Blood.  Fire.  Mass quantities of white feathers and flower petals.  

"Jack... go to Tokyo... your [Destiny]... is waiting..."  She pointed her index finger in what seemed to be a meaningful direction, before it too was engulfed in flame.

"MOTHERRRRRRRRR!!!!!!"

Jack managed to look genuinely anguished and brooding for a few moments before remarking to himself, "That's funny...  I don't remember my mother being 6-foot-2 with the figure of a supermodel..."

"Jack?  Jack!"

The disturbingly unmotherlike figure before him swirled and dissolved into the more familiar countenance of his older sister.

"Jack, go to the store!  The Megaton Cheese Bushel you ordered is waiting." 

"Cool!" said Jack, rubbing his hands with glee, images of gore and impending doom forgotten; visions of enormous dairy products danced in their stead.  Something still gnawed at him, however.  "Hey sis, do you remember what Mom looks like?"

	"We have a mother?"

	Jack *hmmmed*.  "I see what you mean."  That matter resolved, he promptly set out on his glorious errand.  Upon stepping out the door, he discovered that the front step had been replaced by a boundless inky void, with little floating crescent-moon-shaped marshmallow bits.

	"Sir?  Sir!"

	The little moons swirled and clumped together, materializing into a form that grew increasingly familiar every day: that of his assistant.

	"Whoa, Tim..." said Jack, straightening in his chair.  "I was having the recurring dream with my mother's hideous death and the floating Lucky Charms again."

	"That's nice, Mr. President," Tim Jenkins replied.

	The words 'Mr. President' stirred another memory within Jack. He wondered vaguely if this would turn out to be the recurring dream where he got elected president and then destroyed the world.  The idea didn't linger for long; after all, he never did place too much importance on distinguishing fantasy from reality.

	"So what's on the little pad for today, my loyal lackey?  Press conferences?  Drafting my new resolution for mandatory distribution of firearms to public school students?  Another address before the National Meat Council?  The last one was a riot.  Literally."  He grinned with satisfaction as his inward eye recalled the image of an angry mob wielding meat cleavers and being fought off by the Secret Service.

	"Actually, sir," replied the mild-mannered Harvard graduate, as his clothing caught fire and the surroundings metamorphosed into a post-apocalyptic landscape barely recognizable as the charred ruins of Washington D.C., "your schedule for today consists of only one item."  His voice suddenly became deeper than the reverberation of thunder over an erupting volcano.

	"Your [DESTINY]."

	It was at this point that Jack began to notice a pattern.


* * * * * *


Improfanfic / Fan Art HQ / Spoof Chase Productions presents:

CONTROVERSIAL JACK AND THE FALL OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION

Episode 3: The Unbearable Lightness of Jack

WARNING:  This chapter is the result of watching too much Millenium... and possibly, reading Good Omens.  It contains certain religious themes that the closed-minded might find offensive, and which those of non-christian faiths probably wouldn't get.  You have been warned.


-------


	This was not a good day for the Chief of Security.  

	For starters, there was the fact that his title sounded like somebody out of Star Trek.  At least it did to people who watched too much Star Trek, who think the word 'log' sounds like something out of Star Trek.  Then there were the smartasses who thought that the head of the Secret Service  should have a title like 'Head of Secret Service', or something vaguely similar.  Not to mention the stupid fanfic contributors who have no idea what the head of the Secret Service is really called, and just called him 'Chief of Security' so they could get on with writing the story.

	And then there was the fact that the President was missing.

	"What do you mean, the President is missing?" asked the Chief of Security.

	Agent Stone's face, normally an unreadable mask molded from nerves of steel (or perhaps from latex rubber), actually betrayed signs of agitation.  "Well sir, he was in his office a while ago.  He's not in there now.  Agent Rocksteady and I were posted at the door, so he couldn't have left through there."

	The Chief of Security buried his face in his palms and muttered something that doesn't translate into english.  Jack Lysias was not exactly the easiest of men to keep track of; the Secret Service had had its hands full in the three weeks since he was sworn in as their president, just trying to keep people from clubbing him to death like the baby seals he had a penchant for.

	"All right," croaked the Chief, desperately trying to sound like an intimidating Worf rather than an annoying Chekov.  "Given his somewhat... _unstable_ character... could the President have just sneaked off somewhere without our knowing?"

