ALLIGORY

a monster satire

Carrie Latham’s parents urged her to go through with the wedding. It’s not that she didn’t love Brandon. She adored him and couldn’t wait to be his bride. But she feared it might be perceived as poor taste, inviting people to celebrate when there had been so much chaos just a few hours ago, just a few miles away.

Carrie had been planning her special day for 14 months and three weeks. The only thing that could get her to cancel would be massive.

This was epic.

And yet, most people felt like they were the last to learn about THE BANGKOK CROC.

tl;dr: a 100-foot-long reptile appeared at a South Carolina beachfront and killed 618 people.

Note: the creature was later identified as an alligator mississippiensis (American Alligator). But it was too late. “Bangkok Croc” had stuck; the hashtag was growing.

Few Americans had seen the beast with their own eyes. Most relied on videos. And many assumed those files were fake.

But for the beach-goers who’d witnessed the creature’s wrath, it was very real. Even after the behemoth retreated to the Atlantic Ocean, they could smell a lingering stench of wet asbestos. For the rest of their lives, those survivors would be triggered by any burnt-salt smell, which would flood them with memories of the monster’s enormous tail, smacking side to side, launching cars through the air. Others would feel their entire body clench, remembering their eye contact with its egg-yolk-yellow eyes. Thousands of humans would never be the same; their nervous systems were shattered. And yet, some of their neighbors would go to their graves claiming Gator Gate was a hoax.

The facts were simple: 618 people were reported dead. In three square miles, a hospital had been demolished. Two hotels were destroyed. Eight restaurants were gutted. And an estimated 67 vape shops were crushed.

The ones that remained open sold out their remaining inventory.

For the next 28 hours, no one knew how to respond.

And even though it was mid-July, most people ate like it was the week between Christmas and New Year’s.

Carrie took a deep breath and squeezed the hands of Cindra, her wedding planner.

Calling it “the most difficult decision she’d ever made,” Carrie opted to cancel the most special day of her life.

The venue’s representatives respected her decision. But the deposit was non-refundable.

The wedding was back on.

During the father-daughter dance, Len Latham felt a nice buzz from the champagne — combined with a relief that the ceremony went off without a wrinkle. He snapped out of it when he heard the screams. Len’s gut reaction was that his idiot son was up to no good. After all that therapy and medication, the kid (now, no longer a minor!) was still whipping it out in public.

Part of Len was relieved to see The Bangkok Croc. The Giant Gator tore through the avenue of oaks along the plantation’s southern entrance. It was one of the last things he’d see before a cardiac arrest stopped his heart; that and his daughter’s mascara-stained cheeks. And lastly, Caleb, pulling down his zipper.

@CarlyHughesWeddingPhotographer gained two million followers that evening. Her photos of “The Real Red Wedding” captured the panic, bloodshed, and mayhem of a giant wedding crasher. Photos showed its mighty tail driving the dock house into the marsh. Even her out-of-focus shots show a gator the length of three school buses, crawling over a banquet hall and demolishing it in the process. But her most-liked photos featured the edible pearls on a buttercream frosting of their Lambeth-style wedding cake. The intricate dessert was photographed twice: minutes before (and after) a severed arm landed on it. The photo with the arm was shared the most.

The U.S. military needed congressional approval to authorize an air strike against the monster.

But a Pennsylvania think tank found an angle that allowed for quicker results.

This enormous creature was not recognized by Federal, State, or Local agencies. It was not a citizen, and therefore a foreigner.

The President authorized the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement to neutralize the menace by deadly force.

You didn’t have to tell them twice.

Victor raced to the back of the caboose, just in time for little Julian to spit up the corn dog. Julian had never eaten corn dog before — but today was a special day. It was their first time at the Y’ALL ABOARD Railroad Museum. Maybe that excitement of riding a nostalgia train was too much for a 19-month-old. Or maybe he got sick from the rocking of the coach. It could’ve been the stench of the diesel, which Victor found truly appalling. Being on the train’s rear deck didn’t provide the “fresh air” he’d wanted, just more access to hydrocarbons sputtering from the front.

The engine slowed down to meet a uniformed high school marching band that played their best rendition of When the Saints Go Marching In.

Victor didn’t like that song, but he liked that he knew what it was. Since becoming a father, he’d lost track of modern music. So, it felt good to recognize a tune, even if it was older than this locomotive.

“Wave to the horn section,” Victor gently recommended (just like the family therapist had gently recommended he communicate that way.) But Julian ignored the band.

He laughed. Then howled. He was greeting what looked like a real-life dinosaur.

Victor turned and saw the gator. It was coming towards them.

