War.

War, war, war. The word was everywhere. In the newspapers. On the radios. On every TV news programme. In everyone’s mouth. In every dog’s bark.

The war between Europe and the United States was inevitable now. The dispute over who would annex the little island formerly called United Kingdom had not been settled despite the ceaseless diplomatic talks.

When diplomats are defeated, weapons are bound to speak up.

In the Oval office, Ronald Crump, the acting president, had summoned the top military brass for a crisis meeting.

“What have we got ready to fire?” he asked the army chief of staff.

“About five hundred intercontinental rockets ready, sir. We’ve loaded them with carefully chosen rotten hamburgers, all picked up from Mac Donald’s’ dumpers. If that’s not effective, we can turn to Burger King for more icky and repulsive payloads, sir. Surely after that Europe will capitulate.”

“What about the rumours Europeans have loaded their missiles with tons of oozy stinking cheese and offal?” the president asked. He belched when he uttered the words.

“We couldn’t confirm that, but it’s very likely they did. Europeans have a knack for cooking junk food, and —”

At that very moment, Rick Pompei, the volcanic CIA chief, crashed in.

“Pompei! Always late,” the president growled. “What the fuck were you doing?”

“Sir,” Pompei panted, “I think we’ve got a way to keep those missiles off the American ground.”

“It’d better be good, Pompei, or I guarantee you’ll end up your career in an ash tray!”

“Sir, Europeans are prime cooks, but with computers they’re mooks —”

“Stop speaking in rhymes,” the president  snapped.

“Sorry sir. We found a way to hack into their naval weapon command system, and we can reprogram the targets of the missiles they loaded into their ships. Look.” He snatched a laptop out of his case, turned it on and keyed a few commands in.

“Here. See? All those locations are within US territory. Now —” He typed some more orders. “Bearing, distance. Okay. It’s all changed. Brussels, Strasbourg, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Madrid. All awaiting your order to be engulfed into a cheesy apocalypse, if I may speak so, sir. The Europeans hoisted by their own stinking petards. How ironic.”

A bright smile erupted on the president’s face. He banged his fist on the table. “Pompei you’re a genius! Go ahead. Shove that shit up their asses.”

Pompei hit the return key of his laptop keyboard. “Committed, sir.”

“Now let’s phone that Ronald Tusk of them to inform him there’s an elephant in the room,” the president said, and burst into a fit of laughter. “I can’t believe this moron bears the same name as me,” he added, in stitches.
[hr]
All the European population was told to flee to the subterranean shelters or, for those who would not be able to make it, shut themselves up home, bar the doors and close all windows. The reek could well be unbearable.

The TV channels all relayed the course of the hijacked missiles by the second. Soon the swarm of tiny flashing points approached the coastline from the Atlantic, each one firmly on course to their reprogrammed target.

Ominous seconds elapsed.

Then something unexpected happened: the missiles flew by.

They overflew Brussels, Paris, Berlin. As if they did not care. As if they refused to turn on their creators. 

Everyone in Europe stared at their TV screen, staggered. The minutes went by and the missiles were still high up in the sky. When they disappeared from the radar screens, all over Europe the crowd burst in cheers.

It was inexplicable. It was a miracle. The most religious fell to their knees and thanked God for His mercy.
[hr]
Ronald Crump was incensed. He felt loopy. Most of the missiles had finally crashed over Russia, which had responded in kind, launching rockets brimming with borscht and vodka over all US major cities. And despite all the countermeasures, the foul stench of hooch had seeped into the White House, down to the Oval office itself.

“What happened? WHAT GODDAM HAPPENED, YOU FUCKING RETARD?!” the president yelled at the top of his lungs.

“I’m… sorry, sir,” Pompei stuttered, looking down at his brogues. “It was our mistake.”

“What was it, Pompei? I want to know before I crush your bones and throw your innards to the dogs.”

“We… we simply forgot to convert our distances into kilometres, sir. We used miles instead. We overlooked their weapons use the metric system.”

Ronald Crump face-palmed.