There was knock at the door.  ”What” yelled Stefani.

“Security,” announced a man’s voice through the closed door.  Stefani rose and opened the door.

“Yeah?” asked Stefani, standing in her underwear as she was scratching her right armpit with her left hand.

The security guard was taken aback by the bare appearance of Lady Gaga.

“You are going to have to vacate in thirty minutes,” said the security guard.

“What the fuck are you talking about?  This is my shit-hole dressing room.  I’m going decompress,” said Stefani.

“You can’t.  This is Derek Fisher’s room,” said the security guard, a tall African-American man.

“Who the fuck is Derek Fisker?” said Stefani.

“He’s a guard for the Lakers,” said Stefani.

“The Lakers.  Jesus Christ, is there like a fucking basketball game on tonight, huh?  No.  I doubt it.  So tell Derek Fisher to come back tomorrow,” said Stefani.

“No can do, ma’am,” said the security guard.  ”Basketball takes precedence over everything here,” said the guard.

“Well then tell him to come in with me here like this in my underwear, OK.  He won’t mind if I hang out while he does whatever he wants to do in this cinderblock prison cell,” said Stefani.

“He just wants to get into his closet and pull something out,” said the guard.

“Yeah, well, OK,” said Stefani.

“I’ll go tell him he can come,” said the guard.

The guard turned to go, and then stopped to address Lady Gaga.

“If you ask me, I think you should have gotten Record of the Year for Poker Face,” said the guard.

Stefani stood and looked at the guard.

“Oh yeah?” said Stefani.

“Yeah,” said the guard.

“You want to come in.  Join me for…for whatever,” said Stefani.

“Come in?”

“Yeah, like come into my dressing room.  I’m sure Derek whatever his name is can give us time to….you know,” said Stefani.

The security guard looked down the hallway.  He then looked at his watch.  Stefani walked into Room #34 and stood at the table next to her Grammy Awards.  She unsnapped her bra and it fell to the floor, exposing her breasts.  She then fingered her Grammy Awards.

“You want to touch them,” asked Lady Gaga.

The guard came into the room and shut the door.

Edwards:  So tell me, how did this tape get out, Rielle?…I saw you throw it in the garbage.  I saw you do it after we watched it, remember?…No, no, I distinctly remember you placing it in the garbage.  I did not tell you to preserve it…no…I was not stoned…I was not so stoned that I would forget such a thing…and by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up on getting the call from the National Enquirer.  What, the money I gave you was not enough?…forget it.  OK, just forget the fucking thing…Excuse me, what?  You want what?  Child support?  You fucking goddamn bitch…all the goddamn money you been taking is not enough?  Now you fucking want child support…great….don’t tell me what I can and can’t afford.  I did not want a child, Rielle…you are so fucking lucky there are laws….laws against murder, because I would break your fucking neck, do you hear me.  Too fucking bad we don’t live in Saudi Arabia…I’d be able to just get rid of this problem with one call.  Just one call I’d be able to lock you up or cut out your tongue.  So fuck you, and fuck your goddamn Frances, whatever her name is.

Edwards throws his Blackberry against the wall where it shatters.  He falls to the floor and grabs his forehead trying desperately not to cry.  He raises his head, takes a few deep breathes, and slowly rises.  He walks over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer revealing a small 22 caliber handgun.  He looks at it, standing, motionless, staring at the gun.  He then slams the drawer shut.

Hillary was alone in the backseat. The driver was Secret Service. In the passenger seat was another Secret Service agent. The side trip to the Walmart had been unplanned, and it threw a bit of chaos into the day because Hillary was not with any campaign staff, who were all waiting for her in Charleston at campaign headquarters. It was the Secret Service, the two in the front seat and the other two in the Chevrolet Suburban behind, that acted as Hillary’s traveling staff, helping her set up at Walmart and announcing Hillary’s presence to the Walmart store manager. The news media was there only because someone in Charleston had thought to send a wire out an hour before she arrived at the Walmart.

Hillary felt tired, her arms heavy, and she could hear herself breathing. As the car moved at sixty miles per hour down a long winding stretch of thick green backwoods, Hillary spotted the Green Tick Diner approaching on the side of the road.

“Stop at that diner. I need to go the bathroom,” said Hillary to the driver.

The Chevy Tahoe pulled into the lot, followed by the Suburban from behind.

The parking lot was empty but for three pickups, all from the 1960s and all Fords and all light blue. Hillary noted the near droning similarity that everything took on for her in West Virginia.

Hillary wanted to throw water on her face and maybe get a Coke. The protocol was that two Secret Service agents were to recon the diner before Hillary left the vehicle. The agent advised the waitress at the register that Mrs. Clinton was planning to use the bathroom. The waitress, maybe about fifty, wearing a red wig with a cigarette dangling from cracked red lips, nodded without any noticeable reaction to the famous visitor in the parking lot. Hillary entered the diner, smiled at the red-wigged waitress and was guided to the ladies room by one of the Secret Service agents. The agent had made certain the bathroom was empty and stood sentry at the door to prevent anyone from entering while Hillary was in the bathroom. As Hillary passed the Secret Service agent, he handed her a black can of Coke Zero which he had purchased from the dirty blond twenty-year old girl that worked the counter. Hillary grabbed the can of Coke Zero without eye contact as she passed the agent and entered door to the bathroom that shut behind her as she looked up into the diner’s ladies room.

