Herb Goddell, a ninety-one year old veteran of World War II, sits on charred bench and surveys the damage done to the Memorial in Washington, D.C., where just two days ago a massive battle took place between American and Russian troops that kicked off what many are calling World War III.

“Damn shame,” Herb mutters. “Damn shame.”

The memorial looks terrible. Only twenty-two of the original fifty-six pillars are left standing. A blackened street-sweeper rattles as it collects chunks of concrete.  The bloodied driver takes a swig from a bottle in a paper bag.

Herb shifts his weight. “I came here every day for the past twenty years to honor my fallen brothers. The one day I stay in to take care of my sick dog, the goddamn Soviets invade and blow it to pieces.”

Herb looks behind him. A team of shirtless volunteers fish the bodies of Russian soldiers out of the pool while a pack of shell-shocked girl scouts watch with limp posies in their hands.

“We worked damn hard to get this memorial here. Took nearly twenty goddamn years and a lot of sweat and tears and for what? People aren’t going to come here to pay respect to us. Nope, they’re gonna come to see where a bunch of goddamn Russians got blown to smithereens by a helicopter.”

Herb rises and chases away a teenager who was scribbling over the inscription by the reflecting pool with a red Sharpie.

Beneath “…we honor those twentieth century Americans who took up the struggle during the second world war…” he has written “LIGHT UP THOSE RUSSIAN FUCKS!!!”

Herb sighs. “You don’t forget about World War II just because World War III happens to have bigger explosions and neat-o plot turns,” he proposes. He spits on his palm and tries to wipe away the graffiti. “We killed Hitler, goddammit.”

“This is like if 9-11 had happened in Gettysburg. People get confused. History washes over history. What’re you going to tell your kids when you take them here? You going to tell them about World War II, which took place overseas? Or about the day when Russia detonated a missile over the capitol? What a waste.”

Herb stays for a few more hours, looking demoralized. As the sun sets, the bitter old man takes the walk back to his one-bedroom apartment that he takes every day.

He walks past the bas relief of soon-to-be servicemen getting physical exams, taking the oath, and being issued military gear on the walls. He shakes his head at the hastily drawn etching of American commandos grenade-spamming Russian troops.

He walks past the Lincoln Memorial, where a handful of workers work tirelessly to remove a Stalin mustaches from the man who saved the Union. A man is out front selling, “WHERE WERE YOU WHEN RUSSIA ATTACKED?” t-shirts.

He stops in front of the White House. The lights are off on the upper floors, meaning that the President is probably still hiding in his underground bunker. Herb stands at the gates and watches a worker paint a sign that begins, “On this day…”