“Thwack.” The sound of the flyswatter hitting the desk was startling in it´s intensity. The fly buzzed lazily away in a crazy zig-zag pattern towards the window. The window was awash in golden spring sunshine. The fly swirled the glowing dust motes as it flew.
“Damn,” the President of the United States said with a grimace. He was feelin´ frustrated this morning. He hadn´t heard any good news for a month. He sometimes wondered, secretly, why he ever wanted this job.
Back on the campaign trail, he mostly imagined it would be glamorous and exciting to be President. Everybody kow-towin´ to him and calling him “Mr. President” like he was some kinda god, but it turned out to be mostly, a big, fat, pain in the butt, an onerous responsibility where everyone seemed to want something from him, and everything was, just, too damned important.
Lately, swattin´ flies had become his most pleasurable activity. Just him and the fly, in mortal combat – for the fly that is.
Yesterday, he´d got one. It´s guts splattered across a freshly signed, important environmental bill. How much more important was that, to the fly at least, than the officious words on the paper. He´d had to order another copy from the Government Printing Office. “Your tax-payer money at work – heh heh,” he thought sarcastically.
There was a knock on the door, causing the President to flinch because he had been in such deep thought, musing on the matter of flies. The White House Chief of Security stepped in. It felt like an invasion to him.
“Good Morning Sir. I trust you slept well?” Gawd, how the President hated all this phony politeness.
“Oh. Hi Bob. Beautiful morning, isn´t it? He replied to the question with one of his own. He felt that Presidents should not be asked questions, but ask them and receive answers. What was the point of becoming the most powerful person in the world, if any dip-shit could question your wisdom and authority. He resented questions, even as innocuous as Bob´s. Who was serving who here, anyway? It would be a good day, and he would sleep well if he damned well, felt like it!
“Yes sir, it is.” Bob responded condescendingly. “I hope I´m not interrupting anything important.”
“Yes sir – what?,” the President thought as he suddenly realized that he had forgotten what he´d asked Bob. “No, nothing of great importance” he said not wanting to bring up the issue of the seriousness of fly swattin´. What is it then?”
“I´m afraid there´s been a security breech here in the White House, Sir.”
“Really! And how did that happen?”
Bob gulped spasmodically before answering. “It seems, what appeared to be, a homeless man managed to get past security and into the building. We don´t know how he did it yet. An aide saw him heading for the Oval Office.”
“He was seen, but not caught?,” the President asked.
Bob gulped again. “No Sir. We haven’t found him. We did find and envelope , addressed to you. He dropped it in the hallway. Your perfectly safe though,” he added quickly. “There are already several Secret Servicemen on guard outside the door!”
“(Sigh) Do we know if he´s armed, or strapped with a bomb?”
“No Sir, but were not taking any chances. Were airlifting you and the first family to a safe place immediately.”
“Damn! I was supposed to play golf with the British Prime Minister this afternoon. I´ve been waiting for a chance to whip his butt!”
“Arrangements are being made to cancel, diplomatically of course, as we speak. We don´t want you exposed to any foreign nationals for the moment.”
“Surely, you don´t suspect the British Prime Minister is behind this `homeless person´ thing, do you? Tell me your joking!”
We can´t take any chances, Sir. It´s just protocol.
The President and his family were evacuated to Camp David. He had had the presence of mind to order that the White House be fumigated in their absence. “The bugs were gettin´ mean around here, and who knows what the homeless man brought in.”
The British Prime Minister was secretly brought to Camp David too, at the President´s insistence, and they did, finally, play a round of golf on the private course. The President lost by two points.
British Security was happy to send the Prime Minister with the President. They were always relieved to get him out of their hair. They also needed a safe place to put him because their own security at the embassy had been breached in a identical way and at the same time. In both cases, the raggedy, flea ridden, intruder had not been caught. It was if they had vanished into thin air. How could there have been two of them? Yet, there must be two of them, because how could one filthy bum have been in the same place at the same time. In both cases, the only evidence of their ever being there, was a dropped envelope.
Both envelopes were rushed to an F.B.I. forensics lab to be tested for fingerprints, letter bombs or lethal powders. Nothing was found except identical invitations to the recipients to a weekend party. There was no return address or any indication to where the party was to be held. Only the times and dates, commencing next Friday at four in the afternoon. Food, refreshments and entertainment would be provided, as well as transportation and other accommodations. No R.S.V.P. requested, as if one could reply, and signed by the C.I.U., Creator of the Infinite Universe.
So far, the news had been kept out of it, but Homeland Security had issued an orange alert, and the media were already clamoring for an explanation. It was only a mater of time before someone leaked it. An organization the size of the U.S. government couldn´t keep a secret if they tried, and the British!, let´s just say they´re a mite open.
The President continued to amuse himself with a flyswatter at Camp David to relieve himself from the drudgery of his, `Gawd-awful´, important life. It was difficult for him to take any of this seriously. When everything a person does achieves the status of being important, then nothing is important.