The ladies room had three stalls and three sinks. The sinks were embedded in a grey linoleum counter top. The linoleum had the thin-lined boomerang shapes, each about the size of a paper clip, as if thrown on the top randomly. Hillary popped the Coke Zero’s top and took a long swig. She placed the can next to the sink and examined herself in the mirror. She had chosen the sink closest to the door, but it hardly mattered since the mirror she faced was cracked in various places, rivers of break lines running in all directions. One ran through the image of Hillary’s face as she noticed her makeup was caked and uneven from the nearly continuous wind she had faced all day in West Virginia.

She turned the faucet on and cupped her hands, collecting a small pool of cool water drawn from a well in the back of the diner. She splashed the water on her face and grabbed a paper towel from a stack lying on the counter top. She removed her makeup. She did not wish to be caught by the media without makeup, but it was unlikely the media would be anywhere near the Green Tick Diner. And quite frankly, she hated makeup. She found herself lopping on more and more of it to cover up more and more facial lines and hanging eye bags.

The toilet flushed. Hillary stood erect. The stall door, which was not shut, opened and out walked with a slow limp an old woman slumped forward, her head sticking out and down, the hump of her back nearly as high as the top of her skull, which peaked out through thinning silver hair. The old woman did not look at Hillary but moved slowly to the counter top, turned on the faucet and leaned on the linoleum with twisted hands. She was wearing blue jeans and frayed converse sneakers. The jean were cut about two inches above the ankle, exposing very pale skin treaded with blue veins. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt covered with a brown leather jacket.

Hillary glanced at the door with a moment of surprise, half expecting the Secret Service Agent to pop his head in. But the old woman made no noise that would have brought the agent rushing into the bathroom. Hillary relished these private moments, and so was irritated that the agent had not cleared the bathroom. How had he missed this old woman? She thought it was possible that the agent merely noted that each stall door was open and assumed that no one was sitting on any of the toilets. Well, I guess in West Virginia closing a stall door is not customary, Hillary thought.

“You that Clinton chick?” said the old woman as she was looking down at the water running down the drain. The old woman’s body position had not changed since she found her support on the linoleum counter top. It seemed like she was fighting some uncomfort or pain.

Hillary resisted a response. But that would be impolite, and as much as she had been accused of lacking any sense of civility, it was her inclination to be gracious.

“Yes,” said Hillary.

“What you doing here?” said the old woman.

“Well, there’s a primary today, and I am campaigning,” said Hillary.

“They’re ain’t nobody lives in this part,” said the old woman.

“We are driving to Charleston where my campaign headquarters is located,” said Hillary.

“Charleston folk are a bunch of crap-eaters,” said the old woman.

Hillary had never heard the term “crap-eaters” and wanted to ask, but she was then caught off guard.

“Hey, you ain’t that Hillary chick. That Hillary chick is an old hag. You trying to mess with me?” said the old woman as she glared at Hillary.

“No. No. I am Hillary Clinton,” said Hillary.

The old woman stared at Hillary, squinting her eyes.

“Hey, yeah, OK, I see it. You just ain’t got makeup on, is that it? You don’t look half bad without that shit on your face,” said the old woman.

“Thank you,” said Hillary.

“I voted for the black guy. What’s his name?” asked the old woman.

“You voted?” said Hillary.

“At the firehouse. This morning. Voted for the black guy. O somethin’,” said the old woman.

“Obama,” said Hillary.

“Yeah. Him. People ’round here don’t like the black guy cause he’s skinny and always smilin’,” said the old woman.

“Is that right?’ said Hillary.

“Shit. I need a drink. S’pose you could drop me at Bunn’s Bar down the road?” asked the old woman.

Hillary was inclined to tell the old woman that she was in a rush. But that would make no sense, and the old woman seemed to have an accurate bullshit meter.

“I need a drink too,” said Hillary.

“Nah. Bunn’s not for you. It’s filthy. Dirty shit all round. The crap-eaters in Charleston have plenty of clean bars fit for you,” said the old woman.

“What do you drink?” asked Hillary.

“Gin. Gin stinks, and I like to be reminded I’m a drunk. The crap-eaters in Charleston don’t smell their own shit. I like to smell mine. So can you drop me? At Bunn’s? It’s on the way,” asked the old woman.

Hillary really wanted to go to Bunn’s Bar and hang with this old woman for most of the night. She needed a gin too, though she preferred vodka.

“Sure. We’ll drop you off,” said Hillary.

“I voted for the black guy. I ain’t apologizin’. Just saying I voted for the black guy. To be different. And he’s different, you know,” said the old woman.

“Yes. I know. I know,” said Hillary.

The unpredictability did not limit it self to sex. You could not pin Billy Bob down on his politics, either. Some days he sounded like the true blue Hollywood Democrat, and on other days Billy Bob was a shotgun toting redneck Republican right out of a trailer park in Texas.

