It was the same bar, the same faded posters, the same peeling wallpaper as it had been the past five years. As it would be for the next fifty.
President Obama sighed. If he was so full of power and influence, why did everything feel so hollow?
He turned to the barkeeper, a tired, graying man coming up on his sixties.
"The usual."
The barkeeper's reaction was barely perceptible; he had hardly a nod left to spare, even for the commander-in-chief. That was what working at the same dead-end shithole his entire life had left him with. A crippling addiction, a bad back, and thirty thousand dollars of debt.
But the President had problems of his own tonight. Without a word of thanks, he downed his whisky and tapped for another. Michelle was out for the night, on a important PR campaign.
Good. He didn't want her to see him like this.
Suddenly, Obama turned to the barkeeper.
"You see the news?"
"Nah, can't stomach it. A buncha murders..." The barkeeper chuckled in anticipation of his own joke.
"...And not a single one is me."
The President looked up in concern. He had never really noticed how deep the bags under the man's eyes were, how tired he looked when he was standing, like he was already sinking into the grave. But there was nothing to say.
"Well, Putin – you know, president of Russia – he's been causing trouble in the Ukraine. Seems –"
"Yeehhhh, that kinda bullshit's your job," the barkeeper interjected. "And if there's one thing you've gotta take from me, it's to never mix work and drinking."
"Well, to be honest, the whole thing's been awful for me."
"No shit."
The President pursed his lips. "No, not like that. What I mean is, this is making daily news, and... It doesn't change a damn thing!"
"The Ukranians would disagree."
"Yeah," Obama emptied his third glass. "Yeah, well. I just wish something would happen for once, you know?"
In every culture, there exists a desperate faith in the power of a heartfelt wish. Maybe it's just grasping for hope in a world with none to go around, or maybe from the depths of the President's despair blossomed a single spark of power. Maybe a passing drone was as good as a shooting star, and the universe lent an ear to the leader of the free world. Or maybe coincidences are just coincidences... Regardless, as a streak of lightning burnt away the night for a moment, Obama felt somehow that nothing would ever be the same.
"In tonight's news, President Vladimir Putin has announced –" The announcer's voice grew distorted, as a wave of static crashed upon every screen.
"Hey, where'd the fuckin' game go?," shouted a voice from the back.
"The game..." A cloaked figure emerged from the shadow, darker than a silhouette in a fine silk suit.
"...Has just begun."
Willard Mitt Romney smirked.
"You!", gasped Obama.
"Ah, yes," Romney announced to the bar. "Me. Did you think I was dead, Barack? Gone?"
"Well," Obama began.
"Wrong!" Romney screamed. "Wrong, wrong, wrong!"
"Ahem." The former presidential candidate straightened his tie. "Are you familiar with the King of Games, Barack? Yu-Gi-Oh."
Laughing at the President's shocked expression, Romney continued.
"Tonight, we'll be playing a... winner-takes-all match."
He handed Obama a thin stack of cards, slapped him on the back with mock cordiality, and broke into laughter again.
"Of course, as that's only half a deck, I'm afraid you're going to find victory quite... elusive."
"You bastard!"
"Face it, Barack. First I'm going to defeat you in Yu-Gi-Oh, then I'm going to take your office. You'll lose... everything."
Romney glanced up at the still-static television, as if checking a broadcast.
"Ah! And then, I can sort out Putin... Like you never could. Prepare to d–ehhhhhh?"
"SORT OUT PUTIN?", a voice boomed from the corner of the bar.
"NOBODY DEFEATS VLADIMIR PUTIN!"
By some cosmic confluence, Russian President Vladimir Putin stood framed in moonlight, holding up half a deck of trading cards.
"AMERICAN PRESIDENT,", Putin roared. "WE WILL COMBINE TO DESTROY THIS MAN!"
Obama pondered the alliance for a moment, then nodded grimly.
"The enemy of my enemy," the President recited. "Know who said that, Mitt?"
"Of co–"
"My left hook, bitch!"
Clutching his jaw, Romney picked himself off of the floor, dusted off his luxury jacket, and eyed Putin warily.
"F-fine," he stammered, "I'll take you both on!"
Romney appeared to gather himself. "If you win, you'll prove the strength of your bond, and I'll return to obscurity. But if you lose..."
He smirked.
"I'll send you both to the Shadow Realm!"
Obama and Putin faced each other and nodded.
"It's time to duel!" the barkeeper shouted, caught up in the moment. He swept the glasses from the counter in a shower of glistening shards, throwing down a playmat.
"Each player begins with 8000 LP! Mr. Romney, as the challenger, you may play first!"
"BULLSHIT", yelled Putin. "PUTIN ALWAYS GOES FIRST!"
But Romney had already begun his turn.
"I set a card in face down defense position," the ex-candidate growled, "and end my turn!"
"OLD AMERICAN MAN IS FUCKING SCRUB!", Putin commented. "NO TRAP OR SPELL! I PLAY MIGHTY HARPY BROTHER AND DECLARE ATTACK ON PUNY MONSTER COWARD"
"Putin, wait," Obama said. "Sometimes a trap... isn't a Trap."
Romney's face split into a predatory grin.
"Hahahahahaha...hahahaha...haha...ha..." he began, "Ha. You've attacked my..."
He flipped up a Giant Soldier of Stone.
"Giant Soldier of Stone, with 2000 defense! Score, Romney! Romney wins! Romney! I win!"
"Not yet," cut in the barkeeper. "They lose 200 life points."
"END TURN! PASS TO WEAK SCRUB MAN!"
"Putin, wait!" Obama was holding a Waboku. But it was already too late.
