#realbigtweety E-Book

Tomasz Tatum

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 339

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Art imitates life sometimes. #realbigtweety is a humorous peek behind the scenes at what goes on in the Oval Office on typically busy Monday. The President of the United States, #realbigtweety, his Cabinet and his circle of trusted Advisors have gathered with the noble objective of making America great again. Just like he promised. But unfortunately, it's easier said than done. Undaunted, #realbigtweety and his administration get to work. After all, 2020 is just around the corner!

Leseprobe

Foreword

Hi, my name is Poppyseed Doubledoppio! I’m an all-American kid whose weathered ancestors hailed from a shithole country alongside an ocean which the president of the United States never learned to spell. Not that I think it would interest him very much, he’s probably got a lot of other things to do. They were all great Americans, my family. They were always working their butts off, convinced that the pinnacle of achievement in this world would have to be living the good life in either Hollywood or Washington DC. As it happened, we weren’t the entertainment types, so the Hollywood thing never worked out. But the encouragement and upbringing they provided their children instilled in me growing aspirations, the desire to stroll proudly through the corridors of power. Unfortunately, though, none of us was ever really the pushy, political type, either. I was no exception. But I ended up in Washington nonetheless, just like my dear old grandparents – and probably theirs as well – had always dreamed of. And, through a remarkable set of circumstances far too lengthy to explain here, I ended up in the White House, becoming the 45th gofer of the United States.

That’s right. Gofer. As in: fetch it, go for it.

Coffee, tea, Pepsi. You name it.

I’ve always been a quick learner. Even if you might think otherwise, the White House is less about pomp and pageantry than one might believe. Even if it is a kind of nice place, at least for someone who didn’t spend most of his time living in a skyscraper before, it’s in reality just an old office building where the boss happens to reside. But it’s not only nice, it’s also a very strange place. It’s got this mysterious allure all its own, a magnetism that draws you in, even while time seems to stand still there. The whole place is a little like a living wax museum. The first thing you notice when you move around in there is that all the Marine stewards are old as sin. That’s the first give-away that things are different there, something which should give anyone cause to think: I mean, if these guys were already too old to invade Iwo Jima way back then, then what went wrong in their lives that they are still only a corporal after serving a fifty-seven-year tour of duty here? Some people even say the place is somehow haunted, not in the horrid and scary way things tend to be in a Stephen King novel, but by a history that you sense dripping from the walls as thick as molasses. The patient and benevolent spirit of Rosemarie Woods is said to waft through the halls here when she’s not at her desk, typing for a long-departed Richard Nixon, the president who was not a crook. And his infamous tape recorder, the only one still around nowadays, is probably digital now so you can set the length of the gaps in the recordings much more efficiently. And it’s even sometimes rumored that Mamie Eisenhower still spooks around, turning up unexpectedly now and then and ordering the drapes in the Blue Room to be changed.

I know there was a lot of speculation, but I’m sure that this is the real reason Melatonia didn’t want to move to Washington with her young son. I mean, after watching Ghostbusters and living between buildings adorned with gargoyles and then having the Vanderbilts spooking around next door in New York the whole time, she’d probably had more than enough. Smart lady, I guess.

But there I was, right in the midst of history in the making – even if no one seems to recall me so distinctly anymore. Day in and day out, I was there, fetching Diet Pepsis for the boss, the president of the United States, or coffee and little tinfoil bags of junk food for his minions while daydreaming about what it would feel like to have all the power in the world suddenly concentrated in my own hands, just like Big Tweety probably dreamed about all his life, too. But unlike him, I have to admit that I’m not the kind of guy who would want to spend a lifetime fighting his way to the top to achieve this power. I guess that I’m more passive, like the guys who sit on their sofas all day long, drinking beer and watching sports. I’ve always been kind of nuts about sports, too – especially the Super Bowl – and sometimes I would let it play out in my fantasies what it would feel like, what would happen if one of the aides, those guys who accompanied Big Tweety everywhere he went, were to fumble one day. If this guy were to accidentally drop the football, those mysterious nuclear codes that get lugged around in that big black bag. I would stand there, imagining myself snatching it off the turf and, before an irate Big Tweety could hop off Marine One again to berate me for my audacity, I would already be racing for the end zone. In my daydreams, the crowd in the stadium would be going wild while I did a little victory dance across the goal line, reprogramming the warheads and firing them off before someone managed to take them away from me. The problem is, they would have to come raining down somewhere eventually, so I’d probably screw up that part of my fantasy. Because I would be such in a massive hurry in such a scenario, I’d probably end up inadvertently sending them to someplace like Hokkaido. The Japanese would be understandably upset but, on the other hand, the rest of the world would probably just breathe a big collective sigh of relief that Big Tweety had lost one of his biggest assets, something like the ace of spades among his beloved toys for boys. Of course, it was all just a harmless, recurring fantasy. After all, I’ve always been far too normal and way too conscientious, so I never actually tried anything of the sort. I would have just never managed to do something so outrageous, even if it would have been fun. I preferred to stay out of trouble.