Angelina massaged her forehead thinking that she never had Billy Bob moments with Brad. Brad Pitt, the scion of predictability. Always the missionary position, always with the same exercise routine, always trying to be the politically correct father, always trying to be the politically correct Hollywood Democrat. And always getting angry at predictable moments. Angelina would always know when it was coming. With Billy Bob, his anger was totally unpredictable. Billy Bob could break a table because the waffles were over-cooked or under-cooked, or because the pillows were not fluffy or too fluffy, or because Angelina had not washed her hair or had washed it too much. Angelina never knew what was going to set Billy Bob off. God, she missed those times.

And so what was Brad yelling about? She had predicted it. Brad had been saying that they should get involved with the upcoming presidential race between the Democratic candidates (of course, only the Democratic candidates), and so he asked her which Democrat would she support. Angelina had not thought about it, actually thought it was too early to get involved. But she told Brad that she thought Barack Obama was cuter than Hillary Clinton but that Edwards was too cute. Brad took that as Angelina’s political support for Obama. And so the next day, Bard Pitt came out publicly for Obama and offered to campaign for him. The Obama campaign politely declined, thinking Pitt too Hollywood, and Brad was all in a twit about it.

“Why didn’t you support me with the Obama thing? I look like a fool. Fuck, you have me do things and then I look like the asshole. Carrying the fucking babies around. Hauling your shit from one airport to the next. I am sick of it,” yelled Brad.

“I love you, baby,” said Angelina. She said it like she said it in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, the feature film Brad and she made together. Brad was fun back when they made that movie. But it was all play, shooting guns and fighting with each other was like one long fuck fest for Angelina. Though at times she had Billy Bob on her mind when they were throwing punches and pressing their lips together on the set. But Angelina knew that when she reverted to her character in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Brad quieted down, predictably.

“I love you too. So what are we doing today?” asked Brad.

“I’m going to take a shower baby and then we’ll go back to LA. How’s that?” asked Angelina.

“You’re the best,” said Brad.

Angelina rose from the toilet, turned on the shower, and got in, washing herself with the large bar of soap that she had purchased earlier that week. It was the kind of soap that Billy Bob liked. Angelina’s massive head of hair got wet and she let her head fall back and felt the hot water run down her large breasts and pretended they were Billy Bob’s hands.

“Harold.”

Harold woke and felt the crick in his neck and the sting in his throat, a result of the slumped head and the dry snoring. He cleared his eyes. It was President George Bush. He was holding in his right hand two keys on a chrome key ring.

“I got them,” said President Bush.

Harold stood; slowly, since that is really the only way Harold could move these days.

“Got what, sir,” said Harold with dish towel still in hand.

“The keys to the wine cellar. Got them from Peterson. Had him make me a set,” said Bush.

The President tossed Harold the keys, who dropped the dish towel to catch the keys which were thrown a bit too fast for Harold’s taste.

“Go get me a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio. Dry. Very dry,” said the President. “I’ll just grab a glass and sit here at the counter.”

Bush sat on a wooden stool at the center island butcher block counter that contained the large stainless steel sink.

Harold walked to the end of the room where the wooden door to the walk-in refrigerator stood like a prison door. The keys were Medeco, and the wood door indeed had two dead bolt locks. Why two Harold had no idea. He had seen Mr. Anderson open the door and remove wine and bottles of vodka, but he had never been inside himself. The keys went in like butter, and the bolts turned smoothly. He then pulled the large horizontal wood handle toward him which was at waist hight and the door opened. A rush of cold air hit Harold in the face. A series of three light bulbs automatically went on as Harold entered the refrigerator. There were two wine racks on either side of the room, running the length to the end about twelve feet. On the far wall was a portrait of what appeared to Harold to be Ulysses S. Grant. There were hundreds of bottles of wine. Harold fingered a few of them, but there were just too many to try to find a dry Pinot Grigio. In fact, he wouldn’t necessarily know a Pinot Grigio from a Chardonney.

“Having trouble?”

Bush stood at the refrigerator door.

“Well, sir, I just wouldn’t know…I am not sure where to start looking,” said Harold.

“Hey, look at that. Is that Grant? Watching over the White House booze. That’s funny,” said Bush as he grabbed two bottles off the rack. “Here we go. Two Chardonneys. And they are dry. Dry enough. Let’s close this up and have ourselves a drink,” said the President as he walked out of the refrigerator.

Harold followed President Bush out, closed the heavy wood door and locked the dead bolts. By the time Harold walked back to the kitchen center island, President Bush has already had one of the bottles open with a full glass of wine in a glass tumbler. Harold noticed that the President was not sipping but gulping. And in one quickk clip, Mr. Bush was already pouring himself a second glass.

“Want some, there, Harold?” asked Bush.

“No, sir,” said Harold.

“Hey, I’m the President. You got to drink when I ask you to,” said Bush.

Harold did not know what to say. He had had a rule all his life: one never drinks on the job…never. His father taught him that by drinking himself to death. And so Harold made sure to keep his work very far from drink.

“Just kidding, Harold,” said Bush as he downed another glass. “You got those keys?” asked Bush

“Yes, sir,” said Harold as he placed the refrigerator keys on the butcher block next to the President.

Harold noticed that the bottle of Chardonney that the President had opened was almost empty.