And it was fast.

Julian’s mother had skipped the train ride. She felt guilty, and she felt a migraine starting. She wondered if the migraine was her punishment for taking a break. She’d needed a short reprieve from being Julian’s Mom. And, honestly, from being Victor’s wife. (And practically being Victor’s Mom!) She just wanted a 10-minute pause where she could be Debbie again.

And now Debbie’s migraine was spreading. Some days, the headaches were so intense that she could hear her brain cells splitting. Like the sound of cast iron rails being ripped from the ground.

Wait. That was no migraine.

Two dozen uniformed musicians ran and screamed past the gift shop/café. All of them were afraid of dying. Some were specifically afraid of dying while wearing a marching band uniform.

“Move!” a gangly girl pushed by, while breaking the strap off her cylindrical hat.

It was a heartless one-word exchange, but enough to pass the Bechdel test.

Debbie fell backwards and felt all oxygen leave her body as the freight car came somersaulting towards them.

That night, President Williams appeared on almost every channel. He asked every viewer to offer thoughts and prayers for the victims of the latest Bangkok Croc attack. Despite knowing better, he plainly promised that this must never happen again.

And even the President’s harshest critics could tell that he meant it. In the same way the Great Depression had brought out the Greatness in a previous generation; this new threat asked mankind to meet the challenge of being our planet’s dominant species.

Maybe this awful tragedy could bring people together.

It felt that way. At least it did during the first half of the silent prayer.

What happened next is a topic of great debate.

Twenty-one seconds into the moment of silence, microphones picked up a muffled rumbling. Some claimed it was the sound of inconsolable crying in the distance. Others insisted the President had shit his pants.

The Leader of the Free World nodded, eyes closed, with a grave look on his face.

Half the viewers who saw the speech claimed the man did soil himself. (Most of those people didn’t really believe it; they were towing the party line.)

The other half claimed the man did not fudge his undies. Even if they couldn’t explain what the dull growling was, they were certain their President was incapable of doing that on live TV. (Most of those people didn’t really believe that, but they wished it to be true.)

Professor Tom Remmick, of Vassar College, was half-joking when he observed that the creature appeared to be targeting “historically sensitive” areas of the South: A slave plantation used for weddings. A railroad that was built by freed slaves and immigrants.

“What’s next?” He asked his students in the American Culture seminar, “Civil War Statues?”

At lunchtime, Tom received an urgent phone call from someone claiming to be the Deputy Commissioner of a newly appointed Anti-Monster Task Force.

“Your prediction was right,” Helene Fiske whispered, “This morning, at 0600 hours, the Beast targeted Greenville, South Carolina, and toppled the Confederate Monument.”

“I’m so….sorry?” he heard himself say.

“It was just as you’d predicted. One of your students quoted you on TikTok.”

The Adjunct Professor swallowed. He did not volunteer that he’d been repeating a comment made by a Lecturer at Cambridge.

Instead, he changed course.

“If there’s a monster running around killing people, why are you scrolling TikTok?”

“Our team is like a fire department: We are waiting to react.”

Tom overcame his hatred of this stranger when she said the next four words.

“We need your help.”

There were no recordings of the early morning attack on the Confederate Monument. This made even more people seek them out. If you typed in some variation of “Crocodile + Greenville + Civil War + Statue,” you’d get videos of people who weren’t there, talking about the event. The top result was a once-famous comedian joking about the incident.

Twice during the 0:38 clip, he described the creature as “ret — — d”.

As the day unfolded, viewers chose sides and provided their strongest arguments for and against free speech as a weapon to defeat our common enemy.

The comedian in question felt vindicated by the outpouring of support. It would lead to an overnight career comeback and a popular podcast sponsored by Frito-Lay. Until six weeks later, when his name would surface in the Epstein Files.

Over 400 ICE agents mobilized for the initiative.

They suited up, packed travel mugs, extra face masks, and all the surplus ammo the budget allowed. (Which was a lot!)

From 14 different states, unmarked minivans, pick-up trucks, and Chevy Tahoes roared into action. Several vehicles blasted personalized playlists on Spotify, with titles like “Get Pumped”, “It’s Clobberin’ Time”, and “Hunting Darth Gator”.

The Anti-Monster Task Force had commandeered a dead mall just out of Summerville, South Carolina. The makeshift headquarters provided an impromptu briefing hall, plus bathrooms, sleeping quarters, and a target range. It wasn’t a sanctioned target range, but once Officer Thompson opened fire inside the old BEST BUY, it was christened as their unofficial shooting gallery.

When Professor Tom Remmick exited the Amtrak station, he’d assumed that someone would be waiting for him.