	"He hasn't been spotted by any of the security cameras on the grounds, sir; not for the past six hours."

	The unhappy Chief felt Worf slipping away from him.  "Isn't there _any_ way of telling what happened?"

	Agent Granite piped up.  "There was a young intern in the Oval Office with the President at the time, sir."

	The situation was rapidly deteriorating.  After the last president, the words 'intern', 'president', and 'Oval Office' used in the same sentence were enough to send the Chief's blood pressure off the scale.  "Let me see this intern," he managed to gasp after a few relaxful breathing exercises.

	Seeing the intern did nothing to allay his fears.  She was drop-dead gorgeous, with long auburn tresses and an unbelievable figure; the type you'd expect to be followed by saxophone music wherever she went.  

	"Alright then," wheezed the withered authority figure.  "Why don't you tell us what you saw, Miss... uh..."

	"Jane," she replied, her lips curving into a beautiful smile.



* * * * *
 


	These were the type of dreams Jack hated.  They were weird and awkward, and didn't go anywhere.

	He let out a sigh of exasperation and stuffed his hands into his pockets.  And he was usually so good at striking up a conversation.  Under normal circumstances, it was child's play for him to get the other person bristling with indignation before five minutes had passed.  But what do you say to a 15-story ivory-colored purple-faced seven-eyed giant mannequin pinned to a cross in an ocean of Tang(tm)-colored liquid?

	"Uhh... That's... a lot of Tang(tm)."

	If the giant heard or understood him, it gave no indication.  _Well, that was a dead end,_ Jack thought to himself.

	As he hovered in midair just in front of it, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was supposed to _do_ something; he just wasn't sure what.  _Maybe if I poke its tummy it'll giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy,_ he mused.  Before he could make an attempt, however, an enourmous purple and green robot came crashing through the wall behind him.

	As it reached out a room-sized hand to grab him, Jack grinned to himself.  This was going to be one of those cool violent dreams after all.



* * * * * *


	Anne Lysias was not the most carefree of young women as she walked the scenic route to the White House, her small, sensibly-packed suitcase in tow.  She could have taken a cab, but this way she had time to compose her thoughts.  

	It had taken three weeks of seeing her brother's face on the news with 'President of the United States' written underneath to convince her that she wasn't losing her mind.  She had had an inclination simply to let Jack screw it all up big time as he always did, and let _him_ sort the mess out for a change.  Then common sense took over.  Expecting Jack to get himself out of trouble was like expecting Niagra Falls to flow uphill.  

	She wondered if he had told anyone at the White House that he had a sister.  That jerk had better pay for her plane fare at least; and maybe get her Secret Service protection, to guard against shady characters like the one who was following her now.

	'Shady character' was the only way she could describe the guy.  She didn't dare turn around to get a good look at him; but from what she could see out of the corner of her eye, he was dressed all in black, and had an uncanny ability to keep his face constantly in shadow.

	She quickened her pace, trying desperately not to break out into a run.  She never heard the footsteps behind her, but she knew they were there.  Finally, she caught sight of the White House just a few hundred meters away.  It was getting late, and there were no more tourists around.  Anne suddenly had to laugh at herself.  Great, she thought; now all she had to do was run up to the gate real quick and yell, Hey let me in I'm the President's sister!

	"If you're looking for your brother, Ms. Lysias, I doubt it will be that easy," he called out behind her.

	Oh God.  He knew her name.  That meant he wasn't just some random psycho; he'd actually been stalking her.  Perhaps if she humored him, she could buy some time.

	"Uh... excuse me?"

	The mystery man emerged from the darkness, still miraculously managing to keep his face obscure.  "He is in THEIR hands now.  His security forces are at a loss to find him."

	The thought of her own potential danger at the hands of this weirdo was suddenly overidden by the nagging sensation that Jack was in even bigger trouble than he could have gotten into on his own.  "What do you mean, in THEIR hands?  Where is Jack?"

	Rather than answer her, he went on: "You know, for centuries now, the close of the second millenium has been prophesied as the time of cataclysms which  would culminate in the year 2000.  

And suddenly now, right at this nexus of dischord and upheaval, a man appears from out of nowhere to lead the most powerful nation in the world.  He possesses a charismatic aura almost beyond human.  Already he has irrevocably changed the face of creation with his assault on the moon."