So, instead, I just kept doing my job. Doing what I had to do, nine-to-five. Each day, every day. Diligently toting ice-cold Diet Pepsis from a vending machine hidden away in the George Patton hallway in the basement beneath the west wing. And just taking care not to screw up so I didn’t get fired. What I am about to relate happened a long time ago – I think it was probably Monday of last week, which I understand is half an eternity by the odd standards of this administration

#realbigtweety

It was late morning and Big Tweety was sitting in his office, discussing with an aide named Thwacker an upcoming dinner meeting scheduled for that evening with Germany’s Chancellor Krautrock. Except for the Secretary of State, who was traveling, his entire Cabinet was gathered around him in the Oval Office for this meeting.

“She’ll be arriving here for dinner at eight tonight. And she’s a physicist, Sir,” Thwacker reminded him during his prep session. “You might still recall that from the briefings you got prior to your other meetings with her.

“That’s okay,” Big Tweety replied, picking up his smartphone and glancing at the display. “I remember. I’m a physical guy, too.”

“No, I mean physics. Like atoms and stuff like that…”

“She has atoms?” Big Tweety inquired, suddenly interested.

“Technically, Sir, we all do. It’s science. Atoms are the basis of matter…” the aide patiently explained. “They don’t usually blow up but they’re everywhere. They’re like, well… they’re kinda like air.”

“Everywhere?” Big Tweety asked, looking suddenly agitated. “Sad. Probably Obama’s fault. Wouldn’t have happened on my watch.”

Brickyard, the vice president, nodded earnestly. He was standing in his customary spot, at attention and keeping a respectful two step distance behind Big Tweety’s left elbow.

“You’re probably right, Sir!” Thwacker seconded Big Tweety’s remark, attempting to sidestep the issue in full awareness of the fact that the president’s period of useful consciousness was always limited and apt to dwindle rapidly. From where he sat, next to the large wooden desk, he could see through an open door. In the adjacent room, a Marine steward was busy turning on a battery of wall-mounted television screens.

“If you don’t object, Sir, we’ll try to wrap this up as quickly as possible?” he offered.

“That’d be good,” Big Tweety agreed. “I know all this stuff already anyhow. No one knows anywhere near as much about physical atoms as I do. So, about Krautrock: you say she’s a pacifist?”

“I didn’t say that, Sir!” the aide corrected him uneasily. “I said that she’s a physicist. She has a doctorate in physics. She studied at universities in Leipzig and Berlin before she entered politics.”

“University, huh? That’s fine, I’ve got one of those, too. And she’s got atoms, you say?”

“Well, yes, but not the way you might perhaps think, Sir…” Thwacker groaned. “I guess it’d be safe to state that everyone does. Atoms are kind of like the building blocks of all matter. Of everything.”

Big Tweety looked up.

“Nothing matters as much as I do, remember that!” he barked.

“Yes, Sir!” came the timid response.

Satisfied that his authority had been sufficiently reasserted for the moment, Big Tweety leaned back in his chair. Then a thought suddenly came to him. He narrowed his eyes menacingly for a moment as he asked:

“If I understand you correctly, then by saying everyone, you’re suggesting that they even have atoms over in Pong…”

Big Tweety paused and then tried again: “Er, in Pyong…”

Brickyard chipped in with some much-needed assistance: “In Pyongyang, Sir?”

Big Tweety turned to glance over his shoulder.

“That’s where Little Rocket Man lives, right?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Shit!” Big Tweety cursed loudly as he slammed his open hand on his desktop. “Just as I suspected. He has them, too. But we are all in agreement that my atoms are bigger than his, are we not?”

“Oh, absolutely, Sir!” Brickyard groveled.

“So why aren’t we doing anything about it?” Big Tweety boomed in an agitated voice.