He was wrong.

It was a red flag that the Commission refused to cover any airfare. And now this.

The Professor left a terse voicemail for Deputy Commissioner Helene Fiske, who texted back that a car would be there in 5.

26 minutes later, an unmarked van pulled up. Four masked agents held him at gunpoint and threw him into the back of the vehicle.

“Sorry,” Agent Crandall later apologized with a shrug, “Force of habit.”

Two agents chaperoned the Professor through a labyrinth of hallways inside the mall.

Once they reached “The Strategy Oasis,” they removed his blindfold.

He was standing before a three-person council of paramilitary personnel in what was once a RAINFOREST CAFÉ.

“Professor Remmick!” Helene began a round of introductions, but it was cut short by a man in brand-new combat fatigues (that appeared to be one size too big.)

“You’re wasting your time,” the General spat, “Which is fine. But now you’re wasting my time.”

Helene tried to get a word in, “Your country thanks you for the — “

“Yeah, thanks, but no thanks. We’ve got this figured out.”

While the career scholar had been scribbling notes during the 14-hour Amtrak ride, the Anti-Monster Task Force had gathered classified data and formulated a strategic operation that “could not fail.”

No one said it out loud, but the Professor had a very good idea of what was happening.

He was tired, hungry, and smelled like an armpit’s armpit.

So why not just say it?

Treat these bigwigs the same way he approached his arrogant students.

“Just tell me one thing,” the Professor said with half a smile, “Which version of ChatGPT did you use?”

Of all the possible replies, the worst may be that the General didn’t know which version they’d used. Because he didn’t know there were different versions.

It was later uncovered that they’d used the free tier. Saving the world through light research, casual help, and slower response times during peak hours.

Helene felt terrible that Tom had come all that way, just to be sent home. She believed that if the Professor offered a sincere apology to the General, Tom might be allowed to attend the strategic attack. Not in an official role, but as a “friend of the attack.”

Tom was either too tired or too arrogant to apologize. Maybe both. Regardless, he would leave as soon as he figured out a way to the bus station. (One thing was clear: these assholes were not about to reimburse his round-trip train ticket. And neither was the college.) When he picked up his phone, he saw a text from the Head of the American Culture Program:

“IMO, a Giant Croc book deal may help yr tenure track”

Tom grabbed a clean t-shirt from his overnight bag and Googled “how to make a face covering.”

For the next two hours, 85 agents crouched along the far end of a humid parking lot.

Just waiting for the Bangkok Croc to attack the Centennial Olympic Park Waffle House.

Bobbi, the day shift manager, became impatient because the restaurant could not stay open for business.

When she asked about reopening, the officer barked that these agents were protecting her small business. The least she could do is show some gratitude. And bring out another round of waffles for the boys.

At the start of the third hour, the General upped the ante.

A trio of masked men half-jogged to the rear of the restaurant.

“Let’s fly this up the flagpole and see if anybody attacks it,” the General said to no one in particular.

The agents raised a super-sized Confederate flag.

Now more than ever, the agents felt a stabbing pride, seeing the stars and bars floating in the air.

Several of the men saluted — in one fashion or another.

This newly restored excitement was coupled with a fresh round of waffles making its way down the line. Each of the men took a warm, crispy cake and did their best to not get a syrup stain on their mask.

By the time the serving tray made it to Professor Tom Remmick, there were no waffles left. He was disguised in a sloppy mask and a black tactical vest. He went by the name of “Jake Towney”. Not that anyone asked. There was little small-talk among the crew. Which was for the best, since he might’ve outed himself by using terms like “hegemony”, “late Capitalism,” or “problematic.”

The Professor had planned to take notes. But there wasn’t much to report on.

Instead, he narrowed down the top titles for his inevitable best-seller:

UNDERCOVER HERO: My Adventures in the War Against a Kaiju

WHAT A CROC: How America’s Infrastructure Failed to Defeat the Monster Menace

UN-CIVIL WAR: (subtitle to come)

It was hard to pick a title without knowing how the story ends.

Julie ran the razor up her leg, which she wasn’t supposed to do in the lifeguard chair. It was against the Water Park’s rules. But she needed to look good for Kyle.

“No running!” she hollered to an unsupervised toddler who was skipping around the edge of the Lazy River.

Tammy said that Kyle might be bi-. So, Julie would have to work extra hard to get his attention.

She heard high-pitched screams in the distance. Probably just some first-timers freaking out on the Dive Bomber.

“No running!” she blew her whistle at a small girl who was racing on the pavement, with both hands inside a bag of imitation Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

Dating Kyle wasn’t just to get back at Mel.

