George Bush sat on the love seat in the Lincoln Bedroom. Opposite him was Donald Rumsfeld sitting in a chair. George was in his underwear, briefs, with a sleeveless t-shirt. Donald was dressed in white tennis shorts, white socks, white Nike tennis shoes, a grey polo shirt and he was holding a squash racket, bouncing a squash ball up and down effortlessly with the racket. Though George kept looking at the bed to his right, the bed where Abraham Lincoln’s son dies, the bed at the foot of which Abraham Lincoln’s autopsy was performed after he was shot at Ford’s Theater. George kept looking at the bed and thinking that Paris Hilton was lying on it in the nude. He wondered what Paris would look like in the nude. Would she be so skinny that she would look anorexic? Or would she have some meat on her, a bit of muscle evidencing a modicum of exercise other than dancing?
“I won today,” said Donald Rumsfeld.
“What?” asked George Bush.
“Squash. I beat my nephew,” said Donald.
“Good. That’s good,” said George as he glanced back at the bed.
“If you acknowledge it’s a civil war that means your presidency has been a failure,” said Donald.
“What?” asked George.
“Americans will not permit its boys and girls to be in the middle of someone else’s civil war. Iraq will have been a failure,” said Donald.
“I agree,” said a female voice.
“What?” George said as he glanced to his right at the bed. It was Paris Hilton. She was naked except for pink panties. Paris was holding a small digital camera and she was snapping pictures of George and Donald and she sat on her knees on top of the white puffy blanket.
“I said I agree,” said Paris.
“What are you doing here?” asked George of Paris.
“You asked me to come,” said Donald.
“What? No not you. Her,” said George pointing to the bed.
“Who?” said Donald.
“Her. Right there. On the bed,” said George.
“You feeling OK?” asked Donald.
“Tell that old geezer you feel just fine,” said Paris.
George looked over at Paris. “Smile,” said Paris as she snapped a picture. George smiled.
“I feel just fine,” said George.
“Getting back to Iraq, it is important that you salvage some good that was added to the world, to the United States, and define that goodness as part of an Iraq pull back,” said Donald.
“Ahhh, that’s such bullshit, George,” said Paris. “You made a mistake. Admit you made a mistake. And pull our troops out,” said Paris.
“I made a mistake,” said George.
“We don’t have to go there,” said Donald.
“Georgie, Georgie, go there. Go there. Ask yourself, how did you stop drinking?” asked Paris.
“I faced the truth,” said George.
“OK. You can face it, Mr. President, but face it privately,” said Donald.
“Did you go to any AA meetings, Georgie?” asked Paris.
“No,” said George.
“Did you tell Laura you were an alcoholic,” asked Paris.
“I told Laura, said George.
“Telling Laura is one thing, telling the public is another,” said Donald.
“Look where the old geezer got you. The whole thing is a big mess, George. A big mess. The only way out is to admit the mess, admit the mistake, and then get our soldiers out. Get everyone out. Let the whole place blow up. And you will be able to salvage something of yourself and of America,” said Paris as she was massaging her bare belly.
“I can salvage something?” asked George.
“Of course you can,” said Donald.
“Of course you can,” said Paris.
“Stay or pull out,” said George.
“Stay,” said Donald.
“Pull out,” said Paris.
“You pull out, the party will burn you as a coward,” said Donald.
“You stay, more Americans will die and the historians will look at you as weak,” said Paris.
“But a coward is weak,” said George.
“Exactly,” said Donald.
“No, no, no. A weak man cannot face the truth. A coward cannot face his buddies. Who are you?” asked Paris.
George looked at Paris. She was really quite stunning with her long blond hair. He found it surprising that she could be so smart, so articulate. Paris Hilton sounded smarter than Donald Rumsfeld. At least at this moment. George wanted to jump onto the bed. Paris saw a sparkle in George’s eye.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Paris.
“Don’t worry. I’m not. I’m not,” said George.
Paris winked at George. George smiled as Paris took another picture.
“You’re not what?” asked Donald Rumsfeld as he caught the squash ball in his hand.
“I’m just not. I’m just not,” said George.