“Oh, we are, Sir!” ventured a voice to his right. It was Hookabee. “I just finished outlining our unequivocal response to the recent swell of post-pubertarian threats coming our way out of North Korea. I told them that we’re not going to be intimidated by some narcissist numbskull of a leader who’s constantly bullshitting us. We are going to make ourselves great again!”

“Excellent!” Big Tweety responded enthusiastically. The grin had returned to his face. “I knew that we had a handle on things. And that I could count on your support and loyalty to get the message across to the American people on what a great job we’re doing on their behalf!”

“Yes, Sir!” Hookabee blushed. “It’s such an honor to be working for you and in the service of truth!”

Big Tweety liked Hookabee. Although the truth could be a hard sell sometimes, she loved her job and was willing to put a gourmet label on any can of worms she was handed.

“So, tell me: who was there for the press briefing? Huge crowd, probably? The hugest…” Big Tweety asked out of curiosity, leaning far back in his chair as he popped open another can of Diet Pepsi.

Pffft!

“Oh, yes! The room was packed. But – and I’m sure that this doesn’t surprise you, Sir – the first rows were full of the usual suspects, Sir…” Hookabee answered.

Big Tweety, in a display of graciousness, pushed a bowl of potato chips in her direction.

“I mean, the whole Fake News scene was there, going apeshit as usual!” she giggled as she brushed a few potato chip crumbs from her lap. “I bet we made the headlines everywhere!”

Big Tweety clasped his hands behind his head and grinned.

“Good! That’s the way real government functions! Good government.”

Then he leaned forward and peered through the open door to see whether his face was visible on any of the television screens in his line of sight.

“Is anyone reporting on us yet? On me?” he called loudly in the direction of the next room. The Marine steward appeared in the door and snapped a smart salute.

“No, Sir! At the moment, looks to me like most of the network coverage is about a speech that Squirrel Sweep, the actress, gave and that a whole bunch of rich women in Hollywood are planning to protest abusive behavior by men in American society.”

Big Tweety frowned. “Not her again! I just don’t get what’s supposed to be so important about that bitch. I mean, she’s not even a distant two, is she? And I mean, just look how old she is! Such a shame. No one’s interested anymore. I know. My friends all tell me. All the time.”

Big Tweety scowled severely at the aide sitting next to his desk with his dossiers on his lap.

“But Sir,” Thwacker protested meekly in response, unsure why he suddenly seemed to be bearing the brunt of Big Tweety’s irritation but somehow feeling that something needed to be said. “Age doesn’t make that big a difference, does it? I mean, with all respect, you’re older than she is and you’re still very much…”

“Shut the fuck up!” Big Tweety suddenly ranted. “I’m smarter. Much smarter! Really smart. And better looking, too! And if anyone doesn’t agree, I’m fine with that. If anyone here wants to take issue with the facts, you’re all welcome to do so. But, then you’re fired!”

All present in the room collectively murmured: “Yes, Sir!”

Big Tweety redirected his attention to the steward in his white jacket and dark blue uniform, still standing in the door frame like a portrait of stoic endurance, just like he was trained to do even if someone happened to be blowing up the embassy to which he had just been assigned. Marines could be smart, and they could surely be tough – but they also knew when to keep their mouth shut. This was a useful talent in his present assignment.

“Change the channel. Now!” Big Tweety ordered. “Turn on Fox.”

“Yesssss, Sir!” the Marine steward snapped back in acknowledgement of his orders and saluted again. “On all of them, Sir?”

Hookabee nodded in the steward’s direction and shrugged. “Just do as the POTUS asks.”

Grateful at her intervention, Big Tweety turned to face Hookabee again.

“What’d you tell them today?” he wanted to know.

“That Secretary of State Wayne Tracker, at your order, was on top of things, consulting with all of our closest allies…” came her answer.

Big Tweety looked puzzled. “Wait a minute, if he’s out there doing that, he’d have been finished by noon. Where is he now?”

Brickyard cleared his throat and asked: “Sir, I might remind you that, in one of your regular bursts of profound insight, you twittered just before this meeting that he was wasting his time. Maybe we need to put out a message that we’re all aiming for the same goal?”

Big Tweety turned in his chair and let his gaze fall upon everyone in the room. No one said anything.

“So…” Big Tweety took a deep breath and pouted his lips. “Is anyone here insinuating that we are not all pulling in the same direction?”

“No, Sir!” Brickyard tried to explain. “It’s just that, well, the direction we were all pulling for – together with you this morning – was the same one you were going for. But then you changed your mind. Meaning we all need to adjust our realities to reflect the fundamentally strong principles of your leadership.”

