The President was not to be disturbed. He was getting his back rubbed. He waited all day for this. The press was at the back of the plane. He didn’t talk to them. They thought he would. He hated them. They were Un-American. They asked questions he couldn’t possibly answer.
He thought of his ranch. His cows. His herd. His horses. He liked horses. Horses were good.
Lucy could get any knot out. She was good that way. Pretty enough, too.
If he were a Democrat, he’d sleep with her. He wished he was a Democrat. Kennedy and Clinton had all the fun. He had to be a Marine’s funeral tomorrow in Salt Lake City, though. He would feel bad. And it would be inappropriate. She had nice breasts; they were large and firm.
Some bastard knocked on his door.
“Tell them I’m busy, Lucy.” “The President’s busy,” said Lucy.
“This is important,” the man said. He was known as the Architect.
“I’m naked here, so just wait a minute,” the President said to Lucy. “The President is not to be disturbed!” Lucy was adamant.
More knocks. The bastards.
He put his trousers on. He opened the door to see the Architect: a balding man with a huge brain. He was sweating profusely.
“What the fuck is it, Karl!?” “You’ll love this, Dubya. It’s Dubya Dubya Three.” “Do I get to press the Big Red Button!?” said the President. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning. “You bet.” “Oh boy!”