“You know I don’t regret a thing. Not a thing. I’m President. You can’t get any higher than that. You can’t have more success than that. I am at the top, there, Harold. The tippy top. Yeah, OK, yeah I made a few mistakes. But everyone makes…yeah, everyone everyone. I’m not the only one, Harold. I mean I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t raped a woman. I have never hit my wife. Never. Never would do that

The President stood, more slowly and uncertainly than Harold did when he got up from his stainless steel chair.

“You finish the bottle. And put the other one back in the…hey, you here tomorrow night, Harold?” asked the President.

“Yes, sir,” said Harold.

“Good. Good. You’re a good man. You started with Reagan, right?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harold.

“He was a good man too. He was a good man. You’re a good man. And, hey, yeah, I ‘m a good man. I’m headin’ up. Upstairs. Got a day tomorrow, you know. Got a day,” said President Bush as he walked down the corridor that led to the stairwell to the upper levels of the White House.

Harold stood for a moment. He grabbed the nearly empty bottle of Chardonney, poured out the remaining wine into the sink and through the bottle in the recycle bin. He then washed the President’s tumbler. Afterall, that was his job. That was Harold James Hoey’s job, to wash the President’s ’s dirty dinnerware.

Harold had a simple but important job. He was on the night staff and worked the several floors that formed the basement and sub-basement to the executive complex. There were three sub-basements under the White House, one of which was connected to a corridor that led under the White House lawn to the Old Executive Office Building. The corridor was under constant surveillance and had four Marine guards at each of the two entrances, one at the White House and the other at the Executive Office Building. Harold James Hoey was not permitted to enter the White House in any manner except for the underground corridor. This was not always true. Reagan had permitted Harold Hoey and the new staff at the time to enter the White House like kings through the same entrance as international dignitaries and Congressional guests. This practice continued until the Summer of 2000 when Vice President Dick Cheney changed the White House access protocol. Instead of entering the White House like royalty, Harold now entered it like a rat in a sewer. But he did not complain. Harold James Hoey, who was 42 years old at the time he was hired by Reagan, was now 65 years old, and he feared that any complaints uttered would certainly get him layed off into forced retirement.

Indeed, Harold’s job description had slowly changed over the years. Originally, Harold was responsible for organizing and cleaning the three sub-basement floors and monitoring the various rooms and hallways for the specific purpose of making certain things looked neat. If there was something out of place, it was Harold’s job to either make it right or report it, certainly if there was anything odd about it he had to report it, like when a red Lands End backpack was left ominously in the middle of Corridor D. It would not have been so ominous, but the initials embroidered on the backpack were “DTH.” Harold knew that if you remove the vowels from the word “death” you get “dth.” So he called up to one of the Marine stations and the bomb squad arrived in four minutes. It was filled with a pocket dictionary, a paperback James Patterson Alex Cross mystery novel, a cell phone and a Filofax. The “DTH” were the initials of David Theodore Howard, the son of Thomas Howard, a White House staff member. Thomas Howard was reading the Patterson paperback. No bomb. A false alarm. Those were the exciting days. But no longer. Because Harold James Hoey was no assigned to one task and one task only: to clean up and wash the dirty dishes of all White House meals. Most of these dishes accumulated thoughout the day, and they made their way down to the kitchen that was on first, that is the highest, sub-basement floor. The sub-basement kitchen was one of three in the White House, but it was the kitchen that contained the wine cellar and the walk-in refrigerator/freezer. This is where Harold James Hoey at 2:30 in the morning on Thursday, October 11, 2007 met George W. Bush.

Bush arrived in a pale blue terry cloth bathrobe and walking in fire-engine red plastic Crocs with a small American flag pegged into one of the holes in the head of his left Croc. Harold was washing dishes in the large aluminum sink that was on an island in the middle of the kitchen. The sink was hung from a butcher block counter. Harold did not recognize the President at first. he thought it was a homeless person that had wandered into the kitchen, as impossible as that would be.

“Hi. What’s your name?” asked George W. Bush.

“Oh. Oh, jeez. Sorry. Hello, sir. I didn’t recognize you…in your…” said Harold, not being able to finish the sentence.

“So do you have one?” asked the President.

“Have what, sir?” asked Harold.

“A name.”

“Oh. Jeez. I’m sorry. It’s Harold. Harold James Hoey,” said Harold.

“Well, Harold, you got any Pinot Grigio?” asked the President.

“Ahhh…well, yeah, I guess so. I am not usually in charge of the liquor, sir,” said Harold.

“It’s in there, right,” the President said as he pointed to the stainless steel door of the walk-in refrigerator.

“No, sir. The beer would be in there. The wine is in the wine cellar, which is there,” said Harold, referencing a wood door at the end of the kitchen.

“There’s a security camera in the wine cellar. Twenty four hour fee. I don;t want to be caught on that camera. So could you grab me a bottle of Pinot Grigio? For me, Harold,” said the President.

“Well, sure, but you know there’s a key to it, and Mr. Anderson has the key,” said Harold.

“Damn. Damn all this security. They have to lock up the wine, don;t they. Bastards,” said the President.

“You want a beer, sir? The refrigerator is not locked,” said Harold.