"I draw!". Romney drew. "I set!". Romney set. "I end!". Romney ended.
Putin snatched the first card from his half of the deck.
"THERE ARE RUSSIAN SPEAKERS IN YOUR ASS, FAILED PRESIDENT MAN. I MUST OWN IT FOR PROTECTION OF THEM. HARPY BROTHER, STRIKE!"
"It's called Sky Scout now," corrected the barkeeper. Not a single person cared.
"WHY DOES YOUR MONSTER HIDE ITS FACE? BECAUSE IT IS EMBARRASSED!"
Putin attacked Romney's face-down monster again.
"Struck down by the fist of justice!", Romney taunted, revealing a Man-Eater Bug. "Destroy your monster!"
Quietly, he also sent Man-Eater Bug to the Graveyard.
"EMBARRASSED... BECAUSE YOU OWN IT. THAT IS THE REASON." Putin continued, but his heart wasn't really in it.
"YOUR TURN."
"Putin, please!" Obama pleaded. "We didn't even summon a creature this turn!"
Romney drew again, and summoned Blazing Inpachi in face-up attack position.
"So..." he folded his hands in glee. "It's come to this, eh? I'll switch Giant Soldier to attack position, and attack you directly with both... for 3150 life points! Eh, your turn."
"Team Not-Romney, you are at 4650 life points," announced the barkeeper.
Obama glared at Putin, but was surprised to see the man's face buried in his hands.
"AMERICAN PRESIDENT... I FEEL... WEAK."
The President nodded.
"Sometimes, Vladimir, we all do... It's okay."
"OKAY?"
"That's the meaning of being human. I think I've realized that today; sometimes it's enough just to find the strength to fight... for a new day."
Obama turned to Romney.
"Mitt... If you stop this now, you can walk away. Things will go back to how they were."
"How they were?" Romney began to cackle maniacally. "How they were? I'm nothing, less than a ghost – an ex-candidate!No... I'll die before I return to that."
"AMERICAN PRESIDENT, WHY SUDDEN SHIFT IN ATTITUDE"
President Obama motioned to Putin, drawing him in and showing him his hand. The touch lingered just moments too long for its purpose, like the beautiful promise of spring wafting through the chill winter air. Putin felt... alive.
"We can do this, Vladimir."
"TOGETHER?"
"Together."
Hands atop each other's, the two leaders drew a card.
"We play a face-down card..."
"AND END OUR TURN!"
The room collectively gasped. Was this defeat the premature end of a wonderful blossoming?
The next turn seemed to happen with agonizing sluggishness, as if a flower had been cut at the peak of its bloom and was tumbling to the ground, petals bouncing vibrantly in the sun they had never had a chance to see.
Romney drew a card, and attacked before summoning, seemingly blinded by his arrogance.
"NOT TODAY, AMERICAN AGGRESSOR"
"He's right, Romney." Obama turned to Putin. "Should we reveal our trap card?"
The two became lost in each other's eyes, drowning in the dream they both knew must soon end.
"Ahem," said the barkeeper.
"WABOKU", Putin declared triumphantly.
"Means fuck you in Japanese," Obama appended. "Err, not really. I'll consult my translator. But fuck you."
"Is that the best you've got?" Romney laughed. "Enjoy your last moments, gentlemen... I summon... Blue-Eyes White Dragon!"
"A powerful engine of destruction," the barkeeper breathed in awe.
"But that's not all!" Romney was taunting now, flaunting to the room like he was giving a campaign speech. "I equip two Axes of Despair, raising its attack to 5000!"
"Two... Axes of Despair?", a mother from the crowd asked in shock.
A loud crash pierced the stunned silence. A man in a Yankees cap had dropped his mug and was simply staring in abject horror as Pabst pooled against his sneakers unheeded.
A baby began crying, mourning the death of innocence. Simple love would not be enough to save the Presidents. At least the two would die together, bound eternally by bittersweet release.
"It all comes down to this," Obama whispered to Putin.
"If this doesn't work, I want you to know –"
"SHH, IS NO NEED."
The leaders closed their eyes in silent prayer and drew their last card.
"No way... They're invoking the heart of the cards!" gasped the barkeeper. "To think, I would live to see such a thing..."
Romney was forcing his smile now, grinning so hard his teeth grated together.
"Well? Barack? Vladimir? Gentlemen? What did you draw?"
Obama and Putin opened their eyes at once, nodded, and flipped the card. Wordlessly, they revealed their hand: all the parts of Exodia, a sole witness to the presence of justice somewhere deep inside the cold void of the universe. Far away, vibrant spring broke upon the colorless world–it must have been those melting icicles that shed glistening droplets on the scuffed counter of the bar.
"I-Impossible," gasped Romney. "Impossible!"
"You lose again, Mitt."
"EXODIA –"
"Obliterate!"
Howling shadows rose up to embrace Romney, dragging him through the floorboards to a place worse than hell... Massachusetts.
"Challenger Mitt Romney... has been defeated!" screamed the barkeeper. He was so ecstatic that he fell upon the glass-sprinkled floor, rolling orgasmically in the rosy slush as his tired heart gave out. They say his soul ascended visibly right there, entering the constellations.
Obama turned to Putin, swept in victory... but Putin was gone. The dream had ended and the cards were just cards, sheets of cardboard too thin and too frail to hold the magnificent spirits of those monsters which had risen to battle, if only in the minds and hearts of those who witnessed the duel. Afterward, the Russian President would claim to have no memory of the event... but he knew. Obama knew he knew. He saw it in the glint in his eyes, in the set of his strong arms.
And sometimes, knowing has to be enough.