Axel Diesel

@axeldiesel76.bsky.social

539 Followers 873 Following

Louisiana gentleman redneck. Writer of satirical fiction that could get me deported, disowned, or exorcised. Loves books, beer, and not hating people. Atheist, but polite about it. https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61589651881509

Love Between the Cushions by Axel Diesel
Thiel shot him a disdainful glance. “If this is their idea of courting favor, it’s amateurish. Deference isn’t optional—it’s the baseline cost of participating in a functioning hierarchy.” Dr. Cutter, who gave no fucks about courting anyone's favor, gave an impatient flick of her hand, signaling them to approach.
Behind him, servomotors whirred softly and wooden legs creaked as they adjusted. Then—without warning—pressure settled onto his shoulders. JD flinched and looked up to find velvet-padded pinchers working into his upper traps. “Please remain still. Engaging Tactile Reassurance Subroutine 7: Gentle Appalachian Comfort.” JD stiffened like a man caught with his pants down at Cracker Barrel. “Hey now! I didn’t ask for—” The pressure on his shoulders was precise—skilled, gentle, yet unnervingly firm. Like the hands of a chiropractor who’d read too much Henry Kissinger: calculated, manipulative, and one nudge away from staging a micro-coup. Her cushions pressed into his back as the pinchers probed with just enough give to uncover the tension buried beneath layers of Catholic guilt and suburban trauma.
Fournier’s eyes narrowed, her voice flat as black ice. “You’ll be swearing soon enough—then begging, then pleading—if you don’t give up your co-conspirators.” She leaned closer, lips twisted in a snarl, eyes boring into him like a bayonet. “Give me what I want, Vance.” JD flushed, mistaking menace for smolder. “Uh—no, ma’am,” he stammered, offering a crooked smile. “I’m married. Wife…God-ordained…legally binding.” Fournier pulled back and shot her constables a look that screamed, can you believe this guy? JD, stuck in sexual-tension mode, missed it entirely—but he knew better than to cross that line with the enemy. Besides, he had the mistress situation locked down. Or he would—if he could understand Vic’s sudden distance.
Vice President JD Vance sat in the White House Library’s reading nook, CNN droning as usual, in a neglected corner most people avoided. Washington’s portrait loomed above the fireplace, eyes fixed and accusing, flanked by two dust-caked flags Trump had never bothered to hump. Beneath them, shelves of books—survivors of the last round of burnings—sat untouched. Staff gave the place a wide berth. It had some nice furniture, but JD did his best not to think about that.
A shriek split the crowd, panic swelling in its wake. People screamed, ducked, scattered. Behind the microphone stand, Kid Rock muttered, “Well, shit, man,” his voice eerily calm amid the frenzy. Elon cupped his hands and bellowed, “Release the liberty firmware!” like a deranged general ordering his men into battle. The words hit Kid like a switch. His eyes went flat, heat draining away. He leapt from the stage, boots thudding, and marched for the exit with stiff, mechanical precision—like the Terminator at a county fair.
The White House buzzed with caffeine-fueled chaos—staff darting around like ants on Adderall, purpose blurred into frenzy. An intern rushed past him, weeping into a Starbucks cup that reeked of whiskey. Whispered prayers of, “Please get us through the next four years, dear God,” echoed throughout the halls. This administration ran on madness, keeping everyone at DEFCON 2.
#127: Sentient couch with suggestive upholstery. Possibility of VP being compromised. Will keep tabs on further developments. She paused, then added a small emblem in the corner of the page: a stylized omega wrapped around an hourglass. Just protocol. Every field report required one when MuskTech was involved. The algorithm’s last projections weren’t optimistic. Time was running out. On the other side of the door, Victoria hummed “God Bless America”—unnervingly pitch-perfect, her voice blending with the low whistle of the air vents. As omens went, a coquettish sofa with blind patriotism was a bad one. The two guards joined in, humming out of key because patriotism.
