martinsmithstories

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

Mr President and the new First Lady honeymooned at Camp David for a full week in late November; a week of unbridled passion spent away from the endless debates on televised panels, the banal gossip of the broadsheets and the snapping lenses of the insatiable paparazzi. Polls were of divided opinion, with the Progressives delighted their president had at last settled down, the Democrats undecided, and the nay-saying Republicans declaring Mr President’s marriage a sham, a debauched union between a conceited zoophiliac and an illegal alien.

But the first couple, blissfully oblivious to the opinions of the outside world, honeymooned on. Amidst the lighter moments, the horseplay, they talked about life, love and politics. Miss Juanita proved to be not just a pretty, horned face. As Mr President sat and spilled out his woes and his frustrations about his ailing administration, Miss Juanita listened attentively and then gave her advice. Mr President marvelled at his bride’s wisdom. When he asked her how she knew so much about American politics, she whinnied and grinned and said, ‘WikiLeaks.’

***

Mr President returned to the Oval Office in December, fitter, happier and more motivated than he’d ever been during his term in office. The First Lady encouraged him to embrace a vegetarian diet high in carotene and raw oats and to join her for an early morning gallop around Camp David and, upon their return from their honeymoon, the White House lawns.

With three months to the Super Tuesday primaries and eleven months to the election, Mr President returned with a plan. He promised himself to worry less about the polls and redirect his focus to implementing the First Lady’s suggestions for reform. He would only confer with Georgie on Monday mornings for an update on the latest preferred presidential ratings.

By Christmas, Mr President’s reform package had been planned, costed and was ready for legislation. Work would start on January 1. A brand new year, a brave new world.

Late on New Year’s Eve, a forlorn Mr President sat at the Resolute desk in the Oval Office and sipped hot Ovaltine from his presidential mug while Georgie read the preferred presidential ratings to him: Mr President 5%, Republicans 65%, Democrats 25%, Other 5%. On paper, his chances of re-election as president looked grim, indeed diabolical. Irretrievable. Worse than Trump, than Truman, hell, even Nixon when his fingers got trapped in that lock. In reality, re-election was possible. All he had to do was capture the indecisive Other voters, obliterate the Democrats and snag 16% from the deplorable Republicans.

And seduce the press. That’s where the First Lady came in.

In Week 1, Mr President sat at the Oval Office desk and signed an executive order to pave every road in the USA with gold bricks. Images of the First Lady—in designer overalls and a bespoke hard hat—laying the first paver adorned the front page of every newspaper in the land and led the news bulletin of every major TV network. On Monday, Georgie read out the preferred presidential ratings: Mr President 15%, Republicans 60%, Democrats 20%, Other 5%. Mr President drew comfort from the early swing in the polls.

In Week 2, Mr President signed an executive order to introduce a six-day weekend and universal wage. The press snapped the First Lady wearing a bikini, sipping a piña colada and sunning herself poolside on a banana lounge. The following Monday, Georgie read out the preferred presidential ratings: Mr President 30%, Republicans 60%, Democrats 5%, Other 5%. Mr President fist-pumped to celebrate picking up the votes of deserting Democrats.

In Week 3, Mr President signed an executive order to welcome and house every refugee in the world. The First Lady—dressed in a flowing robe and diadem, while holding a torch above her head and a tabula ansata in her hand—posed beneath the Statue of Liberty for the press. The following Monday, Georgie read out the preferred presidential ratings: Mr President 40%, Republicans 58%, Other 2%. And Mr President rejoiced at the obliteration of the Democrat vote and the dip in the Republican vote.

In Week 4, Mr President abolished the education system, and every child throughout the country became eligible for a Wikipedia chip to be implanted in their brain. The First Lady donned a surgical robe, mask and gloves, and posed holding a surgical drill. The nation’s collective IQ trebled. The following Monday, Georgie read out the preferred presidential ratings: Mr President 45%, Republicans 55%. Mr President released a presidential whoopee. Only the crusty, senile Republican nominee stood between him and a second term in office.

In Week 5, Mr President signed an executive order to limit politicians to ten sentences per day and silence on weekends. The press snapped the First Lady with gaffer tape covering her muzzle. Climate change and nightly weather reports disappeared, replaced by temperate days and pleasant nights. The following Monday, a distracted Georgie delayed reporting the poll figures until the last item on the agenda: Mr President 49.6%, Republicans 49.4%, Progressives (Other) 1%. In disbelief at his good fortune, Mr President grabbed the report from Georgie’s hand and read and then re-read the figures. He was in front! And going to get a second term! He jogged a presidential victory lap around the Oval Office, before pulling up and pondering the Progressives (Other) vote.

