moaned.
“Well…” said Stench, “Mars is a big, undeveloped place. It will be like a Wild West. You’ll be able to construct your own little bubble, get your own rover, and live lonesome if you want—forever! Like on Star Wars, on Tatooine. You won’t have to see anyone you don’t want to see, at least not for several centuries; at least not until the planet becomes more densely populated.
Clinch had never seen Star Wars—he wasn’t a fucking nerd like Stench—but he thought of living by himself in some barren, red wasteland, with nobody to talk to other than perhaps his family—for centuries! And an intense anxiety crept up his spine and he almost passed out.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Stench, reading his mood, “You’ll still be connected to social media. You’ll even be able to communicate with people on Earth, if you want. You can concoct ideas about how you’re going to save them from roasting with the planet; you can keep your Cult-of-Personality right up until the end. And who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to develop a following on Mars as well.”
Stench knew he had absolutely no intention of allowing that to happen, but he also knew he needed to pacify the president.
“I am going to save them,” said Clinch, “I’m their savior!”
“Right you are,” said Stench, “But you and I both know there must be some casualties along the way. We are talking about the death of one planet and the colonization of another. This is big stuff.”
“I know, I know,” said Clinch, coming to his senses, “You’re right.” He then looked at his laptop on his desk and saw that it was time for him to make his appearance; to talk to the people.
“Time to head out?” said Stench.
“Indeed,” said Clinch.
The two of them stepped out of the Oval Office and exited the White House, where they each got into a black vehicle, which joined a motorcade bound for the Lincoln Memorial, where Clinch would deliver his address.
I could just as easily walk there, thought Clinch along the way, staring vacantly through the deep tint out at the ravenous crowds both for and against him, But I can’t walk anywhere these days, can I? That’s why I’m getting so goddamn fat… It isn’t my fault… It’s these people’s fault… They stalk me!
With that thought, Clinch momentarily felt positively about his impending move to Mars. He opened the box to a Big Mac that had been left for him and took a bite, special sauce covering his lips. Blinking several times, emotional and confused, he pulled out his phone and began writing a post.
This one would really set everyone against him straight!
Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. His short stories have been published in numerous magazines, webzines, and journals. His first novel, titled Abry, was published by Offbeat Reads and later re-issued by Flick-It-Books. His second book, Taxidermy Soul, was published this year by Anxiety Press. His third book, Tales of Abry, was published this March, also by Flick-It-Books. He lives in Kentucky with his wife Mary, daughter Rowan, and pet rabbit Achilles.