"I don't understand where all this is headed."

"Ms. Lysias," said the mystery man, "there are... certain factions out there... who would believe that Jack Lysias will be the one to lead the forces of evil during the final Battle that will determine the fate of humanity."

Anne considered this for a moment.  "Are you trying to tell me that my brother is the Antichrist?"

"I'm trying to tell you, Ms. Lysias," said the mysterious figure as he withdrew back into the shadows, "that the time is near."  And with that, Anne was left alone with her confusion.


* * * * * *

	
	"I'd heard that my old buddy Controversial Jack had finally been elected president," Miss Jane elaborated.  "So I went to his office to visit with him.  And that's when somebody knocked me out from behind."

	"Did you get a look at the assailant?" asked Agent Granite.

	"I'm positive it was Tim Jenkins."

	"Could Jenkins have abducted the President?" said Agent Stone.

	The Chief of Security put on his deep-in-thought face.  "Well, who else would be around the President 24-7?"

	Just then, Agent Rocksteady poked his head out the Oval Office door.  "Hey, look at this!"

	What they found was a small, yellow, rubber duck lying forlornly on its side on the carpeted floor.  "You didn't tell us the Vice President was also present at the scene!" Agent Stone exclaimed.

	Jane immediately went on the defensive.  "I didn't even see him before I got knocked out!  Besides, what good would he do?  Jack's the only one he ever talks to."

	"Maybe not," said Agent Rocksteady thoughtfully.

	Jane, the Chief, and the other two agents watched him as he got on his hands and knees and lowered his head to the duck's level.  He turned sideways and peered at the wall, then at the duck, then back at the wall again.  Finally he stood up.

	"If you follow the duck's line of vision," he said, pointing at the wall, "you'll notice a minute incongruity in the pattern of the wallpaper.  Right there."  They all looked.

	"Now unfocus your eyes, and slowly bring them back to focus, while continuing to stare at that spot."

	They all did so.  After a few seconds, Jane gasped, and the other two agents murmured with astonishment.

	"What is it?" asked the Chief, puzzled.  

	"It's one of those 3-D pattern things," Jane explained.  "See, there's a door, with a a goat skull and an upside-down pentagram, and a sign that says, 'Welcome to the secret headquarters of the Cult of Armaggedon.'"

	"Where?"  The Chief squinted, crossed his eyes, and turned his head sideways, and still saw nothing but wall.

	Instead of replying, the three agents pulled out their guns and broke down the unseen door, exposing a long, winding stone stairway.  Without further ado, they made their way down.  Jane followed after a moment's hesitation.  Finally, the Chief gave up and plunged after them, grumbling to himself.


* * * * *


	 "The time is NOW," the High Priest proclaimed joyfully.

	He and fourty-four subordinate priests gazed reverently at their Dark Lord, who had been laid out and draped in the ceremonial robes in which he would make his true nature known to the world.  

	"When will he awaken?" one asked.

	"Not for a while," Tim Jenkins replied.  "The stuff I put in his harp seal patty melt should keep him out cold for another eight hours.  I took no chances."

	"Well done, brother," lauded the High Priest.  "You shall go down in history as the one who delivered our Lord to his people!"

	The mild-mannered Harvard graduate cum Satan-worshipper beamed from the praise.  "The Illuminati had sent one of their own agents to infiltrate the White House, but I had no trouble dispatching him."

	"Splendid, splendid."

	One of the other priests piped up.  "I hate to be a voice of gloom here, but... how do we know what we have here is really our Lord?  Do we have any proof?"

	"What do you mean, proof?" said the High Priest.

	"Well, the incarnation of Dark One is supposed to have a birthmark with the number 666 hidden in his scalp."

	There was an uneasy silence as they all imagined trying to get at his scalp.  Finally the High Priest declared, "No, it is him -- only the true Dark One would have such an evil hairdo."    

	A sudden commotion alerted them to the horde of red-robed figures coming in from the northern tunnels.  "Jack Lysias is ours," one of the Illuminati boomed.  "The future that he is to bring about will be ours!"

	"We shall see," said the head priest.  At his signal, the cult members all drew their cool-looking ritual swords.  In response, the Illuminati pulled out wicked maces.  