Big Tweety nodded.

“Okay, then do so. It’s so amazing how effective government works!” he mused, impressed with himself. “No one governs better than I do. No one. I’ve checked. And I’m grateful that, with the talent assembled in this room around me, there has never been a more capable team to make this truth clear to the American people.”

“If you like, I’ll have someone draft a statement to that effect right now!” Hookabee called out as she started tapping a note into her phone.

Big Tweety gave her a thumbs-up and redirected his attention to the doorway.

“Am I on TV yet?” he called loudly.

The steward reappeared. “No Sir, Fox is running the thirty-second installment of a series called Dissecting Crooked Hillary. It doesn’t look like they’ll be finished anytime soon.”

“That’s odd…” Hookabee mumbled and looked up, still lost in concentration. “I know that, last night, we sent them a draft note outlining all the positions we would be staking out in the spontaneous, short-notice press conference we had this morning…”

“Somebody call Mudlock!” Big Tweety commanded. “Find out what’s wrong! And where is Wayne Tracker now?”

Big Tweety’s voice boomed angrily. “I thought we said that he’d be finished consulting with our allies by now? It’s almost noon.”

“Yes, Sir!” Brickyard concurred. “That’s correct. But he’s still in Asia. It’s going to take him a while to get back, we’re afraid.”

“Tell me about that shit!” Big Tweety sighed. “No one knows that like me. I spent eleven days there. No one has ever done that. Eleven days! Everything takes goddamn forever. And you gotta watch out because they do all kinds of funny shit with you if you’re not careful like I am. I mean, they’ll even put a fish on the table with its head still on it! It’s looking at you. But that’s just the way they are. We pay them good money to chop the heads off the fish we buy from them, but they don’t return the favor. I mean, Obama was putting up with this shit all the time. No wonder the American people were getting fucked over.”

Big Tweety turned back to face Thwacker, who was seated next to his desk.

“Listen: this whole thing is taking way too long. Forget that shit about Germany. No one knows them better than I do. What’s next on the agenda? You mentioned something about that guy on the horse, the one I didn’t support?”

Thwacker fidgeted uneasily in his chair for a moment while he leafed through the stack of paper on his lap. “Judge Roy Bean? I’m afraid you did support him, Sir. You even flew down there to do a rally at a Florida farmer’s market to drum up excitement for him…”

“I remember that. My memory’s really good. The best. That wasn’t in Alabama.”

“Yes, Sir, but even allowing for that, you twittered an endorsement, Sir.”

Big Tweety frowned, his mouth taking on the shape of an unhappy amphibian pout.

“No, I didn’t,” he hissed. “I erased it!”

“Well, yes. But people nonetheless seem to remember what you wrote. Even though you deleted it.”

“Like hell they do!” Big Tweety’s voice thundered across his desk. “I deleted it when that damned fuckhead lost. I don’t do losers. I hope that’s completely clear to everyone in this room. Is anyone not on the same page with me here?”

No one in the wholly-silent Oval Office batted even an eyelash.

“Well, actually he’s claiming that he didn’t lose…” the aide was forced to elaborate. “He said it was fraud. He’s running around telling everyone that God wanted him to win so there was no way that a good man like himself could have possibly screwed it up.”

Big Tweety’s eyebrows seemed to rise half a yard upon hearing this. “Fraud? In Alabama? You mean he was running against Crooked Hillary, too?”

Brickyard chipped in from behind Big Tweety: “Even worse, Sir. A southern Democrat.”

Big Tweety whirled around in his chair. “Sure as hell wouldn’t have happened to me!”

At this, Thwacker re-engaged: “Certainly not, Sir, but he’s pissed now because he threw his full weight behind everything you stood for and ended up losing. And he’s telling everyone now that we weren’t appreciative of his efforts.”

“That’s nothing but bullshit,” Big Tweety responded. Then he turned to his press secretary.

“Hookabee, put out a statement that no one appreciates a winner more than I do, especially when he works his ass off to get ankle-deep in this here swamp to support my agenda working on behalf of the American people!”

Hookabee bit down on her lower lip. “Yes, Sir. Judge Roy Bean, he was the one who was trying to grab little girls by the pussy all the time, right?”

Everyone in the room suddenly turned to look in the direction of the aide with the same expression of quiet embarrassment one might witness upon seeing a caribou testicle suddenly roll out of Saranwrap’s left pant leg. Prairie oyster indemnity on the Alaskan tundra…

“Yes, Sir!” he answered softly without looking up from his dossier. “That would be the same fellow we are talking about.”

