In the Oval Office

I hadn’t had sex in a few hours. The chemicals being released in me were angry and I hadn’t had to succumb to masturbation since I was 30, and I wasn’t about to do so now. Mary, my favorite secretary had gone out for lunch after we last had sex and I haven’t seen her since. It’s been two hours. There’s still her replacement, but her earlobes are sort of repulsive and she always combs her hair to the wrong side as if just to accent her horrible hairline. She walked in as I was drawing a knife on my last fax.
“The camera crew will be here in about an hour,” the replacement told me. She stood, peeking through the door with half of her body behind it and I could smell her fear; it made her even more hideous. She stood there after saying it for a little while, the 3 too many pounds on her ankles weighing the earth down just a little more. Her lipstick was cheap, lining her mouth with the color of an old toy car. I watched her and contemplated my sex drive.
“Could you step in for a minute,” I asked her as she was about to turn away. She swallowed a small gulp of air before quietly adhereing. She stepped onto the face of the eagle on the rug right in front of my desk. I stared her up and down, looked at the drawing of the impressive knife and back onto her. Anxiety was being bred from her posture which yeilded a specific lack of poise and an unattractive tremble. Her breasts were large, but slightly out of shape. There was still the terrible hairline and the ambiguious racial tone which was a bit repelling. I couldn’t tell if she was white or not.
“Sir?” she asked me.
“What?”
“You’ve been looking at me for a few minutes, is there something you need?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said, “I’m deciding. Don’t speak anymore,” I told her. She complied.
A blowjob would suffice, I thought. Not having to see her face would help. I pictured it for a second: she not properly doing it, me having to physical intervene as usual with my hands and a fairly agressive push and grasp on her hair. I remembered the last time I watched her head bob up and down, that ghastly hairline looking me straight in the eye like it was tempting me not to come.
“Sir?”
“I told you not to speak.”
She stared at me like an ugly andriod, built with recycled parts, lacking any interesting wiring or circutry. Just boring and weak, willfully subjecting herself to a life of slavery.
I, personally, cannot even comprehend how somebody could subject themselves to such a life. Control is the ultimate drug, and the come down is only there is you manage to lose control.
“Leave,” I told her. “Now.”
She turned around and left, quietly, with more grace than I’d have imagined her to have. Shame she obviously had no concept of how to maintain or regulate grace.
I sat there for a while thinking about how I should have had her fellate me. My frustration would only grow for the time being and I’d probably be subjected to fucking—god forbid—my wife. I shudder at such a thought.
If I’m going to have to fuck my wife, I thought, I’m going to have to drink. I pulled scotch from my desk and poured some into a glass I had already had out. I put the bottle back into the desk and heard the glass clink against one of the few other bottles. The drink went down very easily.
My eyes followed the knife I had drawn, on to the words it was so two-dimensonally stabbing. They were big words, most of them, and they had been put together in such a way that they were to maintain the utmost ambiguity and leave no space for any skeptical questions. Trust me, I wrote half of it myself. I lit a cigarette and used it to burn a few circles into the paper before throwing it away in a jagged shape that I personally crumpled it into myself.
Looking at the wastebasket for some reason reminded me of my youngest son, who had, out of spite, joined the military. I sat thinking about how some brown bastard who wants to cut in on my so beautifully established franchise would probably gun him down, chop his limbs off and throw him into an oven. Nothing was felt when I thought this, I have other sons who would be much better suited to maintain my franchise after I’m too old to tell people to kill one another (supposing there is such an age).
I sat like a duck on still water as the hour passed, listening to clock ticking like it was my own personal beat.

A buzz at the intercom, an opening of the door:

Several unfashionable, ugly, pathetic and recycled slaves entered with bulks of wire and a few cameras. They laid base for a little while in my office and I had another couple of drinks.
A beautiful woman I had never seen came in through the door. I thought about her, about my frustration how much I’d like to combine them. It would be glorious, I would hump her like I was a big, beautiful horse with a dick that wasn’t so bent on resembling an insect or at least something else of that size.
I thought about doing it right here on my desk, and staining her ugly dress after she was done faking her moans, right in front of all these cameras and in front of everybody turned to channels 3, 4 and 5 to see. I decided to say nothing to her and let her immasculate me with makeup. I was being painted into a pretty clown as she dabbed a little something onto my cheeks and fixed my hair. I watched her breasts as she did this and decided it would be best to keep my waist under my desk.

“Okay, everything ready?” asked somebody stupid enough to consider himself a ‘director.’
“Yeah, I think so,” said a camera slave.
“Wait,” said the ‘director,’ “ get that pack of cigarettes off of your desk.”
He didn’t ask me to do it. He told me to do it. Reluctantly, I did it (for the good of the American People) and decided that he could have his own draft card. I did the ‘method acting’ bit, got into character and took one more drink
“Okay Mr. President, live in 3, 2...”

“My fellow Americans,” I said, “there has been much discord amongst the community over some of my more recent choices. People have been claiming that there is no longer such a country as Korea, and I can assure them that this is not true. Nuclear weaponry of the amount we used would not be enough to eradicate such a land mass as Korea from the face of the earth. Korea is now, with your help and the help of our brave soliders, quickly becoming yet another beacon of hope and change and freedom for the world. A world that is, now thanks to my recent choices, absent of one more viscious, murdering dictator.” I continued on like this for a while, trying to keep my eyes on the teleprompter but too often directing them at the body of my beautiful makeup artist. I thought about the nuclear bombs for a little while. A fanastic toy, but not one you want to share. It’s like a lightswitch for populations that cannot respect power when they see it, the only difference being that there is no ‘on’ side of the switch.

“God bless you, and God bless America,” I told the camera. I saw my reflection in the little lense and it looked at me, with no color, no soul, no dimenson; just a piece of glass projecting an image.
I couldn’t keep eye contact with it.