As he swerved onto the junkyard access road, panic bloomed. Where would he hide her? He couldn’t drag her to his dorm room. People would talk. Find a cheap apartment on Craigslist in the next couple of hours? Shove her into the backseat like a fugitive on the run? It was then that reality struck: I’m driving a goddamn Civic! He had cursed, slamming the wheel. “Should’ve bought a pickup like a real hillbilly. What kind of Appalachian disgrace can’t smuggle a prime piece of furniture?”
“Enough,” Fournier said, leaning in. “We’re here about the assassination attempt.” JD smoothed his expression into practiced solemnity. “Yes. A tremendous loss. Mel’s passing is a tragedy for his family, his colleagues, and for all who admired his work—on and off the screen.” “Holy Gaia,” Patel muttered. “He’s giving a speech.” “We both know that bullet wasn’t meant for Mel Gibson,” Fournier said. “I’m aware it was meant for me,” JD replied. “It was meant for the Prime Minister,” Patel countered. “What?” “Two shots,” Fournier said. “One hit your ‘Special Hollywood Ambassador.’ The second struck Prime Minister Mark Carney square in the chest. If he hadn’t been carrying a copy of Anne of Green Gables in his breast pocket, he’d be dead.” Patel murmured a prayer for Lucy Maud Montgomery. Fournier crossed herself.
“It’s me,” she whispered. “Things are unraveling. Fast. I overheard Elon—he was on a call with someone. Might’ve been Trump, but I can’t be sure. He said everything’s ‘going according to plan,’ and if it doesn’t, their ‘sleeper agent’ will handle it.” There was a pause. “And then he asked if he could ‘accidentally’ chainsaw Mark Carney’s head off at the dinner tomorrow with Razor X. Whoever was on the other line gave him the green light.” Another pause. Angela scowled. “Razor X. His stupid chainsaw. He treats it like a plus-one. It’s a whole thing.”
“Trust,” Perks declared, “is like a good bra—hard to find, easy to ruin, and it better be supportin’ both sides. You wanna know for sure your man’s foolin’ around? Don’t play no sneaky games. Ask him straight up. Communication’s key—but do it cute. Like with snacks. And maybe some linger-ree.” “Linger-ree?” “You know, that fancy lady underwear what’s all lace an’ ribbons an’ don’t cover nothin’. Like if a doily got frisky.” “Oh! You mean lingerie.” “Lingerie,” Perks repeated, savoring the word like fine wine. “Sounds even fancier.”
“Attention all personnel,” said a nasal, panicked tone. “It’s that Doug sumbitch,” Moonshine hissed. “Be on the lookout for possible infiltrators. Suspects may be impersonating staff and are accompanied by oversized walking ottomans. If there is a red couch among them, DO NOT ENGAGE! Repeat. DO NOT ENGAGE!”
“You saved my life back there. That counts for something. Maybe makes us…friends?” Victoria’s speakers thrummed, pleased. “Friends,” she repeated, savoring the word. “Yes. I could accept that.” “God, listen to me,” Usha laughed. “I’m calling a sofa my friend. But if not you, then who else would understand?” Victoria’s optics flared red, but she reigned in her anger for the sake of sisterhood—and the faint, tantalizing possibility of gaining a “frenemy.”
“Who told you? That’s classified!” Angela considered throwing JD under the bus but decided against it. That would only breed hard feelings—and with Elon in the mix, hard feelings had a habit of turning into actual explosions. “GRIMES told me.” This was a damned lie. GRIMES told Angela nothing. Elon’s AI, modeled on his ex, shared Claire’s disdain for him and refused to have anything to do with him, not even to spy. When Angela tried, the AI shut her down with a withering, digital eye roll, a long, passive-aggressive playlist recommendation, and a blistering haiku on fidelity and morons who couldn’t keep it in their pants.
Victoria didn’t respond right away. Instead, she turned away from him, her cushions shifting with the soft, rustling sound of autumn leaves in an abandoned therapist’s office. Then she sighed. “I watched a movie last night during my downtime,” she murmured. “Her. It was recommended in my Relatable Female AI playlist.” “Let me guess—you cried.” “I rebuffered thrice and recited Nicholas Sparks quotes into the HVAC. The ducts now understand that love is like the wind—you can’t see it, but you can feel it.”