Dubya, the Mayor of Racktown and its Fireman-In-Chief, drove up to the Henderson’s house one fine summer’s evening and threw a Molotov cocktail through their front window. The resulting explosion started a fire in the living room.
Mister Henderson ran out of the house with his family. Livid, he rushed to Dubya and shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Your house has termites,” Dubya responded. “It’s a threat to the other houses in the neighbourhood. I’m here to make sure they’re dealt with.”
“My house is on fire!”
“Good point.” Dubya signaled to one of the men on the fire truck; the man handed him a can full of gasoline. Dubya started pouring it into the house, causing the fire to spread to the kitchen and other areas on the first floor.
“What are you doing?” Mister Henderson screamed.
“Putting the fire out,” Dubya replied.
“No, you’re not! You’re making it worse!”
“Don’t be silly. By pouring gasoline on the fire, we can actually get the fire out much more quickly.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
“Of course it does. It’s the course of action recommended by all of the firemen in the station, and you don’t want to go against the advice of the firemen in the middle of a blaze, now, do you?” Mister Henderson looked at the officers sitting on the fire truck, but they were looking off in all directions, not wanting to contradict their commander, but not wanting to take responsibility for his actions, either. Mister Henderson was not reassured.
“Look, the fire is spreading to the bedrooms on the second floor!” he pointed out.
“That’s good.”
“WHAT? How can you say that that’s good?”
“The brighter the fire burns, the more quickly it will burn itself out.”
“Stop! Stop pouring gasoline on the fire in my house!”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“If I stop now, the fire will have won.”
Mister Henderson opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t think of anything to say. He looked over at his family, who were huddled under a blanket on the far end of the driveway, and turned back to Dubya.
“You’re destroying my house!”
“No, no, no. We want to save your house. Look.” As if on cue, a dozen men appeared. Some of the men tried to rebuild walls in the house as the fire was eating them away. Some of the men worked hard at replacing the water pipes as they melted under the heat, while others worked at replacing electrical wires. One man walked up to Dubya and handed him a latte.
“Thanks, Jim,” Dubya said.
“Who…are these people?” Mister Henderson asked.
“Friends of mine,” Dubya answered. “Private contractors. They contributed to my election campaign, or the campaigns of my friends on City Council.”
“What are they doing?”
“Rebuilding your house.”
“But –”
“They charge very reasonable rates. Do you know what a ‘cost plus’ contract is? Not to worry if you don’t – you’ll get the bill when we’re done.”
“But, that’s crazy! As soon as they rebuild something, the fire burns it up.”
“Of course, there are always risks in a venture of this nature. But –” As if on cue, one of the contractors ran out of the house, his whole body on fire. Mister Henderson was reminded of a scene he had seen in countless movies, except the man didn’t stop screaming when a couple of the fireman had put him out. “That’s why they’re paid plus in the cost plus contracts. They really earn that plus, see.”
Mister Henderson turned back to Dubya, then noticed something about his house. “Hey – HEY! They’re building a kitchen where there was a bedroom!”
“Yeah,” Dubya insouciantly stated, “we thought that while we were here, we might improve the place a little.”
“My children can’t sleep in a kitchen!”
“True. But they can’t make grilled cheese sandwiches in a bedroom.”
Mister Henderson was, once again, caught up short by this logic. After a moment, he went back to his main theme: “WILL YOU STOP POURING GASOLINE ON THE FIRE!”
“You’ve lost faith in my ability to stop this fire?”
“I never had any faith in your ability to stop this fire!”
Several seconds passed. Dubya shifted a little, but did not stop pouring gasoline on the fire. Impatient, Mister Henderson asked, “So, are you going to do anything?”
“I did.”
“Did what?”
“Did do something.”
“What did you do?”
“I was pouring the gasoline with my right hand. Now, I’m pouring the gasoline with my left hand.”
Mister Henderson groaned.
In the morning, the house was a pile of smoking ashes. Mister Henderson, surveying the damage, moaned, “Why? Why? Why did this have to happen?”
Dubya put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Don’t ask me,” Dubya said, taking off his fireman’s helmet. “My term is over. Ask the person who is elected Mayor to replace me.”