SWORN - PROLOGUE

December 22, 2013, 0701, Washington D.C., White House, nothing better encapsulates the atmosphere of a presidency, once it’s learned the vessel that promised so much never intending to reach land, begins to see those closely tied to the sitting administration peel off and jump ship at the first sight of taking on water. Distress calls go out. Not in a conventional sense, but in a savage kind of way. Rape and pillage. Slash and burn. Erase all remembrance.

A picture is worth a thousand words. A portrait of a presidency is no different. Often words such as disastrous, disgraceful, inept, controversial and scandal come to the forefront of any dicey leadership that is in question. The weight of the country rest on your shoulders, but that’s to say you’re still in-touch with your soul after your first year in public office and hours upon hours of indoctrination.

Personal security has long since been sent away and close advisers were no exception. Getting some much needed time alone to contemplate his next move, not even the First Lady dare enter the chambers of the Oval Office during these periods, he sits thinking long and hard. With a nearly empty bottle of Laphroaig, golden with age whiskey along with an empty Glencairn glass sit upon the Resolute Desk.

Having stayed up all through the night in secluded darkness and silence, the only company was the crackling of logs in the fireplace and dancing shadows. Not the longest night during his presidency, but definitely one of the most pressing. He was at a juncture and the pathway leading forward wasn’t particularly pleasant and to be quite honest, not a decision he made lightly.

With the first rays of light breeching the horizon and breaking through the trees outlining the compound, light begins to refill the office with color. A new blanket of soft powder lies on the ground, a gift from the night before. Peering out the large French windows overlooking the Rose Garden, spent and exhausted, the disheveled leader of the free world slouches in a high back, black leather swivel office chair. Chin resting on the knuckles of his left hand and the right dangling off the rest into the crevasse of his lap.

Pictures of the First Family decorate the top of a buffet table by the window. Emotionlessly the president watches two Blue Jays forge for seed along the snow covered ground. How he wishes he were those two birds. How fortunate they knew nothing else but the natural instinct to survive. He’s a survivor. He is damned to let some wise ass bring his ruler ship down.

Not phased by the three knocks on a solid wood door leading into the office. A man, a very young man, no older than twenty-seven, pops his head in, “Excuse me Mr. President,” some stumbling of words follows once there’s no response or movement, “Um... John Matheus is here from The Washington Inquire. He was hoping you would be able to squeeze in a few moments to discuss with him the less than flattering embellishments swirling around the news cycle before your one o’clock press briefing?”

Sitting motionless and maintaining his poor posture. In a scathing voice the blanket of silence is broken, “You tell Matheus that he’ll have to wait till one,” getting up from his chair, walking over to the window, sort of dragging himself to it. Still watching the two jay birds that are now fighting over food, “ And while you’re at it, get the head of security in here,” raising a glass to his lips, “Tell him I have a job for his men.”

“Yes sir!”