Big Tweety’s chin shot into the air in surprised indignation at hearing of such impertinence.

“He shoulda just been smarter than that,” he quipped. “I mean, he wasn’t even really famous, right? You don’t do that if you’re not famous.”

Hookabee looked up from the page she was writing on and remarked:

“No, but Sloppy Steve didn’t think that this was so important. He went balls to the wall, wanting to show that he could kick ass with a candidate of the people.”

Big Tweety looked confused. “Which people did he mean? And where is he anyway? Didn’t I explicitly say that I wanted everyone here this morning?”

“You fired him, Sir!” Brickyard reminded him.

“So sad. But I’m sure that he knows why. He was a loser from the very first day we crossed paths. A parasite. He was trying to steal my shine. And he thought that he could get away with it, too.”

Big Tweety’s Chief-of-Staff, a seasoned ex-military hand named Little General John, arose from the sofa upon which he had been sitting and began to weigh in.

“These days, he’s out there on the talk show circuit claiming that he helped get you elected, Sir.”

“Like hell he did. I did it all by myself!” Big Tweety spat back. “Because I like winning. The more I think about it, the more I’m certain that we never even met. He’s lying like a rug. When was the last time anyone saw him here?”

Little General John thought about it for a moment. “Actually, he was here in this office every day until you fired him. Sir!”

Brickyard was impressed with the astuteness of Little General John’s observation and nodded in silence.

“See, he was wasting our time. Keeping us from making America great again? No wonder that I had to kick his ungrateful ass out of here!” Big Tweety explained. “No more distractions.”

This being resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, Thwacker raised his pen to attract Big Tweety’s attention again.

“Sir, we got sidetracked a bit here. What are we gonna do about the judge? How would you like us to handle this?”

Big Tweety leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Run it by me again. What’d he do? What’s he want from me?”

“Well, he lost the election for the senate seat…” Little General John interjected, hoping to deflect some of Big Tweety’s scorn away from the hapless aide.

“How come? What’d he do wrong?” Big Tweety wanted to know. “I don’t lose. Why should I have a problem because he does?”

“Well, the way it looks, Sir, women voters were…”

Big Tweety cut Thwacker’s response short. “You’re right. It was the women voters, they were put off by the horse. He should’ve bought himself a plane. Like I did. One with golden faucets in the shithouse. Then they’d have loved him. Women voters love me, too. That’s why I’m a winner and he’s not.”

Little General John took a step forward. “Sir, what our aide here is trying to communicate to us is that this judge says that he covered your back and seems to be demanding some kind of payback, some sort of show of appreciation from you.”

Big Tweety was unimpressed. “He covered my back? And then he lost? Sick.”

“Yes, Sir!” Thwacker concurred.

Big Tweety leaned forward and grinned inanely.

“Tell you what: let’s name a Post Office distribution center after him.”

The aide began writing while he spoke: “Okay, got it. But you’ll need to keep in mind that ideally, it’s gonna have to be in Alabama, Sir.”

Big Tweety began to glow effusively.

“Fine, how about the one in Mobile? It’s big and right near the water, just like my hotels. Only uglier. Much uglier. I see it whenever I swoop in to see the fine folks of Alabama, just before the plane lands. The one with the big flagpole out front.”

“Sir, didn’t that facility get swept out to sea during a hurricane?” Brickyard inquired.

“The flagpole’s gone?” Hookabee glanced up and asked. “That’d be real bad.”

Little General John was able to provide reassurance: “No, no. I think the flagpole’s still there.”

Big Tweety was thrilled to hear this.

“Waving over the ramparts? Like in Francis Scott… umm, Mozart’s song? Hey, did you know that I own the original sheet music to the national anthem? Come to think of it, it’s like I always knew that I was destined to become president. Beautiful song. I even framed it. It’s hanging on the wall next to the johns by the reception over at Mar-a-Lago. Priceless. Christie’s wanted to buy it from me. Sotheby’s, too.”

“That’s impressive, Sir!” Brickyard gushed with near-brotherly gratitude. “Sometimes, it feels like we all have the privilege of experiencing Manifest Destiny when we have the honor of sharing your presence.”

It was the aide who brought everyone back to the issue to be decided.

“But back to the Post Office building, Sir…”

But Big Tweety had already made an executive decision. He turned his chair away from Thwacker and looked at Little General John while he spoke.

