The President always surrounded himself with many toys. Along the mantle in the Lissajous’ favorite White House living room, he had set up his Hot Wheels collection. He polished a ’63 Lamborghini daily. It was a calming exercise, preparing him for the many decisions that would decorate his day.
Today he wore his military fatigues, his brazen face painted with muddy cream of camouflage.
“Don’t you touch anything in this house, George. Not a damn thing,” his wife “Timmy” said.
George Lissojous loved to scare his wife. He took out his pistol and shot at the wall to her left. She screamed, hands on face while he cackled.
“They’re just blanks, for crissakes Timmy!”
Three blind servicemen walk in. “Mr. President, are you all right?” Leonardo asked.
“Oh, Leonardo. Please get me a double scotch on the rocks.”
“But, Mr. President. It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Frankly, Leonardo—I don’t give a damn.” His youthful face, high cheekbones, and apple red cheeks danced in laughter, dimples lining his mouth. “Oh, shit this job is great,” he said.
He relaxed in his leather recliner, feeling like the most comfortable man alive. He belonged to a long line of aristocrats, stretching their palms wider and wider until the entire globe could fit into their fingers. With each stage of presidency and power, the next successive administration would have that much more control. But at the same time, the amorphous entity that they ruled became more intangible, the power itself less a focus than it had been prior. Leading to a point where power was a given, and the direction, ingenuity, and know-how of it all became muted.
Under President Lissajous’ fold, the nation’s premier politicians plot and prodded through a terrific amount of information. Private information. On every country, every culture, sub-culture, and tactic. Through information they were able to seemingly predict the future: Their political machine was viewed as so evolved it was inseparable from magic. They were like a single, collective shaman, wielding a staff of infinite magical powers, and this made the people scared and subservient.
Information is the metabolism of the universe. The Party had rendered the world constipated, top-heavy.
“What’s on the agenda today, Alex?” the president asked as his advisors walked in. “Any new technologies I should know about?”
“Sir, we have been in committee for the past four hours discussing the possible December scenarios.”
“We don’t know what’s going to happen. We really have no idea at all.”
“This war, over in Sudan—“
“Right, Libya. How can we get involved?”
“It’s a civil war, sir. We’re not invited.”
“They got nukes, you said. I figure that an invitation right there.”
“Mr. President,” one of the other advisors spoke up.
“Yes,” a sigh, “Mr. Timothy.”
“All of our research points to an extreme happenstance in December, an unpredictable event. Entering into nuclear warfare of any kind at this time would be—“
“—unpredictable, Mr. Timothy. As you have said. Just the same, we know it’s going to happen. We’ve known for many years, and your stupid intelligence reports and graphs have told us nothing more than we’ve known all along. We’ve done what we can to prepare for the worst. Public technology has been curbed—the People haven’t even seen a major advance in ten years! We’ve got it all! And I’m not going to stand in the face of uncertainties, holding perhaps the most awesome toy of them all without ever having a chance to use it. We could be dead in three months, Gentlemen. And existence precedes essence. Our little toy has existence, but by no means has it lived a life. As the President of the—“
“Fuck the United States. You’ve absolutely no idea what the fuck you are doing. None of you do. You think you smoke a little bit of the sage plant ten years ago and you know how to control every mystery of the universe. I’ve got news for you. This universe has some surprises that you can’t predict. You can book on that.” Mr. Timothy turned away from the congregation, staring at the brilliantly green lawn through well-kept glass.
George stood up out of the chair, walking to his desk and fumbled with the drawers. Over the sounds of metallic assembly he said: “I make motion that Mr. Timothy be stricken from the record.”
At gun point, Mr. Timothy kept his back to the room. “Your approval rating’s going to drop down to hell, Mr. President.”
“Shit if it matters,” he said, and fired.
To be continued...