“No. I am on the wagon when it comes to beer. Don’t touch it anymore,” said the President.

“OK,” said Harold.

“When does Anderson start?” asked the President.

“That would be at six, sir. Six AM,” said Harold.

“You here most nights, there, Harold?” asked the President.

“Yes, sir. I have the night shift ‘cept for Friday and Saturday,” said Harold.

“Good. We are going to become friends, Harold. “I’ll see to it you get a key. A key to the wine cellar. Got it,” said the President.

“OK. OK, sir,” said Harold.

President George Bush turned and walked out of the kitchen. Harold shook his head to make certain he was not dreaming. And then he returned to washing the pile of dishes.

“You have a visitor,” said Coen.

“Yeah. Who?” asked Clooney as he sat back in the plastic chair, adjusting his torso to purposely indicate he was not happy with the furniture.

“It’s a little weird, but it is the First Lady,” said Coen.

“What? Who? What first lady?” said Clooney, glancing in the mirror and seeing city grime on his face. Clooney picked up a rag and wiped his face, not fully comprehending what Coen was telling him.

“Laura Bush is waiting outside the trailer and she would like to meet you,” said Coen.

“Laura…you’re joking? She wants to meet me?” asked Clooney.

“Yeah. And the Secret Service wants to scan the trailer first before she comes in here,” said Coen.

“Tell her to visit Pitt’s trailer.” said Clooney.

The trailer door opened and a man in a black suit and tie wearing Ray Bans stepped inside. With the confidence of someone carrying a gun, the Ray Ban man stood erect and surveyed the inside of Clooney’s trailer. Coen moved out of the way.

“Hey buddy, you didn’t knock,” said Clooney.

The Ray Ban man ignored Clooney, unimpressed with the movie star or the fact that Ethan Coen was standing by. Ray Ban man opened the trailer door.

“It’s safe. Bring in the First Lady,” said Ray Ban man. Ray Ban turned to Ethan Coen. “You come outside.”

Coen turns to Clooney and smiled and then followed Ray Ban man out of the trailer.

“What if I want him to stay, asshole,” yelled Clooney.

In walked Laura Bush wearing a dark blue skirt with a navy blazer and white blouse.

“Hello, Mr. Clooney. It is a privilege to meet you,” said Laura.

“I am not certain what to say. Your visit has taken me by surprise,” said Clooney.

Clooney realized that he had remained seated at the arrival of the First Lady. Since Clooney considered himself a gentlemen, he stood.

“I do apologize for my sudden appearance, but I was in Brooklyn visiting with elementary school children, and I thought I would take the opportunity to meet my favorite actor,” said Laura.

“Well, OK. Thank you,” said Clooney. Clooney literally did not know what to say to Laura but for to express his anger at her husband, but he thought that might not be appropriate.

“You are working on a movie with the Coen Brothers. I like their work,” said Laura.

Clooney was a tad taken aback by Laura’s awareness of anything Hollywood. And the fact that she had an opinion about the movies of the Coen Brothers, not to mention liking their work, was also a surprise.

“You are a movie fan?” asked Clooney.

“Who isn’t,” said Laura.

“How do you do it, Mrs. Bush?” asked Clooney, who couldn’t help himself.

“Do what?” asked Laura.

“Live with him, your husband,” said Clooney. The moment the words came out of his mouth, he regretted it. It sounded so classless, and Clooney was a man with class. But then, Laura was married to a man Clooney believed had done tremendous damage to the United States as well as the world, and so maybe the First Lady should not expect to avoid such queries.

“It is difficult at times,” said Laura.

Clooney’s eyes went wide. He could not believe that the First Lady had responded with what had to be an honest remark.

“I’m sorry. I should not have asked such a question,” said Clooney.

“No. It’s OK. My husband does not permit me to speak to him about politics. And so I am left with talking privately to my friends. And daughters,” said Laura.

“Well, your husband would probably benefit by hearing your opinion,” said Clooney.

“You do not know what my opinion is, Mr. Clooney,” said Laura.

“I am going to guess you are not happy with things the way they are. I bet you think Iraq was a monumental mistake that will stain the Bush name forever in the history books,” said Clooney with some trepidation that he was wandering a bit too far down this road.

It is odd. My husband takes solace that there will be some future historian who will find the good in his administration. It somehow keeps him on the path that he is on,” said Laura.

“If you broke your husband’s rule, Laura, and talked to him about what is happening today rather than seeking cover in some future history book that has yet to be written, do you think he would listen? For god’s sake, we are just making everything a be fucking mess,” said Clooney. Whoops. He didn’t mean to swear. “Sorry about that,” said Clooney.

“I will not break my husband’s rule while he is still in office. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate all your movies, and I encourage you to keep making them. They are powerful. Now I must leave. It was nice meeting you,” said Laura as she turned, opened the trailer door and walked out.

“Yes, it was nice…meeting you to,” said Clooney as the door shut.

Ahmad walked into the bedroom.

“She is here,” said Ahmad.

“She is early,” said Mahmoud.

“Should I send her in?” asked Ahmad.

“Yes,” said Mahmoud.

Ahmad walked out of the bedroom. Mahmoud felt his beard and opened his bathrobe a touch to give it a more relaxed appearance. And then she walked in.

