“Hell’s bells, boy — if they think they can outrun this storm, they’re dumber than a busted doorknob!”

With that single explosion of words, Senator John Neely Kennedy slammed his palm onto the steel conference table so violently that the lights overhead flickered. The sound echoed across the bunker like a gunshot, snapping every aide, analyst, and adviser into rigid silence.

The war room was a concrete fortress buried beneath the state capitol — a place used only when disaster, political or literal, struck with brutal force. Maps glowed across the walls, splashed in red, yellow, and pulsing warning zones. Outside, a thunderstorm raged, hammering rain against the reinforced windows. But the storm inside the bunker was far worse.

Kennedy leaned over the sprawling digital map, his shadow stretching across Louisiana like a gathering tempest.

“Senator,” one young aide began cautiously, “if we escalate the response tonight, the press is going to—”

Kennedy cut him off with a bark:

“The press? Son, the press couldn’t find their own rear end with both hands, a GPS, and a trail of neon arrows. This ain’t a time to worry about how delicate their feelings are. We’re here because someone let this entire political bonfire get so far out of hand it’s lighting up half the South!”

He pointed to a flashing red district on the map.

“This county right here is hotter than a jalapeño in July — and for what? Because some pencil-necked operative decided it was a great idea to poke every hornet’s nest between here and Baton Rouge. Well congratulations, they woke the hornets, and now the hornets are angry.”

A crack of thunder rattled the ceiling. Even nature seemed to underline his point.

Another aide stepped forward. “Sir, the governor is requesting immediate federal backup. They said the situation on the ground is deteriorating faster than expected.”

Kennedy turned slowly.

Deliberately.

The room held its breath.

“Of course they want backup,” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s what happens when you jump into a swamp, smack a sleeping alligator on the nose, and expect it to say ‘thank you kindly.’”

He rubbed his forehead, straightened his tie, and exhaled sharply. The tension in the room loosened only a fraction — like the air caught between lightning flashes.

“All right,” he said at last, voice steadying into command mode. “Enough jaw-flappin’. Time to put this runaway circus back under the tent.”

He strode to the intercom panel and hit the switch.

“This is Senator Kennedy. Mobilize every available asset. Get the National Guard on standby. I want rapid-response teams ready to move before sunrise. We’re not letting this devolve into a full-fledged goat rodeo.”

“Orders received, Senator,” came the crackling reply.

Kennedy clicked off the intercom and turned back to the room with a glare sharp enough to cut sheet metal.

“And for heaven’s sake, somebody bring me a file on who started this mess. Because once the dust settles, I’m gonna have a little conversation with them. A very colorful, very memorable conversation.”

One analyst swallowed hard. Another scribbled a note with trembling hands. No one in the bunker doubted that the senator meant every word.

The storm outside intensified, wind howling like an animal against the walls. It felt like the entire building was grinding its teeth.

Kennedy grabbed his coat in one practiced motion and slung it over his shoulder. As he headed toward the bunker door, his boots thudded like warning drums. He paused at the threshold, lightning illuminating his silhouette.

Without turning around, he growled:

“Strap in, folks. It’s gonna be a long night — and I’m fixin’ to raise more hell than this weather.”

He stepped through the doorway.

The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him, shaking the entire room like the kickoff to a war.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then, as if released from a spell, the staff scrambled into action. Phones lit up. Maps shifted. Orders echoed through headsets. The storm inside the bunker roared back to life — this time directed with purpose.

A senior adviser whispered to another, “When Kennedy walks out like that… it means he’s already three moves ahead of everyone else.”

And in truth, he was.

Outside, the senator marched through the rain-pounded courtyard, heading straight for the operational command vehicles assembling under the glow of floodlights. Helicopter rotors thundered in the distance. Sirens wailed from far-off streets. Something big — something historic — was unfolding across the southern states.

Kennedy climbed into the lead vehicle without hesitation.

“Let’s roll,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “If there’s a storm coming, I’m meeting it head-on.”

The engine roared.

The convoy surged forward.

And the night swallowed them whole.