Chapter Text
It had been precisely, down to the second, 100 days since the inauguration. 2400 hours on the dot. In the city that never sleeps, papers blew ominously in the wind like tumbleweeds. The big yellow headlines all concerned one man: the president. His first 100 days in office had been like no others. Every day some part of the government disappeared. These were not announced executive orders, but rather mysterious vanishings. It was as if the structures of the American government were being stolen one by one by some invisible force. Streets were becoming emptier as all disease seemed to be on the rise. And New York had it the worst. The rats were everywhere, all breathing billowing death from their wretched maws. Needless to say the vibes were bad. All the while, the President hid from the public eye in the White House.
Even the White House itself seemed to be suffering. Its walls became greyer and greyer by the day. The only traffic in and out of the building was that of the president’s Cabinet. The Cabinet all wore cloaks, and were not identified to the public. Somehow not one of their identities had yet been revealed, though all were anxious to know who could be hiding under their masks. The entire Federal branch had seemingly overnight become some sort of dark chessmaster, with endless layers of mystery to be uncovered. Every journalist that tried to get even a smidgen of info was completely shut out. The White House was practically impenetrable to any man. It would take the will of god to rattle the shadowy bureaucracy from whatever its course may be.
In the dusty wine cellar under the President’s dining room, a figure emerged from a tall wooden box. Heavy white robes were draped over his gaunt figure and his red head. His face was quite literally skeletal, with a thin layer bloody something or other being the only meat on his bones. He did, however, have an impressive black beard. He took a single, shaky step forward, before looking down and slowly grabbing at the breast of his shirt. On it was the only modern item in the room, an empty “Hi, my name is:” tag. He knew nothing except for the fact that he knew nothing and was mad, so he figured that the knowledge of his name must be deduced on a wild rampage of revenge. He took another rattled step forward before slipping and absolutely eating shit. He looked back to what he slipped on, a weird-ass fish that had somehow fallen out of the fridge by one of the large wine barrels. He sighed and realized immediately that he couldn’t be a bad-ass action hero, and instead of discovering what his name might’ve been, he settled on a name that matched his exceedingly low expectations for himself: Red Herring.
He wrote the name onto the tag using his own blood on the tip of his finger. He got up and walked to the wooden stairs leading up and into the dining room. He recognized the White House, however nearly every window was shrouded. Clearly something was very wrong. God had likely put him on this Earth as an individual with the unique capabilities to solve whatever the fuck was going on here, but he simply did not believe he could do it. He followed the flickering exit signs while thinking about what might be good for lunch, not seeing a single soul until reaching the main proscenium. Across the hall was a hooded member of the cabinet.
The two slender figures stood, Red Herring’s flowing white garb juxtaposing the Cabinetman’s dark and sharp attire. The Cabinetman studied Red Herring closely. After a beat, he spoke in a sinister and gravelly voice. “You-”
“Jersey Mike’s” said Red Herring.
“What?”
“I want Jersey Mike’s for lunch.”
The Cabinetman paused for a moment as he tried to decipher a hidden meaning behind what the heroic figure had just said. He opted to ignore it completely before continuing. “You’ve finally arrived. I figured He would send you. Nobody else has been able to infiltrate this House for 100 days, 5 minutes, and 26 seconds. You are a worthy opponent, and I will take great joy in ending your journey.”
“Ok, man.” said Red Herring as he approached the door.
“Wait, you fool! Don’t you want to fight….or something?”
“No man, I'm getting lunch.”
The Cabinetman sprinted at Red Herring and pinned him to the door. He pressed a knife to Red Herring’s throat. “Listen, I don’t think you understand what’s happening here. You have infiltrated the most secure place on the entire planet, and you’re leaving without collecting any information. Do you even know who I am? It’s very interesting.”
“I just don’t think I was the right pick to fight an evil political syndicate. Tell coach to put John Wick in or something, I’m going to Jersey Mike’s.” Red Herring pushed on the door behind him until it opened. He took a step away from the knife, and the Cabinetman froze. He was unable to feel any bloodlust for such a lowkey chill dude. Without another word, Red Herring turned and strolled out of the White House courtyard. Dozens of drone cameras reported to dozens of reporters that someone unaffiliated with the president has just walked out of the White House. All of them were thinking the same thing: “Do we have a hero?”
