“**boom*

Biden shot up from his bed, awakened by the sound of thunder. He rubbed his eyes and adjusted his sleeping cap. Could he not get just a wink of sleep?

He looked to the calendar on his wall.

*August 4th*

Obama’s birthday.

As this realization hit him, Biden heard a crash and a woman’s scream.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” he whispered in a terrified, raspy voice. “God dammit. He’s escaped.”

Biden fumbled for the shotgun on his mantle and loaded it with a silver bullet. He ran over to his radio and sent a distress signal out to the special forces.

“Code red, i repeat, code fucking red, send backup immediately.”

No reply.

“Can you fucking hear me?”

Static.

Then, suddenly, a voice came through.

“Biden, what the hells going on?”

*a pause*

“What? What the hell? What the hell is tha—“

“No! He got them! Fuck.” Biden cursed under his breath. He would have to deal with Obama buy himself.

Biden slowly crept out of his bedroom and into the hallway. Across from his room was Obama’s, his door ripped off its hinges.

On the wall were Obama’s chains, used to prevent him from escaping.

They were broken. Chewed through.

“God dammit. I don’t have much time.”

Biden sprinted out of the house and into the streets of Washington DC. Obama, well, at least what was once Obama, clung to the Washington monument in the form of a massive lizard. In one hand he held onto the monument, and in the other hand was Michelle.

“God dammit, I’m too late!” Biden yelled. He was helpless, watching his home city be destroyed. Helicopters and military planes swarmed him, launching rockets and bullets at his scaly green body. It would be no use. Obama would soon destroy Washington DC and beam back up to his UFO, never to be seen again.

“It’s too late. I failed us.” Biden whispered as he stared into the shotgun. “Maybe in another life.” He told himself as he pulled the trigger.*”

-John Zoidberg