“Yeah, okay. Go ahead and rename it the Judge Roy Bean Parcel Distribution Center. Let’s do a signing, a presidential decree, right here tomorrow morning at ten sharp. I want all of you here, standing behind me. And a couple of cripples, too. This is good for the country so it’s good for them, too.”

Turning to face Hookabee, he continued: “Make sure the Fake News people are here, too. For this, you can even invite Cohen over. The guy from the Failing New York Times, even though they have people over there that don’t write good. They don’t know how to write good. But I’m gonna be nice tomorrow.”

Hookabee nodded in agreement, writing as fast as she could. Then she said: “All noted, Sir. Just one minor thing, though, before we get started here: I’ve been told that the building’s been obliterated. How should we handle that part of the announcement? Who’s going to cough up the funds to rebuild it? The question’s bound to come at us.”

Big Tweety, feeling presidential, took a deep breath.

“The Democrats. Make sure the Democrats understand that they’re paying. Package it into an infrastructure project that even Pocahontas can’t scuttle. They’re gonna need some people to carry bricks, you know, so we can go ahead and call it Affirmative Action. It will be a fine example of the way this administration, under my leadership, can rally bipartisan support to make a difference in ordinary people’s lives. Creating jobs. We’re making America great again. Every day! No other president has ever done so much in such a short time. No one. I’m the best. And if there are any bricks left over, I want them shipped over to El Paso. On Air Force One, if you have to! And I want Lyin’ Ted to be standing there on the apron with a platoon of bricklayers and every TV camera in the state of Texas present when they arrive. We’re gonna need them there!”

A big roar of approval went through the room. After things had quieted down somewhat, Secretary Munchkin stepped up to Big Tweety’s desk and almost ceremoniously handed him another Diet Pepsi.

“Sir, one thing: do you think it’s possible that we schedule the El Paso thing so that it’s not on Friday?”

Then he looked around and, in a low voice, he added:

“It’s our wedding anniversary day. Cashbag and I have been planning a romantic outing to Fort Knox to celebrate. Kind of intimate, just the two of us with our security detail.”

“Oh, how sweet!” ChillyAnne Convex exclaimed, glowing sentimental at the thought. She was standing on the sofa taking selfies.

“Ice cold. Just the way I like them!” Big Tweety registered how cold the soda can was and smiled approvingly. He wiped the condensation from the can, popped the lid and turned to face Munchkin.

Pffft! went the can.

“Are you guys gonna be wanting to use the 747 then? Tell you what: we’ve got a really good one for watching eclipses. Over at NASA. Really good telescope. Only problem, though: it’s ugly as hell inside. Not nice. I wouldn’t have paid anyone a dime for that interior. Not me. I’m way too smart and those guys doing this work know that. The aircraft interior guys, they know me. I’m a genius. They know it. And that scares the wits outta them. This thing, ugly as it is, probably Obama wrote the check. Jim over here can call the guys in California to bring it over, if you want. It’s no sweat. No problem. It’s the atmospheric, sophomore… er, sophomoric, umm, strategic... Some kinda whatchamacallit like that with the word observatory. But it kicks ass for stargazing. That’s what I been told. Believe me.”

Big Tweety gestured toward Defense Secretary Matrix.

“The aircraft you’re referring to, it belongs to NASA. It’s called the Stratospheric Observatory, Sir…” the Defense Secretary politely corrected him.

“Yeah, I knew that,” Big Tweety brushed it off. “I just got my signals crossed and said strategic because that’s what I’m all about. Nobody’s more strategic than I am. Even the strategists will tell you that.”

Munchkin shook his head and declined graciously: “No, thank you, Sir! I don’t want to impose on anyone. We won’t be needing the 747, we’re not doing any shopping this time. We’re just fine with the Gulfstream.”

Big Tweety turned in his chair and motioned toward Munchkin to come closer. With Munchkin bending forward, Big Tweety whispered in his ear. Everyone in the room pretended not to hear him.

“She’s still hot? A nine or ten, isn’t she?”

Suppressing a grin, Munchkin stood up straight as a rail. “Yes, Sir!”

