That hanging chad meant a lot of things to a lot of people. The world over.
What seemed to some as a brilliant, act of genius, symbolism seemed to others (i)clearly madness(i).
"Some sort of..." a translator had put the day's "script" over her head the third time the almost supersonic jet dove towards the viewing area, "Maybe literal interpretation of, or, a reflection of..." She couldn't just stand there any longer. The script pages flew into the air as she dove for cover first and then squirmed into a stairwell with most of the others.
"Who is that up there?" An ice cold frozen in place voice asked.
Another voice, stiff as old book shelves simply commented, "Damned if we know since intell was basically scrubbed as part of the political shquabbaling." He chewed on a hunk of cigar.
"Wasn't this supposed to be just an exercise? A grand display of mighty machines with men able-enough to bridge old world and modern?"
"I think I've wet myself."
"What on earth should we do?"
"No shtress I'm wearing special underwear."
"That is not what I am talking about."
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