Suicide President
The walls closed in, oval as they were. Mr President clung onto the desk - onto the chair. Onto whatever might steady his legs, wobbly and inflamed. He pressed for a coke. Someone would bring it to him immediately and he’d be able to shout at them - exhibit some power - but most importantly, not feel alone for a moment.
Mr President told her to put the can down on the table, and screamed at her to be quicker next time. Was she a fucking idiot? He called her an ‘ugly bitch’ and a ‘fat pig’, and she let him because she knew (just like everybody else did) that her continued service was nothing but a formality. A transfer of power. Only a matter of time.
He could hear the morons outside - jeering and banging their drums. The immigrants and the queers and the bitches and the democrat sluts. If they tried to breach the gates, he’d have them shot on sight. There were still people here who believed in him. Good people. The best people.
Mr President drank the coke down in one single go, barely even needing to swallow, full-sugar, almost classic taste. Not quite how he remembered it in the eighties, but close enough. No need to put the can down, he just let it drop from his face and onto the Oval Office floor. Watched, as it rolled away from him, his surname glistening on the side of the can - red and silver. Custom. For his lips only.
An idea. The best idea. No other president had ever had such a good idea as this one. Dropping to his burning knees, full as they were with lactic acid, Mr President proceeded to tear at the can with his teeth - sharp tin edges revealed. And pulling at his sleeves, bringing them up to his bruised elbows, he held the tin to his wrists.
The door swung open. A conga line of heavy-set Secret Service officials - poised and ready to deal with this inevitability. One prised away the can, while another administered a restraint. Mr President shouted, and flailed. Pig! Cunt! Bitch! Hoax! But it was no use. Did they know what they were doing? Committing treason.
Mr President felt himself lifted upright - two goons on either arm - and allowed himself to get some much needed rest as he floated out of the Oval Office. He knew where he was being taken because he’d read about the place in a classified document back in his first term. He didn’t know much about what went on there, but he did know one thing.
There’d be no Cokes.
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