“Okay, it’s settled! We do the Post Office announcement and signing tomorrow and El Paso on Thursday. Somebody arrange for a carload of bricks to be loaded. Try Home Depot. Call up their CEO and tell him I want him to send bricks. As many as we can carry. ChillyAnne, you pick up the phone and call Lyin’ Ted and let him know we’re coming. But not why. We can’t always trust him. He said things about me that weren’t nice. Not nice at all. And I didn’t even mention some things about him. You know, his father being with Lee Harvey Oswald prior to Oswald's being, you know, shot. I mean, the whole thing is ridiculous. What is this, right prior to his being shot, and nobody even brings it up? They don't even talk about that. That was reported, and nobody talks about it. So don’t tell him why we’re coming. We’ll let him figure it out when we get there. He was dishonest. Everyone was so dishonest during the campaign. Not just Lyin’ Ted. They were supposed to be my friends. I wanted to hit a couple of those convention speakers so hard. I would have hit them. No, no. I was going to hit them, I was all set and then I got a call from a highly respected governor. I was gonna hit one guy in particular, a very little guy. I was gonna hit this guy so hard his head would spin, and he wouldn’t know what the hell happened.”

Big Tweety took a sip of Diet Pepsi.

“And Stevie?”

“Yes, Sir?” Munchkin replied.

“You and Cashbag are good to go for Friday. But have someone count the ingots at Fort Knox. Make sure it’s a big number. Gotta be a big number. Huge. Really enormous. Thank God they kept the gold looked up while Obama was still running things! You need to have someone report the results of the count to you on Friday. That way it’s business. Otherwise the Fake News will be throwing up all over you and your lovely wife’s hashtags. Sad. And one more thing…”

“Yes, Sir?” Munchkin replied a second time.

“Let Cashbag know that I’m coming along.”

“Dad!” a voice wailed from the far side of the room. “When do we get to talk? G-Man Bob’s getting on my case. He’s picking on me again!”

“Wait a minute, dammit!” Big Tweety replied and gestured for L’il Tweety to sit down again. Then he rose from his chair behind the desk and bellowed at the top of his voice:

“Jiffy!”

“Excuse me?” Jiffy Sections stepped up to the desk.

“Not again! If you had told me that you were gonna excuse yourself, I’d have fired you!” Big Tweety fumed. “Before I even hired you! I don’t deal with losers, you know that. Unfair. Really unfair.”

Jiffy took a deep breath and began to defend himself. “Sir! You know that there is no one as supportive of you and your agenda for the American people as I am. Right from day one. But there are limits to what I can do. We as Americans are all bound by the Constitution. The law is above…”

“That’s over, Jiffy. All part of the swamp. It’s you and I who make the law, Jiffy! We do it better. Because we do it for the good of the American people. No one does it as well as we do. Because of me. People know that it’s because of me. Only because of me. You were unfair, everybody knows that. But it’s okay. People trust me. They know my judgement is the best. That’s why I can do absolutely anything I want! I can shoot a disabled minority asshole right in the middle of Times Square and the great American people, the ones who voted for me, they’ll love it. They’re the greatest. They’ll even blame Crooked Hillary, they’ll say that she sent him across the street. That’s because of trust. People trust me. Because I get things done. And you’re telling me that you can’t even tell goddamned G-Man Bob to take a hike? Sad.”

“No, Sir. I recused myself to avoid any semblance of impropriety or wrongdoing. To protect you, Sir. That’s why I can’t fire G-Man Bob. And why I won’t.”

“Well, how about your deputy, Rabble Rosenrouser? Just tell him to do it! Just don’t tell him that I told you to do so.”

Jiffy smiled benevolently while he replied: “But, Sir, that won’t make the problem go away.”

“Look, Rosenrouser helped when I needed to get rid of Leakin’ Homely! When he wasn’t loyal. Really a shame. I couldn’t leave him in that position. He was working for me. He owed me!”

“But you told everyone afterwards that it was your decision, Sir. Not Rosenrouser. That’s what got the Fake News guys all fired up.”

L’il Tweety had stepped up to the desk now as well and began blaring into Jiffy Sections’ ear.

“Listen, just fire the dumb bastard! Willya? He keeps threatening that he’s gonna bust me for getting together with that ballerina, the one who was trying to sell Girl Scout cookies on behalf of those poor, destitute Russian orphans.”

“And you met with her?” Big Tweety wanted to know from his son. “What’s her name? Do I know her?”

“It’s Anna Bolika, the famous ballerina!” L’il Tweety explained to his father. “You can’t not know her. She’s at least a nine!”

“So, she’s like… really hot?” Big Tweety wanted to know.

“The hottest! G-Man Bob is just jealous that he doesn’t get the chance to hit on her like I do!”

