Heat Slap

“Why does this ice cream seem like a hot vanilla Frappuccino? I just pulled it from the freezer box.” Artie glumly stared at the gooey mess in the container.

“Yeah, but did you notice the freezer is now an oven? All the wiring melted. It’s wiring insulation is so fried we could have it for dinner. Now it won’t even interact with the cuber.” Marsha pulled open the freezer. Poking a finger in the ice cube holder, she noted that most of the puddled water there had evaporated.

“Well crap. If this heat doesn’t let up or stop waving, we’re all gonna be puddles of people goo soon.”

“Try the hose out front. Maybe that’ll cool you off.”

“I tried that. The trickle of water was scalding and my clothes shrunk three sizes immediately. My undies are shrunk so tight my little guys are shriveled and packed like sardines.”

“I thought you looked a tad … bigger,” Marsha said with a chuckle. “I’d say we could go clothes shopping but I think my flesh is fused to this recliner.”

“I told you not to sit on a leather recliner in this heat. I’ll be surprised if you don’t leave a peeled layer of cooked skin there when you get up.” Artie shook his head disgustedly. Holding his nose pinched closed, he sniffed and exclaimed, “I smell…, BACON!”

Marsha stuck out her tongue at him, then proceeded to lick her dry, chapped lips. It felt like her parched tongue was scraping a rotted out log pitted with cracks.

“Also, the tar on the road is gooey. I lost a shoe in it.” Artie lifted an unshod foot, wiggling his toes in a sock that was so small it looked like a tourniquet.

“Don’t do no good to turn on the fan. It’s blowing more hot air than a politician at election time.” Marsha looked up glumly at the dust laden fan in the middle of the ceiling.

From the living room a male news caster’s dulcet-toned voice drifted. Another story about the worst worldwide heatwave in recorded history. “Hospitals are overflowing with heatstroke and dehydration cases nationwide. Hundreds of thousands of people are reportedly dead - the majority of whom are babies or very young children or the elderly. Some estimates place the death toll at upwards of 750,000. Washington has requested citizens forego any and all unnecessary usage of water as the shortage has reached critical levels.” The newscaster looked up from his notes and into the camera. Marsha shivered as she felt the man was looking directly into her desicated soul. “With no apparent end in sight. Earlier today the White House released a statement that the global death toll has now topped 975 million.” The news anchor, a handsome black man of about forty, had a line of sweat runnelling down his hairline, lazily skirting around tired dark eyes and draining into a shoddily groomed, damp mustache. His usual, nattily neat, blazer was conspicuously absent, and his tie was tugged loose. It hung there, bisecting a hairy chest on display due to several unclasped buttons. The red necktie looked like the lolling tongue of an overexerted bulldog. Noticeable sweatstains under the man’s armpits looked like a spreading puddle of urine.

Looking at the normally immaculately groomed newscaster, Marsha shook her head dejectedly. “Ain’t this a bitch?” She said. “He used to be so good looking too.”

“Who?” Artie glanced at his sister, diverting his eyes from the tv.

“Him.” She half heartedly waved a hand at the screen. “Marcus Alford.”

“You think Mark AlTurd is good looking?” Her brother said with a mocking grin.

“Well. Yeah. Not so much today, though.”

“In other news, NASA has reported sightings of an anomalous extraterrestrial object in orbit around Venus. Top scientists are so far unable to determine the exact nature of the object, but state that it does not appear to be a meteor, asteroid, or other naturally occurring object.”

Artie shook his head. “UFOs. Next they’ll be saying little green guys with giant heads are beaming heat rays at earth.” Artie chuckled. “So ridiculous.” Picking up the remote, he clicked off the television.

“You know there wasn’t any meat and precious little fruits or vegetables at the Publix yesterday,” he stated. “What was there was all wilted.” Turning, he shuffled tiredly to their ratty, cloth-covered couch and plopped heavily onto it.

“That’s because crops have been destroyed by the heat. Same with cows, pigs, and every other four legged domesticated food animal.” Marsha sighed dejectedly. “Even the frickin’ chickens.”

“Well aren’t you Agricultural Annie?”

Marsha couldn’t muster the energy to laugh at her brother’s jibe.

“You know that bacon smell you mentioned?”

“Yeah,” Artie said, his head flopped back on the cushions where he was splayed on the couch like a marionette with its strings cut.

“I smelled the same kind of thing earlier coming from the neighbors window.” Marsha barely stirred as she said this.

“Really?” Artie almost managed to give a crap through the oppressive heating of his blood. “Do you think they’re okay. Maybe they’re … cooked.”

“I don’t know,” Marsha mumbled. Her tired neck lolled to the side, her red faced head rolling like a lopsided tomato.

With a soft sigh, the two lapsed into a heat soaked doze. Outside the silence stretched for miles. The only sound a weak bark from some someone’s dehydrated dog.

*****************************************************

Twenty five million miles away from the baking green and blue planet, Master shipdroid Sheykhuzuir turned from his console with a whir of servomotors. “In just about 6.5 more galactic yurts, give or take a yurt, the earth’s surface shall be devoid of all organic life Strefgtuil,” it reported to it’s superior.

“This news is welcome Master Shipdroid,” the ship’s commander said with a slight electronic whir. Once the organic are disposed of we mechanicals can return home.”