Well, maybe a little. If Mel was jealous, great!

The shrieks were getting louder.

Dozens of runners cut through the Lazy River path. Kids and adults were falling into the water, shoving each other out of the way.

Julie did not hear the creature itself.

But its smell was awful.

The gator’s slimy green-black scales seemed to go on forever; it must’ve been the size of a basketball court.

It took her a moment to recognize what was crammed in its jaws: the final stretch of the Python Plunge.

The bottom half of a woman plopped out of the slide’s enclosed tunnel. Even in a state of extreme shock, Julie noticed the severed legs were pretty hairy.

Operation: Waffle House came to a sudden end when the Bangkok Croc was sighted 20 miles away.

“It’s in Marietta, headed straight for Six Flags White Water Park.”

“Of course!” all 85 operatives thought to themselves, many of them claiming “they knew that’s where it would go next.” (Some believed it was because one of the park’s six flags was a Rebel Flag. Others thought the reptile was drawn to water slides.)

A caravan of jeeps, pick-up trucks, and unmarked cars sped towards I-75 North.

In six years at Waffle House, Bobbi had encountered some downright terrible men. But these guys were the worst. And they couldn’t blame it on drugs. Unless you count small amounts of power as a drug. Which, maybe she should. Either way, Bobbi was glad to see them leave. She was ready to reopen the restaurant. But first things first, she would take down that bullshit flag and burn it.

Helene’s walkie-talkie had been hissing announcements, but she didn’t have a free hand to answer; she was busy holding on for dear life as their Dodge Durango plowed through the water park’s front entrance. The driver had already hit three pedestrians, and he wasn’t slowing down, only swearing at the kids and teens who got in their way.

~~HISSS ~~

~~Chopper approaching now! ~~

HISSS

Over!

~~HISSS ~~

Helene prayed that enough civilians were out of the way before the helicopter brought the weapon.

Professor Remmick, a.k.a. Jake Towney, arrived with the very last group. They’d made two wrong turns and then had trouble parking the 16-pass van. They hadn’t known everyone else had driven inside the park grounds.

When his unit half-jogged their way to the Wave Pool, other agents were already there and actively throwing up.

The air reeked of burnt salt, undigested waffles, and rancid slime. That slime was coming from the remains of what were once ICE officers. Mounds of massacred flesh littered the grounds, creating a semi-circle surrounding the wave pool, where the Gator tried to immerse itself in the artificial blue tide.

“Blimey,” a man in Jake’s unit gasped, “it’s gotta be at least 30 meters!”

The Professor tried to convert that into feet but didn’t know the equation. Or why an ICE agent was using the metric system. Before he could ask, he started to heave.

That helicopter was their last hope.

Channel 5’s Accu-Weather Doppler Chopper had been commandeered last night. The weatherman’s whirlybird jutted through the sky.

Once it got close enough, the co-pilot dropped the bombs.

A gorgeous curtain of white tablets cascaded through the air and hit the chlorinated waters containing the Alligator. The blue-ish liquid rattled and bubbled.

Professor/Jake staggered up to Helene, whose fatigues were covered with blood. Whether it was her blood or someone else’s, no one knew — not even Helene.

“What is that stuff?” He whispered.

She coughed up blood, then said, “Wegovy.”

The miracle weight loss pill.

The Anti-Monster Task Force had asked ChatGPT how to make the monster smaller. The AI showed a rate of 22.5% total body weight loss, assuming that they could get it inside the animal’s GI tract.

The Creature’s throat gurgled and let out a vibrating roar.

The helicopter spasmed, then crashed into the toilet-bowl-like structure of the Typhoon Twister.

After a small ka-boom, all eyes were back on the wave pool and the giant reptile.

There was no other word that fit: it began to “mutate.”

And grow.

Tom Remmick tore off his face covering, “You fools!”

Another agent removed his mask, “You bloody Plonkers! This maggot’s about to grow until it’s 400 Stone!”

Ah! That was the agent who’d been speaking British: Allen Gallaird was a top marine biologist. He’d been invited to consult with the Task Force before they let him go.

“Morons!” A brilliant herpetologist pulled down his face covering. Dr. Henry Quaid was in the house.

“Philistines!” A Prize-winning poet threw his mask to the ground and then spat in it for dramatic effect. He was waiting to be recognized, but no one knew who he was.

Each of them had been asked to help, then replaced by a bot.

Rather than oppose the operation or work against it, they lurked while other people died.

A dozen more revealed themselves.

Adult boys pretending to be men who were pretending to be men.

And while the mutant reptile grew bigger and bigger, the men looked smaller and smaller.

THE END