“Mr. President, Sir!” Little General John stepped up beside L’il Tweety and Jiffy. “As much as I share your confidence in L’il Tweety, we need to tread with extreme caution here…”

He paused to nod courteously in L’il Tweety’s direction.

“I understand everyone’s consternation, but G-Man Bob claims to have signed affidavits that your son was overheard loudly praising two redeeming qualities possessed by this young lady. Specifically, it was a left one and a right one. And he has testimony that after L’il Tweety had tried to touch her, umm… redeeming qualities without her explicit consent, he apparently suggested that he would walk her to a top floor bedroom of Tweety Towers if she would consent to what is perhaps best described as a one-on-one cultural exchange with him. All this might never have leaked out if she hadn’t slapped him so hard that it registered with the FEMA sensors half a mile away. That’s what got everyone’s attention. Several witnesses are testifying that a heated exchange was overheard between L’il Tweety and a hitherto unknown Russian female threatening to quote, unquote break his dipstick if he ever tried to grab her there again.”

“That was Obama. I can prove it!” Big Tweety growled, genuinely pissed now. “He wiretapped me. And my family. Pitiful. Really pitiful.”

“I didn’t even get a chance to grab her pussy! Because she kicked me first. Where it counts! Man, that hurt like hell! We oughta sue her ass right now!”

“Obama touched a hitherto unknown Russian female person?” Munchkin asked Big Tweety in a hushed tone of voice, awed by how much he was learning in his new government career.

Big Tweety frowned that L’il Tweety was acting like such a loser in front of his friends. Not good. Pondering this, he turned toward Munchkin and confirmed what he believed to have just overheard.

“That, too. And he wiretapped me! Just like the fucking Nazis used to do. Not nice.”

Big Tweety paused to stroke his chin thoughtfully.

“Why don’t we just pay her? You know, to go away. That’s always worked for me. Even at the university. People like money. Women, too. I know. In fact, I know it better than anybody. Just tell her Bitch be cool! Just like that scene in the movie. I love the way that sounds. And give her money.”

Little General John took a deep breath and waited patiently until all the banter had died down again before continuing.

“I’m afraid that we’re beyond the point where this might have been an option. If, indeed, it ever was one.”

“Money’s always an option!” Big Tweety scoffed.

“Perhaps, but like it or not, a subsequent FBI investigation revealed two very substantial findings: first off, Anna Bolika isn’t really blonde.”

“She’s not?” L’il Tweety exclaimed loudly, the surprise in his voice sounded painful.

“…and, secondly, she was not a famous ballerina but, in reality, a Siberian kickboxing champion who swooped up the coveted KGB cup three years in a row before being invited to be part of Vlad the Czar’s delegation on a fact-finding mission to Venice, during which the two of them were spotted bare-chested in extremely compromising circumstances on satellite pictures, discretely moonlighting on a gondola reputedly built to conceal a mysterious Russian nuclear submarine beneath. That is, when they weren’t busy, umm, frolicking like rabbits in a confessional booth during a private nighttime helicopter excursion they undertook to the Vatican. That, Sir, is the reason why G-Man Bob thinks that he is on to something. We don’t know the whole truth yet, and neither does he probably, but we’re reasonably certain that Anna Bolika doesn’t know beans about Girl Scout cookies.”

“Oh my God, that bitch probably got to see the Pope before poor Spikey did!” gasped Hookabee. “Godless or not, we’ve got to admit that those former commies are really on their toes!”

Upon hearing this unsettling state of affairs being related out of the mouth of his own Chief-of-Staff, Big Tweety began deeply pondering something of great significance.

“Tell me: how big was the goddamned thing? The gondola. Do you think it was as big as my yacht was? The Princess. Or even bigger? Nah. Hundred feet maybe? Fifty? Or was it two hundred? It couldn’t have been two-hundred-eighty-four feet, like my boat! No way. Mine was bigger. The biggest!”

“Why don’t we just go ahead and announce that the Princess is one thousand feet long?” ChillyAnne Convex suggested.

“A thousand feet?” Big Tweety was flabbergasted. “My ship was a thousand feet long?”

“Sure!” she replied. “We did a few alternative measurements and came to the conclusion that it was a thousand feet long. That puts it in a league all its own.”

“Huge!” Big Tweety began gushing. “My ship was huge. The hugest! I love it.”

Big Tweety jumped up and hugged ChillyAnne Convex in appreciation.

Just then the phone on Big Tweety’s desk rang. The black one, not the red one. Big Tweety rushed back to his desk and picked it up.