Every night since November has been one long train-wrecked hallucination. This third party candidacy that took off like gangbusters in the middle of October has derailed all the post-election plans I had for….

Wait, who the hell is that? Ah, geez. No question she’s going to be late for her PoliSci class. Oh, well. Not my problem.

“Hey, you…. Beat it. I got a press conference today at like… I dunno, 3:00 or something. You gotta get out of here.”

“Out of where? Oh, yeah. Hey, did the Mexican ambassador ever get th---“

“Look, just amscray, all right?”

She put on her Wellesley College sweatshirt and huddled under a sheet as she gathered her effects. For my part, I opened the door to the office and heard the usual midweek bustle of the most important office in the free world. Time to get cracking. Uh.. after a good shower and some take-out IHOP.

An hour or so later, I am headed back down the hallway to (ahem) get to work. I see the head of my security detail waiting for me: a 6’3 pepper-haired gentleman sporting a “Proxmire RULES!” button.

“So, how’re the tours looking today. Anything good?”

“Not really. Slim pickings, indeed. I’m running a background check on one particular redhead. Seems she donated to the Sierra Club a few years back. I think I can live with that, though. I mean, for an ass like that...”

“Well, good luck. Seen the veep this morning? He and I were supposed to meet for an intelligence briefing.”

“I seriously doubt that’s going to happen. The Intelligence Director hasn’t been seen for at least two weeks.”

“What the hell is Klugeburger up to?!! He was supposed to give us the lowdown on recent traffic across the Pakistan border!!!"

“Yeah, well, once his security clearance for access to the FBI background files came through, he disappeared with boxes and boxes of them. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Maybe he’s in his “undisclosed location.” What’s the line there?”

“That's another problem. Three days into his post, he directed a portion of his budget to construction of a new bunker. We’re, umm… having trouble locating it.”

“What the hell? Just get the contractor on the line!”

“Yeah, see, he contracted the deal out, but only on the condition that each stage of the construction be sub-contracted even further, with diminishing returns on our capacity to track it. We got all the way down to a 5th level team in the Ukraine before the trail stopped.”

A deep sigh emanated from that special reserve of frustration I have for our Intelligence Director. I really ought to have thought that decision out more. Fuck it. Off to the veep’s office anyway.

I got halfway down the hall when I heard the strains of “Rocket Man”… the Phil Collins version of the Billy Joel cover of the Elton John tune. Oy. And upon opening the door to the second most important office in the land (heh), I was immediately greeted with a bottle of Ernest and Julio Gallo Sonoma Estate 1991 Chardonnay (a rather stout choice) to the head, flung from the other side of the room.

“SONUVABITCH, that hurt!! What the hell is the matter with you?!!”

“Not a thing, fucknut! The question is, what the hell is the matter with you?!”

There he sat in all his glorious spendor. He was surrounded by books, PC detritus, and the most offensive assembly of Pier One merchandise I’d ever seen. I mean, really! It was a disgrace to the office. Then I remembered the condition of the presidential seal in my office and felt a tad sheepish.

“So Mr. Klugeburger has made off with all the intelligence files and no one has a clue where he is.”

“I know. Who do you think got him security clearance?”

“Dammit, you know that’s supposed to go through the proper channels!! Why would you do that?

“To piss you off.. why else?”

He said it with that unmistakeable shit-eating grin. And then he started the deep self-satisfied laugh that is always at someone else’s expense. I couldn’t stand that laugh. I wanted to claw his trachea out right then and there and, if he didn’t have at least a 2-1 size advantage over me, I would have. But there were more important things to deal with, so I left him to “wallow in his own crapulence.”

I knew there were more pressing problems. I knew something had to be done. Zweibel/Uber was the ticket that promised freedom from the inaction that plagues every new administration. We were going to get things done, dammit!! And I was going to start right now by orde------

BANG!

*******************************

I woke up surrounded by ballons and inundated with the sickly sweet smell of flowers. Many family and friends with smiles on their faces standing patiently by my bed. And I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my gut as I tried to prop myself up.

“How long have I been out?”

“About a month. We were a little afraid you might not come through. But don’t worry. Everything’s in control at the White House. You VP has handled things… umm…. adequately.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, other than bitchslapping your press secretary, commandeering a network microphone and urinating on Aaron Brown before shouting, “I own you now!” everything seems to be OK.

I laid back in bed and started calculating the payout on executive pension before drifting off. The last thought in my head before going out like a light was that the country was in good hands. After all, it could be worse. I could still be running it.