.. of times, it was the end of times, but not everyone on Kauai grieved. The best and the brightest had found ways to survive, while the locals scattered about in grass shacks eating local style, wild chicken and papaya, kept to themselves, very standoffish and armed to the teeth.
The elites and born agains not yet raptured made house in the finest estates and grandest hotels. While the sites were luxurious, food was often a problem. At the Hyatt Regency, where the elite of the elite took up residence, they had finally gone through the larder, the pantry and two cooks, who, skewered and served long pig style, proved to be not too tasty since no one in the group knew much about cooking such exotic cuisine. Most of the diners ended up with belly aches which didn’t help. Hunting jaunts off into local territory usually ended badly; when local met elite there was usually hell on earth to pay. On the scoreboard it was Locals 10, Elites
Rage, anger, outright fisticuffs and bibles tossed at twenty paces were the order of the day. After all, they had the tanks, and the Hummers, and all the super-duper warlike stuff which of course did not respond without gasoline which was also in short supply. Further they were running out of ammunition and few of them knew how to do the bow and arrow thing.
All the animals, horses, dogs and cats and a few rats and every chicken within their limited hunting grounds had been snarfed and these gastronomical horrors had not been too tasty, either. What made it worse is no one knew how to properly disguise the source. “Please pass some more Fido. She was such a dear and so goddam tough…” were not uncommon comments.
Most of the more militant had long disappeared either into the jaws of death or the jungles with the bunnys, leaving only one brave high ranker and his faithful killer dog, Rudolph, who he guarded like a hawk from the pooch poachers.
When it finally came down to the last bread crumb and the last boiled leather bound bible, the end was near. High in his rather rumpled Presidential Suite, this fellow and his faithful dog munched the last crumbs and planned the last orgy. Meanwhile in the garden the unraptured born agains, those who had survived the kitchen ovens, prepared for the end.
Mostly rickety ladies too old, tough and cranky to stew, dolled up in the last of their finery. Some of them still had a few pink Neiman Marcos teddies in their drawers. Raiding a long forgotten store of kiddy drinks, they readied themselves for the send off. They’d found a stash of rat bait and Brandy with which they laced the nasty brew and Bibles in hand formed a circle in the dried up swan lake below the main lobby. When they’d glugged the last glug and raptured off, they flew through the roof of the Presidential suite without a backward glance.
The man and his dog who’d finished off the date, narrowingly eyed each other. “Here’s to the Last supper,” the man burped shooting Rudolph between the eyes.
bettejo 
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