“Hello your excellency,” said Ann Hart Coulter, wearing a simple black dress cut to above her knees, with a white pearl necklace and white pearl bracelet. Her very long pale legs were supported by black high heels just short of being stilettos.

“Please, call me Mahmoud.”

“Yes, of course. And you can call me Ann.”

“I understand you have expressed the opinion that Christians are perfected Jews. I agree with this,” said Mahmoud.

“Yes. The New Testament is a more highly evolved document than the Old Testament, a perfecting of the Hebrew Bible,” said Ann.

“Yes. And I might add that the Koran is a more highly evolved document than the New Testament,” said Mahmoud.

“Ahhh, Muslims are perfected Christians?” asked Ann with a smile on her face.

“Let us not dwell on our differences. Let us enjoy each other’s commonalities,” said Mahmoud.

Ann was surprised that Mahmoud’s English was so good. It had been an international secret that Mahmoud was fluent in spoken English, though he had difficulty reading it.

“The planet would be more perfect without Jews,” said Ann.

“I never said that. It is you who concentrate on the superiority of one religion over another,” said Mahmoud.

“So what are our commonalities, Mahmoud,” asked Ann.

“I understand you wish to make love with me,” said Mahmoud.

“What? I am offended. I am here to talk. To learn. Whatever made you think that I would want to make love with you?” said Ann.

“I am very sorry if I misunderstood your intentions,” said Mahmoud.

“You would not have sex with me anyway. You are a married man. And I am not a Muslim. So the point is moot,” said Ann.

“You do not know the Koran, a book that governs every aspect of my life. But there are varying interpretations as to the applicability of some laws when a Muslim man stands on non-Muslim ground,” said Mahmoud.

“Really. Like what?” asked Ann.

“I am permitted to have sexual intercourse with you in this bedroom right now,” said Mahmoud.

“Right now? You mean there is like a Koranic time loophole that has opened this evening,” asked Ann.

“Time and place,” said Mahmoud. “Please, remove your clothing. I would like to see your body,” said Mahmoud.

“I do not think so. This is totally ridiculous. I would never…”

“Please, please. You are very attractive. Iranian women do not have such blond long hair as you. I wish to see more of it. I wish to touch it. Consider it a place where our civilizations can come together. Do not be so prudish,” said Mahmoud.

“I am not a prude,” protested Ann.

“You are very thin. Your skin is very taught. Your eyes are big. And your voice quivers. May I touch your breasts?” asked Mahmoud.

“No. Absolutely…OK, look, you can touch my hair. You want to touch my hair?” asked Ann.

Mahmoud took a few steps toward Ann, who was six inches taller than the President. The President of Iran extended his right index finger and gently pushed Ann’s golden hair back behind her left ear. He then moved his face toward her and paused about an inch away. Ann’s eyes closed. Mahmoud closed the inch and kissed Ann on the lips. The kiss was long, and Ann responded by opening her mouth. Mahmoud’s arms slowly wrapped around Ann’s javelin frame and he pulled her tight as they merged their mouths as if eating each other. Ann placed her arms around Mahmoud. Mahmoud suddenly pushed her away and backed off. Ann’s eyes shot open.

“Never, never place your arms around me,” said Mahmoud.

“Sorry,” said Ann.

“Now we shall make love. Remove your clothes. Please, Ann. I ask you to share with me your passion,” said Mahmoud, recovering from his minor outburst in an attempt to salvage the possibilities.

Ann screamed and shot up in bed. It was a good scream, the kind that one would have if jogging themselves out of a wet dream, which is what Ann just did in the middle of the night in her bedroom. Wow, Ann thought. What a dream. She was breathing heavily and sweating. She turned to the digital clock on her night table which read 3:36 AM. Ann Hart Coulter let out a lungful of air and did not think she could get back to sleep. Not after that orgasm, which was one of the best ones she has had in a few years, she thought. Fuck it. She had to sleep. Ann was giving a speech tomorrow on the moral degradation of the Democrats and she had to look good and be on top of her game. Anyway, maybe if she was lucky she could return to that dream she was having. Damn that was a good dream. International sex, she thought, between two very intelligent and misunderstood people. Ann closed her eyes and lied back into her pillow and fell rapidly to sleep.

The late afternoon sunlight made puzzle shadows on the Persian carpet as Grace’s bare feet touched the floor. She hoisted up so her spine was against the dark green fabric of the couch back. She was now sitting up. She glanced at the six or seven prescription bottles on the Mission end table to her right. Back in 2006, Grace suffered with diverticulitis of the large intestine. But after the surgery, she had an unexplained relapse that forced the hospital to place her in a medically-induced coma for two months. The procedure made it difficult for Grace to walk, and since then had been on many prescription drugs, including pain medication. And she used a cane. The pain in her left hip was bad this afternoon, but she was averse to taking any more medication. Afterall, that is why she had slept for most of the day.

Grace looked at the oil painting on an easel she had been working on for months. It was a painting of Jim Morrison. Grace had three evenings of wild sex with Jim Morrison back in 1968, and Grace was trying to paint something that represented those three evenings. This was not easy since she did not remember much of it. The drugs. The alcohol. At least one or both of them. Morrison could not have remembered much of it either since he was tripping on something.

