“The fighting between rebel Contras and the Sandinista government in Nicaragua has been escalating since the United States Congress agreed to send aid to the so-called freedom fighters. Casualty estimates are difficult to determine as the body count grows hourly…”
CLICK
“…bomb exploded in Beirut this morning, killing 13 and wounding at least 27. So far, no one has claimed responsibility for the…”
CLICK
“…invasion imminent…”
CLICK
“…with the Lions leading the Argonauts by a score of 36 to 14 late in the third quarter…”
Aaaah.
Irma was inspecting an unidentifiable piece of meat in the kitchen. “Do I really want to cook this thing?” she asked herself. She admitted that she didn’t; however, after 23 years of marriage, she felt more or less committed.
“George,” she shouted to her husband, “do you want french fries or baked potatoes tonight?”
“Yeah,” George answered from the den.
“Some help you are,” Irma muttered to herself. When she put the various foodstuffs in the microwave, she found that it refused to start. “George?” she yelled. “George!”
“I’m doing something!” George whined. “What do you want?”
“The microwave isn’t working,” Irma, entering the den, explained. “If you want to eat dinner tonight, you’d better come and take a look at it.”
“After the game,” George told her, not taking his eyes off the television screen.
Irma sighed in acceptance of the situation and sat next to George on the couch. After a couple of minutes of this tedium (Irma had always considered football a stupid game), Irma wrapped her arms around George and started kissing him about the face, neck and shoulders.
“Irma…Irma!” George angrily protested, roughly pushing her away.
“I’m just trying to be affectionate,” Irma pouted.
“Well, stop it,” George insisted. “The Argos and first and 10 on the 47 yard line – this could be the start of an amazing comeback! Besides…” he added, trying to be conciliatory and not miss a penalty call, “there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
Soon after Irma returned to the kitchen, somebody next door screamed. Then, a shot was fired. Breathless, Irma ran back to George. “Did you hear that?” she asked.
“Hear what?”
“That scream,” Irma, frustrated, explained. “The shot. I think somebody has just been murdered!”
“That’s nice,” George replied, totally disinterested. “Phone the police.”
Irma picked up the phone, but the line was dead. She was about to point this out to George when the sound of small arms fire became audible in the distance. Planes roared overhead, and a great explosion blew out the windows of the house.
Avoiding the broken glass which now littered the floor, Irma rushed to the window. “Oh, my god!” she exclaimed. “They’ve blown up the Wilson house!”
“Um hum,” George responded. Toronto was on the BC 12 yard line and threatening to score.”
“Oh, and there goes Mr. Greco,” Irma continued, her voice deadening, “with blood all over his clothes. I guess he must have just murdered Sandra.”
“Damn!” George yelled. Toronto had just fumbled on the three. Irma watched tanks and troops roll through the street. “Do not panic, citizens,” somebody advised over a loudspeaker. “There is nothing to be alarmed about. We have everything under control. I repeat: do not panic. We have everything under control.”
The message was then repeated in French.
Irma did not panic. She was too insanely frightened to panic. She watched the deserted street for several minutes (two more houses down the street became history as she stood by the window), then she returned to the kitchen to check on their stores of food.
There was no point in telling George that war had broken out in front of their house. He had other priorities.
When the shrill whistling first came, Irma was calculating how long the cereal in the cupboard would last if it had to. Before she knew what happened, she was flat on her back. Half of the house had been destroyed. Irma lifted herself up and rushed to the den, where she found George pinned underneath a fallen crossbeam.
Irma rushed to his side. “Irma…” George croaked.
“Yes?” Irma asked, crying.
“I…I…” George gasped. It was clear that he was dying.
“Save your breath,” Irma suggested. “Don’t talk.”
“Need to know…” George insisted.
“What?” Irma asked.
“What was the final score?” George asked, and fell limp.