All Too Well: The Short Film

All Too Well: The Short Film

Don’t smile because it’s over. Cry because it happened.
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The year is 2057. The president of the United States slouches in his chair, alone, in a bunker miles below the surface of the earth. As he jolts in and out consciousness, he has mastered the balancing act of preventing the whiskey in his half-empty glass from rolling out of his hand and splashing, shattering against the thinly carpeted concrete flooring beneath his feet. On the screens, all is chaos. The White House is in flames. His cabinet staff and their closest assistants and department heads are paraded around the grand lawn of the Capitol building, impaled on spikes toted by white women in Western chic attire. The POTUS looks down from the screen to the large key already placed inside the lock. A loud beep from a wall-mounted PA system near the door pulls him from his drunken haze. On the large, darkened map of the US behind him, two dots blink on opposite ends of the board. One in Bar Harbor, Maine, the other in Death Valley, California. A voice comes in on the other end, “Fester to Springtime, over. We are in position and ready to commence Operation 415-to-Montauk. Give the word, over.” In a moment of immediate sobriety, time comes to a halt in the chamber of the commander-in-chief. He looks down at the key once more, places his hand over it, ready to turn, then pushes the PA button on his desk and opens his mouth to speak. Just then, he sees a face appear up on the screen above him. At once, all other screens emit the same image.

As his hand falls from the key, the pointer finger of his other hand releasing its pressure from the intercom, he knocks the glass from the control panel where he has set it. The shattering of glass is muted, though apparent, as it crashes into the carpet. In one fluid pattern of motion, as though he’s practiced in his mind a thousand times before, he turns to the desk adjacent the control panel, rolling his chair along with him, opens the drawer second down on the right, pulls the already loaded revolver and places it in his mouth. He again turns to the image on the screen, still that same elusive visage that has haunted him in what brief moments of sleep he has enjoyed in the most recent weeks. For a moment, he pulls the gun from his mouth and turns to speak to the phantoms haunting the inner chambers of his mind, surrounding him in his finals minutes. They’re closing in fast.

Please leave the room if this will upset you.” And in a flash, the gun returns to his mouth, the trigger is pulled, and the final thoughts of the final leader of the final great empire of the world splatter across the face of his ex-girlfriend Taylor Swift, spread across a hundred screens in the presidential chamber, giving her victory speech on the steps of the flaming Capitol building. Her supporters stretch across the entire mall, all the way to the Lincoln memorial. The final heartbreak is over. And now, no one is safe. The apocalypse has begun. They second key will not be turned. The Swifties will annihilate themselves and all others. But this is the way it was always meant to go, the path destiny had bore for humanity, centuries in the making. And for those still alive at the time the world falls, this truth is something they have already confronted and deep down know is inescapable, even for them, all too well.