‘Who’s this Progressives (Other), Georgie?’ he said.

‘I’m not sure, Mr President,’ Georgie said as her eyes watered and her gaze avoided Mr President’s inquiring eye. ‘I’ll follow it up, Mr President.’

In Week 6, Mr President issued a press release that stated God did not exist, and the First Lady—wearing an ecclesiastical white robe and flashing a pearly grin—posed before the press, holding aloft an affidavit she witnessed God sign, declaring that He, The Almighty, did in fact not exist, and even if He did, He was far too busy with His own problems to worry about those of a mere eight billion-odd paddleless constituents stuck on a little blue planet up some shitty constellation. Religious wars ceased overnight, and peace and harmony reigned. The following Monday, Mr President found Georgie’s poll report buried in his in-tray on the Oval Office desk. She’d scrawled Sorry, bit snowed under today. G. below the poll results: Mr President 60%, Republicans 38%, Progressives (Other) 2%. Mr President, though pleased he was pulling away from the other contender, tutted in annoyance at Georgie having not identified the Progressives (Other) rival.

In Week 7, Mr President abolished birth certificates and had the nation spray-tanned Trump orange. The First Lady posed before a tanning salon in a white robe, white eye mask, white slippers and her mane tied up in a white towel. Age and race discrimination disappeared overnight. The following Monday, Georgie called in sick, and a pimply, nervous intern read out the poll numbers to Mr President: Mr President 70%, Republicans 5%, Progressives (Other) 25%. Mr President paced the Oval Office, disturbed by the emerging Progressives (Other) vote. Who were they? And where was Georgie?

In Week 8, Mr President signed an executive order for antiandrogens and antidepressants to be pumped into the nation’s water supply. The First Lady—in overalls, safety glasses and hard hat—turned the lever at Hoover Dam. The nation’s libido died overnight. Sex crimes disappeared. Population growth reversed. And the people walked about with happy yet spaced-out grins on their faces. An envelope lay on the Resolute desk on Monday. Mr President ripped open the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. The first sheet contained the preferred presidential ratings: Mr President 49%, Progressives (Other) 51%. Mr President released a presidential profanity, then screwed the sheet into a ball and tossed it at the presidential recycling box. He missed. He picked up the second sheet. He read it and banged his fist hard on the desk. It was a resignation letter. Signed by Georgie Gallop.

***

On the night before the Super Tuesday Primaries vote, Mr President lay on the presidential-size presidential bed, wide awake in darkness, not because of his insomnia but his excitement. Tomorrow, he would take an unassailable lead as the Progressives’ presidential nominee for the election in November. And with the Republican and Democrat campaigns in disarray due to his ambitious, poll-pleasing reform program, another four years as Mr President was all but guaranteed. The only barrier standing between him and destiny was the minor matter of ridding himself and his ambitions of a bothersome rival for the Progressive nomination. But he’d arranged for that problem to be eliminated that night.

Mr President sensed the First Lady’s stillness next to him in the presidential bed, and a snore and whinny confirmed she was in a deep sleep.

Still Mr President lay awake in the silent, still room and fantasised about what was about to take place.

A latch clicked, and the door to the presidential suite creaked open. A body in black crept towards the bed. Mr President could hear the intruder’s breathing: slow and measured.

Mr President shallowed his breathing and closed his eyes. His heart thumped against his chest wall, and his palms turned clammy with anticipatory sweat.

The intruder stood at the foot of the bed, raised a black arm and pointed a black gun. Two muffled shots—phut! phut!—hit their target, and the assassin in black fled. And in the black of night, a quick, clean kill eliminated a rival.

***

A shocked nation mourned. Delayed presidential primaries followed, and solemn candidates accepted nominations. The media blamed the Democrats. The Democrats blamed the Republicans. The Republicans blamed the media.

Amidst all the political chaos, the preferred presidential polls for the Progressives bounced; indeed, their ratings skyrocketed into the nineties.

Election Day arrived. And the people of the United States of America elected a president.

Inauguration Day followed. And the president-elect, surrounded by obsequious dignitaries, stood beneath a Capitol dome white against a clear, blue winter sky, above an adoring, flag-waving crowd filling a national mall and before an enthralled global audience witnessing a historic day.

The president-elect stood in the frosty January air and before a Chief Justice and said, ‘I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.’

The dignitaries clapped. The crowd roared. A gunned salute boomed, and four ruffles and flourishes fanfared a president’s anthem.

‘Congratulations, Madam President,’ the Chief Justice said.

And with a golden-haired, power-suited Vice-President flanking her on one side and an orange-haired, black-suited Director of the U.S. Secret Service on the other side, Madam President turned and faced the crowded mall and shook her pink mane and whinnied.