Oil be back

That the hurricane had been created by the Texan oilmen there could be no doubt. What else would they do with their millions, their billions, than build a weather machine? It had been so obvious that, for once, even the conspiracy theorists had not bothered to raise a fuss. The roof of the underground bunker just outside Galveston had creaked open, they'd pointed the nozzle of the machine at the Persian Gulf, and in the study of his ranch, to a chorus of encouraging mooing from his cattle, a silver-haired billionaire had thrown the big red lever.

Of course, the Texan oilmen hadn't comprehended the power that the Gulf Stream wielded in its warm hands, that its breath would or even could turn their baby upon themselves.

That was close, an oilman said at their next meeting. I didn't like jazz anyway, said another. We were lucky, said a third. No, them Arabs was lucky, said the silver-haired billionaire. We'll fire it up again, he said, we just have to wait for the wind to change.

Inspired by Sharon Hurlbut's post over at Field Notes.