A loud whack of the large bronze door knocker came from the front door, which she could see from the couch. Who could that be? No one came to Grace’s house unannounced. She was slow to get up, and then the door was whacked again, only this time in threes and louder.

“OK, OK, I’m coming?” said Grace as she walked with her oak cane capped with a red crystal sphere.

Grace opened the door. Two men dressed in black suits and wearing sunglasses with their hands clasped in front stood at attention.

“This the Slick residence?” asked the one on the left.

“Yes. What is this about?” asked Grace.

“Are you Grace Slick?” asked the one on the right.

“Yes. Yes. What do you gentlemen want?” asked Grace with a stern voice that did not have the same strength as back in the days when she was singing with the Jefferson Airplane.

The suit on the right pushed passed Grace and walked into the house. The suit on the left stayed immediately outside the front door.

“Hey, you cannot just come in here. I’m going to call the police,” said Grace. Grace was worried. Had she not paid her taxes? Do they know that some of her pain medication was obtained over the internet from Canada in not the most legal of means.

The suit in the house walked around, poking his head in the kitchen, he opened the bathroom door, a closet door. He paused at the oil painting of the Morrison-Slick sexual encounters. He pulled out a walkie. “Everything seems to be safe here. You can bring him in,” said the suit into the walkie talkie.

“Bring who in?” asked Grace.

The sun was low and was bursting through the front door, silhouetting the man who walked in. When he stepped deeper into the great room where Grace’s couch and painting were, Grace focussed her eyes on the man. She could now see his face. One suit remained inside the house, the other outside. Grace saw other vehicles in the circular driveway, as well as other suits ambling around the grounds, all with there hands clasped in front, as if they were robots.

Grace felt like this must be a dream. Some kind of dream. Here right in front of her was a man she thought to be, it certainly looked like, yes, it is the….no, it couldn’t be. It is the damn pain medication. She was delirious.

“So I finally get to meet the famous Grace Slick,” said the man.

“OK. OK. I think you do a great impression of President Bush. That is cool….but….”

“You use a cane? But I can still see the Grace Slick I had a crush on. Oh, wow. This is…this is amazing to me,” said George W. Bush.

“This is not happening. You are not Bush. This is all some kind of fucking mind trip. You are with the media? Rolling Stone? Blender? Spin? You assholes have been trying to get in here for years. Well, fuck you. Tell me where you are from?” asked Grace Slick.

“I am trying to wrap up stuff, you know, for myself, during my last year…my last year as President. Meet the people that influenced me. That changed me on some level. You are one of those people,” said President Bush.

“What? Me? I changed you? This is like a joke, right?” said Grace.

“White Rabbit. That song White Rabbit changed my life. I still have the very same Surrealistic Pillow album. It’s in the Oval Office. I keep it their for good luck,” said Bush.

“OK. That’s good to know,” said Grace, flummoxed beyond comprehension. She had now come to the conclusion that this was indeed the President of the United States. And it appeared to her, at least, that the man had lost his mind. The world was falling apart, she thought, and here Bush was in her house talking about a song she wrote back in late 1965 for the group she was with before the Jefferson Airplane called The Great Society.

“And Alice In Wonderland is my favorite novel,” said President Bush. “You know I have been reading a lot of biographies of Presidents. They were actually very very boring reads. I skipped a lot. My life, well…anyway, I went back to Alice In Wonderland a few weeks ago. Read it on Air Force One. There’s a lot in there,” said Bush.

“So why exactly are you here, again?” asked Grace.

The hookah-smoking caterpillar…I just love the lyrics. White Rabbit builds and builds to its finale, until you sing “Remember what the Dormouse said. Feed your head. Feed your head Love it, just love it,” added George like a high school kid.

Grace was feeling weak in the knees, and so backed up and sort of plunged back onto the couch.

“I can see you have had some medical problems. Alcohol. I know about that. But we both licked it. We both licked it. We have a lot in common, Ms. Slick. And I wanted to thank you for all the fantasies you gave me. You were really my first crush. Oh boy, did I want to…well, you know. I was young. I just wanted to meet you, touch you. And here you are, right in front of me. I am so lucky,” said Bush.

Grace stared at Bush. She was not angry. She was not sad. On some level, she felt special, like possibly a new chapter in her very tired life might be forming. But then, why would she want any chapter to be with this man. Then she had a rush of anxiety, like this was some mind trick. The Xanax. Where had she put the Xanax.

“I can see that you are having some difficulties. But I wanted to tell you thank you. Thank you for being you, for having that great voice, for writing and singing White Rabbit. It fed my head alright. And when the polls show that I am like in the trash heap, I blast White Rabbit on my stereo in the Oval Office. Dick. Dick Cheney hates the song. Screw him,” said George.

“We have to go, sir,” said the suit in the house.

“We probably will not ever meet again, but I consider this to be a supreme pleasure,” said Bush as he glanced over at the oil painting. “What’s this of? This your work?” asked Bush.

“Yeah,” said Grace. “It’s Jim Morrison and me fucking each other over a three-night drunken weekend in London back in 1968.”

