Baked Alaska

Forget Alaska. North Korea Might Soon Be Able to Nuke New York.

Kim Jon Ung was in a good temper. He’d just a very large and delicious lunch of freshly caught lobster and crayfish, with French fries and malty beer, after a busy morning sentencing over two hundred people to death. He was very pleased with his new system for doing that. By dealing with them in bunches of fifty, he only had to sign four death warrants instead of two hundred, his own idea, greeted of course with huge enthusiasm by twenty grinning generals when he had suggested it. Each feverishly took notes of his lightest utterance. If he frowned, they all frowned simultaneously. If he looked angry, they looked angry.

Then someone had to spoil it all. A nervous young official came in with a piece of paper in his hand and whispered to the senior general. They both looked over at Kim, and the general cleared his throat.

“Er, if I might have your Holiness’ attention for one moment of your valuable time, if I may be excused, if that is possible, your Mightiness, if..”

“Yes?”, snapped Kim, imperiously pointing at the huge bowl of strawberry ice cream and indicating that he instantly required a dish of it. “What is it?”

“Er, this man has brought a copy of a tweet by the infidel Trump which refers directly to your Supremacy…”

Kim languidly reached out a podgy hand.

“Let me see it,” he said, stuffing strawberries into his mouth with his free hand. As he read it his plump face turned purple. The English text had a translation added on each line.

“What?” he spluttered. “I am going to teach that oversized teenage pimple bum a lesson. See how he likes a rocket up his fat ass…”

He looked up, his face livid.

“Is there more?” he squawked. The official cringed.

“No, your Imperial Highness,” he said. “Even Trump is limited to 140 characters on Twitter.”

“I know that, you fool!” cried Kim. “Do you think I am an idiot? Take that man out and shoot him!”

He swept his arm across the table, smashing the dishes to the floor. A pretty waitress ran up to clear up the mess. His eye fell on her.

“Have that girl stripped and sent to my room. And tweet a reply at once."

Senile old man with yellow birds’ nest on head will piss himself when he sees what I can do. Signed Kim Jon Umg, Akond of Swat.

The general tapped this out and received another message, but hesitated until Kim saw it and snatched it from him.

That obese little camel turd had better look out – he’s going to get a present from Donald J Trump that he’s not going to forget in a hurry.

“Right!” squeaked Kim. “That’s it. General - how far can our ICBM reach now?”

The general came to attention, then consulted a notebook.

“As of today, sire, we can reach Alaska comfortably, and..”

“Alaska!” squeaked Kim. “What’s the use of us nuking Alaska? There’s no one living there but a few effing polar bears!”

The general cringed. “With great respect, your Supremacy, there are a quarter of a million people living in Anchorage, and we could easily…”

“Anchorage? Wankerage, more like.”

All the generals laughed hysterically in unison.

“We need to hit New York! That can’t be much further on, can it?”

“Well, sire, it is just possible that the Hwansong could reach it, but we cannot know for certain until we try.”

“And that would be their Swansong!” Kim giggled, to gales of uniform laughter.

“Hwansong, Swansong. Geddit? How many people live in New York?”

“Eight million, your Plumtiousness,” replied the general. "Er.. another tweet. May I…?"

If that self indulgent impotent little excrescence thinks he can frighten the Donald…

At this Kim lost all control. His face was now bright red, and his eyes were popping out of his head.

“That’s it!” he screamed at the top of his voice. “Fire off the first ICBM now! We’ll wipe Wankerage off the map! And while they’re busy mopping that up, we’ll send the next one and take out New York. Go on then – what are you waiting for?”

The generals scurried off to do his bidding, and Kim turned back to the table, his good humour restored.

“I want Christmas pudding with brandy butter!” he shouted. “And I want to be the one who sets fire to it!”

“But, your Gorgeousness, it is only July, and…” stammered the head chef.

“Don’t you dare argue with me! I want it now, do you hear me. Now, now, now…”

“Get his Holiness the special pudding! At once!" shouted the general as he left the room. The chef hesitated.

“The…the special one,sir?”

“Yes! You heard his Glory. At once!”

The chef disappeared into the kitchens.

In the offices on the top floor, the senior general’s finger hovered over a red button. He looked round at the other generals.

“Well?” he said. “Are we all agreed? Raise your hands!”

There was a long pause, and then one by one, every hand went up.

Meanwhile in the dining room the very special pudding was reverently placed into Kim’s pudgy hands.

“The Baked Alaska, O Supremity,” murmured the chef, his forehead streaming with sweat.

“Perfect! Goodbye, Wankerage,” squeaked Kim. “Tomorrow - New York!”

He grabbed a spoon to dig into the delicious looking concoction, his piggy eyes glinting with greed. Then he looked round, puzzled. The serving staff had all mysteriously disappeared.

“Where…?” he began to say.

The explosion blew Kim Jon Ung into a thousand pieces. It spattered his mortal remains over the dining room walls, from where they dripped slowly down over the damask table cloths and onto the ornate carpets. Once the dripping had stopped, there was complete silence for a few moments. Then from upstairs could be heard the astonishing sound of the generals cheering. In complete unison.

Richard Vaughan-Davies

I retired to the Cotswolds ten years ago after selling the retail business in North Wales which I had built up over forty long years. Fortunately for my sanity most of my time was spent creating advertising copy and promotions, which dramatically increased the business and taught me the power of words. Being a member of the Chippy Writers’ Group encouraged me to attempt a lifelong ambition to write a novel. Recently published, In the Shadow of Hitler is a romance set in the ruins of bombed-out Hamburg in 1946.

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