	What followed, needless to say, was a really cool fight scene.


* * * * *
	

  	It was all there, spread out like the proverbial red carpet, like a bridal train, like the robes of a king.  He could see every individual nation, every city in all its squalor and splendor, as clearly as the jewels on a crown.  

	The red guy beside him made a sweeping gesture with his arm.  "All this, Jack," he said.  "All this can be yours. You can be king of the world, Jack; the monarch of all you survey.  Just like that."

	"So what's the catch?"

	The red guy shrugged and made a gesture indicating something of little value.  "Oh, you know.  Prostration, acknowledging me as your lord and master forever and always.  Just the usual."

	Jack *hmmmed*.  He looked at the red guy, then at the world, then at the red guy again.  "It's a sweet deal, mister, I gotta admit," he said.  "There's just one hitch."

	"And what's that?"

	Jack imitated the red guys earlier sweeping gesture, and then the one indicating small worth.  "Y'see, it's already mine."


* * * * * *


"Heh.  Ha ha.  Ha ha ha.  AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

	The sound of deranged laughter rang out and echoed for miles through the labyrinthine tunnels.  Every one within hearing distance immediately ceased trying to kill each other and turned towards its source.

	_Looks like I haven't lost my touch,_ thought Jack.

	Seeing that he had their undivided attention, he went on.  "Ohhhh boy, you guys are funny."

	"Hey," cried one cultist, "have you been lucid all along?"

	"Lucid?  LUCID?" Jack nearly burst out laughing again, then decided not to overdo it.  "I take great umbrage at that remark.  My friend, I'll have you know that from the day of my birth up to now, not for one single solitary moment have I ever been _lucid_.  Oh by the way," he said, turning to Tim Jenkins and giving him a thumbs-up, "great sandwich, Tim!  But I'm rambling.  Where was I?  Oh yes!"

	He leapt down from the altar, immensely pleased with the cool way the ceremonial robe of the Cult of Armaggedon swished around him as he did.  "You guys are all here fighting over who gets first dibs on me and who gets to take over the world and all that crap," he said.  "But the fate of this world isn't yours to decide.  It's mine."

	The High Priest of the local chapter of the Cult of Armaggedon felt cold fear seize his heart.  He'd seen all manner of demons and hellspawn, witnessed the birth of monsters, and summoned terrors beyond the comprehension of normal men.  And yet none of them were as terrifying and ungodly as this skinny creature with the bad haircut.  

	"What... are you?" he asked tremulously.

	The creature grinned at him; the smile of a shark about to devour a tiny minnow.  "I'm Controversial Jack," he said.  "And I rule your world, baby."


* * * * * *


EPILOGUE (or, Yes This Chapter Is So Ridiculously Long And Convoluted That It Actally Needs An Epilogue)

	The members of the Illuminati and the Cult of Armaggedon had scattered and fled into the depths of the labyrinth long before agents Stone, Granite, and Rocksteady of the Secret Service came down the stairway to find the President wearing a cool black robe and playing with the swords and maces that had been left behind.

	Anne Lysias was reimbursed for her plane fare and given a suite within the White House, although she continued to give the President strange looks.

	 The President himself was quite cheerful and seemeingly unaffected by his abduction at the hands of Satan-worshippers.  The very next day, he was back in his office, hard at work, although the Chief of Security made sure he was under constant surveillance.

	"Hey Rocksteady," said Jack, looking up from his work one time.  "Does it bother you guys in any way that I was taken for the human embodiment of the forces of evil on earth?"

	"I wouldn't take it too personally, sir," Agent Rocksteady replied.  "At any given time, there are dozens of groups who believe that EVERY American president is an Antichrist."

	Jack digested this thought for a moment.  Grinning, he returned to his task of cutting the important documents on his desk into little paper ducks.


* * * * * *


	"I hear that our brethren in Washington have failed in their mission to abduct the President," reported the acolyte.

	The High Priest of the Hawaiian branch of the Cult of Armaggedon smiled.  "The fools!" he said.  "Little do they realize that we've had the REAL Antichrist in our hands all along.  Isn't that right, O Dark One?"

	In a darkened corner of the room, Imelda Marcos raised her head.  Then, as if in reply, it slowly began to rotate.....