However, Red Herring didn’t seem to think a hero was even needed. As he walked down the streets of DC he looked around. Everything seemed pretty much alright to him. It would take something pretty drastic to get him interested in being the force of god that he seemed poised to be.
It took 26 hours of walking aimlessly through DC before Red Herring finally came across a Jersey Mike’s. He breathed a sigh of relief as he walked through the door and felt the AC hit his face; a relief from the hot September’s air. He heard the chatter of the handful of Jersey Mike’s patrons as he approached the counter, however they suddenly died off. A loud silence filled the room. The sandwich artist turned from the toaster to see what was the matter. His eyes met Red Herring’s sunken sockets. He slowly walked to the counter and slammed his palms down, shaking the change in the cash register. He studied Red Herring’s face closely. He grinned, and loudly proclaimed: “The Red Savior is here! Hero to America, hero to all!”
“HUZZAH!” The merry men of Jersey Mikes shouted, giving way to rapturous merriment and cheer.
“So what does the legend himself want on this fine day?” said the burly, bearded sandwich man, in a half-shout.
“Uh, just like a 9, I guess.” Red Herring said, looking over his shoulders and hiding from the fans as a man came up to shake his hand. The sandwich artist worked quickly as a small crowd formed around Red Herring, all talking to him at once. He didn’t turn from the counter, and ignored the crowd as he focused on his sandwich being made. Roast beef. Turkey. Swiss. He caught part of something someone was trying to tell him on his right. “You’re all over the internet dude, people are saying you’re gonna be voted hottest man of the year!”
After what felt like an eternity, the jolly sultan of sandwich finished and wrapped Red Herring’s #9 Club Supreme. Red Herring took his sandwich and attempted to give the man his money (exact change for the order, which happened to be in one of his robe pockets), but the man pushed the money aside and proclaimed “America’s savior and unequivocally sexiest guy will not be paying at this, or any other Jersey Mike’s location!”
“Are you all fucking stupid or something?” Red Herring said. He clambered up onto the counter and addressed the crowd as they finally quieted down. He unwrapped his sandwich. “Listen!” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I don’t know what the hell is going on. Clearly you all want…” he took a bite of his sandwich. “...some sort of hero. Like a symbol to believe in or something? Well, I don’t know. If you don’t like the government, organize or something! Riot, I don’t fucking care. I’m…” he took a bite of his sandwich. “... not exactly the hero you want, guys. I literally slipped on a red herring when I woke up! I’m called Red Herring!”
“A fitting name for a hero!” Shouted the idiotic sandwich bastard.
“No it’s fucking not! And newsflash, assholes! I don’t even remember anything!” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I don’t know what’s happening, I'd need a hell of a good reason to actually get involved in whatever this is.”
“But you infiltrated the White House! Did you find out who any of the Cabinetmen are?”
“No! I woke up there! I didn’t do shit! I have no reason to do shit! What don’t you all get!? I’M NO HERO!”
Suddenly, a man with a left nostril that was bigger than the right won who was wearing a shirt that just said the word “basketball” on it burst through the door. “TURN ON THE TV! IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT CHANNEL!”
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The president emerged from his wooden box in the oval office just as the morning dew was starting to evaporate. His closest aide, [REDACTED] was already sitting across from the presidential throne at the large, ornate wooden desk. The president threw off the American flag he was shrouded in. He took one slow, creeping step out of the box. His bald head glistened in the candlelight that filled the office. He opened his mouth, heavily breathing. The breathing turned into a hiss as he stretched his limbs. His fingers extended as he turned his face towards the ceiling and basked in the dimness. He pulled out his throne, sat down, then unceremoniously scooted forward. Nobody can scoot forward gracefully.
“Report.” He grunted in a deep and commanding voice.
“President Orlock, sir.” the Cabinetman addressed him. “The agent we expected He would send was found yesterday morning. I personally dealt with the situation with even more ease than anticipated.”
Nosferatu didn’t flinch, hesitate, or otherwise react before demanding “And?”
“Well, sir.” The Cabinetman cleared his throat. “The first plane has hit the towers.”
“Good.” smiled Nosferatu. “Good.”