FOUR MORE YEARS

“He should be fine,” Atkins said, “he sort of perked up around noon.”

“Good,” said Harrison, “we can’t exactly cancel the address now, can we?”

“No, sir,” Atkins said.

“So what’s he got,” Harrison inquired, “some kind of bug, or something?”

“Near as well can tell, sir, but no one really knows.”

***

“Stadium’s packed,” Atkins said.

“Wonderful, isn’t he,” Perkins asked.

“Scary,” Atkins answered.

Perkins adjusted her blue skirt, pulling it down to about mid-thigh level, “He plays the game better than anybody. How’s the cleavage? I got a TV thing right after he’s finished.”

Atkins checked double-long just to be sure, then said, “juicy,” in his most uninspired of tones. “Yeah, weird thing is, he’s been bed-ridden all week.”

“Well, the man’s a pro,” Perkins said, distractedly checking her cheek tone in her compact, “he could make speeches in his sleep.”

Atkins gave her a knowing look, peering over his glasses, “he couldn’t keep his lucky charms down. The man lost fifteen pounds.”

“Looks great to me,” Perkins glanced up from her compact and added with a little hook of a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth, “could serve as an inspiration to all the fatties watching at home.”

“Yeah,” Atkins said, a thousand miles away, in thought, “it’s almost like …”

Perkins closed her compact with a sharp snap and looked at him, expectantly, “like what? Spit it out.”

“Well,” he began, rubbing his chin, “it’s like, this stuff, the cameras, the speeches, the cheers. It’s his elixir.”

Perkins nodded her head once, disinterested.

“Or,” Atkins continued, “it’s an automatic response.”

Perkins showed signs of that smile again, “what? The president is on autopilot?”

“The man ran a hundred and eight temperature this morning.”

“He got better. Maybe from the crowds and lights and cameras, like you said.”

“Yeah,” Atkins said, rubbing his chin, again, distracted, “yeah. Could be.”

“Alright, perk me up, he’s almost done,” she said.

“Uh ... what?”

“Come on,” she said, pointing at her breasts, “don’t be shy. Be a man about it.”

***

“Did he say what for,” Atkins asked, pacing through the empty hallway in top gear.

“No,” Harrison said, blankly, “only that he wanted to see you.”

“He’s been seeing everybody around here lately hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been to see him already,” Atkins asked.

“Yes.”

“Not too busy around here today, is it?”

“No.”

“That’s odd. Anyway, the convention went well.”

“Yes.”

“Approval rating is through the roof.”

“Yes.”

“He’ll be re-elected for sure.”

“Yes. Quickly now.”

Atkins charged toward the oval office, nearly out of breath.

“This way,” Harrison said, holding the door to the office open.

“Thank you, sir.”

Harrison shut the door gently behind him.

“Mr. President --,” Atkins charged across the room, and stopped dead in his tracks about halfway through. Strewn about the room were the limp and bloodied forms of his colleagues and co-workers. Wet, red bones exposed on the limbs. Rumpled, smart business suits, caked in dark crust, emitted a foul, dark odor, like something fomenting. Perkins lay face up on a stack of bodies, still wearing a look of surprise, one cheek torn clean off.

“Oh my God,” Atkins brought his hand up to his mouth, trying desperately to keep his breakfast down in his stomach, where it belonged.

“I’m issuing a new policy, when I‘m re-elected,” the president said, voice full of gravel, chin red with blood, which made a stark contrast to his dull yellow pallor, “mandatory tours of the oval office for every man, woman and child in America. Come, let me chew your ear off …”

Atkins vomited. There was no time to scream, and no one left to hear him.