“Really. Really. Damn, I wanted to be Jim Morrison so bad. Just for like a week. Got to go,” George said as he offered his hand to Grace. Grace reached up, and then shook hands briefly. George turned and walked toward the door.

“Who else you seeing on your little last-year-of-the-Presidency tour,” asked Grace.

George W. Bush turned his head just as the suit in the house was about to follow him out.

“Micky Dolenz. He was the coolest Monkee. I hear he’s in New York now,” said Bush.

The President walked out the door, followed by the suit who shut the oak door from behind. Grace lied back down on the couch, but she did not have the energy to lift her legs, her bare feet remaining on the carpet. She closed her eyes and dreamed what the world would be like if she had never written White Rabbit.

George had the White House staff install a Sony Blu-Ray deck together with a fifty-inch high definition LG liquid crystal display which sat on an oak wood stand, the deck immediately below on a shelf. As George played with his belly fat, he held in his right hand a remote control. To the left of him on the bed, sat the DVD case for the documentary, if that is what it can be called, of The Secret. George watched the DVD a few nights ago, at midnight, of course, while he was eating ice cream and hallah swabbed with butter. The Secret had captivated the President, and he was watching it again. But this time he insisted that General David Patraeus watch it with him.

General Patraeus was standing, fully dressed in his uniform, as he always did the few times he had visited the President at the White House. The General had never been in the Lincoln Bedroom before, and he felt it would be disrespectful to sit in the very room where President Abraham Lincoln had his office. In fact, the General thought it quite inappropriate that Presidential guets were having sexual congress in the room where a President did his work. But maybe he was not in touch with the times. Afterall, here was the current President in his skivvies sitting on the edge of the bed with legs dangling off the mattress which was elevated like old beds often were, so much so that George W. Bush’s socked feet were a good six inches off the floor. The President had his ankles crossed and he was beating them backward and forward as he spoke.

“I think I have found the answer to our problems in Iraq,” said President Bush.

“Yes, sir,” answered the General in a manner that was filled with cautious anticipation.

“I listened very carefully to your testimony before Congress. It was negative,” said the President.

“Negative, sir? I thought it was honest, but as optimistic as I felt I could be,” said the General.

“That’s the problem. This DVD here. On my new Blu-Ray player. It’s pretty cool. See the picture. So it is all about the Law of Attraction. OK, it is a Law of the Universe. And it is something we need to incorporate into our war plans,” said President George W. Bush.

“I’m not familiar with this Law. Is it a Christian doctrine?” asked the General.

“No. No. I am not giving you any of that evangelical whatever. It is a physical law. A law of science. Listen. It is simple. You think positive thoughts, you think that good things will come to you, then good things come to you. Those thoughts make you attract good things, get it?” said the President.

“OK. Yes. My father had Norman Vincent Peales’s book The Power of Positive Thinking. Is that what you mean, sir?” asked the General.

“No. No. That was about how you can pick up girls, I think. This is about becoming a billionaire or winning wars. We need to have everyone of our troops watch this DVD and starting thinking of winning the hearts and minds of the Iraqis. Of winning the war. If they think it, they will be come magnets for the very thing they are thinking about,” said Bush.

“We have over 130,000 troops, sir. How do you expect me to set it up so that they all can watch this video?” asked General David Patraeus.

“General, please. We send over thousands of DVD players. No Blu-Rays, like this. Just plain ones. Plus thousands of this DVD. Do it on, I don;t know, on rotation, when they get a day break, or something. But they need to watch this right away. It might be our only hope,” said the President.

“Sir, if I may ask, we are still waiting for Hummvees with under-carriage shields as well as full Kevlar body armor,” said the General.

“If your guys think about love, they will get love and not bullets. They will not need the Kevlar body thing,” said the President.

The General did not respond. General Patraeus had recently watched the movie Hitler: The Last Ten Days starring Alec Guinness. Oddly, he watched the movie on an old VHS deck at his home with his wife Holly. Holly insisted that her husband watch the movie. Sir Alec Guinness, thought the General, portrayed a man who had lost touch with reality, and no one was willing to tell him. Holly would not say why she wanted her husband to watch the movie. She just said it was important. And so David watched it. They went to bed early. But David could not sleep that night. Neither could Holly. They did not speak of what they were thinking. And now General David Patraeus was stanidng before the Presient in his boxer shorts and he was reluctant to tell Mr. Bush what he was racing through his mind.

“You listening to me, General?” asked President Bush in a strident voice.

“Yes. Yes, sir. I will consult with our commanders on how to coordinate the distribution of these DVDs so that our troops can have the guidance you seek for them,” said the General. he did not believe he just said what he said. But he said it. He was hoping the President would come to his senses, and someone else would talk him out of the idea. If the DVDs never arrived, then he would not have to deal with the issue.

“Good. This is the answer. This is the answer to all those cowards in Congress who fear that we do not have a plan to win. Who do not have the fortitude to win this war. America never gives up. At least this President won’t,” said the President as he turned up the volume on the LCD display.

“I like this part, General. See how she gets the jewelry she was imagining she would get. She thought of having jewelry, and so she attracted it,” said the President as he stared at the monitor.

“Yes, sir,” said the General. “Yes, sir.”