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November 25, 2061 – The sun was shining in El Paso. In fact, the sun had been shining for the past four years in El Paso. A severe drought had impacted what was once the southwestern region of the United States. But that did not matter to Texans. After what was now called the Great Crusade War that was sparked by the explosion of a nuclear bomb on Manhattan Island, Texas had become an independent nation, and had grown in size including the former New Mexico and Arizona. There was a two-year period when Californians and Texans fought over Arizona. It got bloody, A few small nuclear devices exploded in Tucson and Phoenix, sort of a scorched-earth policy favored by Texans, was enough to California to back off. The far westerners could not stomach any more mushroom clouds, and so they made a decision to let Texas have Arizona. “Let Arizona Go To Hell” was the political banner of choice by the California Peace Now movement, the implication being that Texas was as close to hell as one could get.
All of this was history to Jenna Bush who was celebrating her 80th birthday on this hot November day. Her parents were dead. Her sister Barbara was dead. He three husbands were dead. And her children were dead. In fact, Jenna was the last remaining member of the Bush dynasty. And somehow she had outlasted them all, avoiding getting the cancer that dashed from gene pool to gene pool after the Great Crusade War that was responsible for raising worldwide rad level by 32%.
Barbara sat in a wood chair next to a metal frame one story cinderblock house. She was drinking a bottle of Diet Coke. The Coca Cola Bottling Company was one of the multinational corporations that survived the wars and bombs, and Coke seemed to be everywhere. Water was scarce, but not Coke. And Jenna loved the stuff, drinking almost 13 bottles a day. It did not matter to Jenna that her bladder did not work well, and that she continuously soiled her pants or dress. The heat evaporated anything that was in liquid form, and though it must have smelled, Jenna had long since lost the ability to smell anything.
El Paso had been a shrine to Jenna’s father, George W. Bush, for many years. But people had re-thought the Bush legacy, and now the conventional wisdom was that Jenna’s father was responsible for the mess the world had found itself in. Though Texas was strong as a political and military entity, it was nothing like the former United States of America. And it bothered Texans that Iran and China were the most powerful nations in the world. Damn those Russians, never getting their act together, always fighting with each other and letting corruption poison their authority. And damn those Europeans who kept appeasing anyone who threatened them with violence, to the point that Europe became an Islamic state, except for Italy and Poland, which were in constant states of a war footing.
Jenna did not wish to think about all this. Afterall, this was her 80th birthday, and all she wanted to do was drink her Diet Coke and let her bladder empty onto the wood chair. It was a beautiful day.
Continued From Yesterday.
“I heard that you were dead,” said President George Bush.
“The game has just started. There is no reason to think I will lose,” said Osama Bin Laden as he adjusted himself in the chair and moved the tubes that came from the dialysis machine that was being operated by Osama’s doctor.
“What is that?” asked Bush.
“It is called the Sicilian Defense. Very effective,” said Osama.
“If it so effective, how come you never used it before?” asked Bush.
“Oh, but I have used it. Many times. Not with you, though,” said Osama.
“Sicilian? That’s an Italian thing,” said Bush.
“I suspect the Sicilians do not consider themselves Italian. The world is filled with human beings trying to identify with a clan, trying to separate themselves from other clans. It makes them feel special. To us, Sicilians are Italian. To Sicilians, they are Sicilian” said Osama.
“Well, you think that silly Sicilian pawn is going to bother me? I control the center. I control the center,” said Bush.
“And so you do. And so you do,” said Osama.
“How come you never move your king pawn on the open? How come? It’s standard. It’s solid. It’s tested,” said Bush.
“It’s boring and everyone does it. Chess is a game to be re-discovered with each new game played. Should never go with what worked yesterday. Never,” said Osama.
“But it is the center. You avoid the center. You avoid it,” said Bush.
“Yes. I avoid the center. I do not need the center to win. The center is for suckers, no disrespect intended,” said Osama.
“This is why I will win, Mr. Osama Bin Laden,” said Bush.
“Yes. It is good you think that. Keep doing what you are doing with the center, and believe firmly that you will win. This is good,” said Osama.
“You’re damn straight it is good,” said Bush.
“Yes. It is good. It does not matter that I have won the first four games. I think you are right to be firm with your approach to the game. It is a good approach. In fact, it is a sign of weakness that I keep changing my chess strategy. It clearly represents that nothing is working, that I lack confidence,” said Osama.
Bush does not know if Bin Laden was being sarcastic. But it did not matter. Bush believed in his strategy. He looked down at his board and tried to figure his next move. Hey, why try to figure it. he will do what he always does. So Bush moved his queen pawn one space, proetecting his king pawn. Tried and true. Solid.
Bush smiled. Osama smiled. Everyone was happy.
Continued From Yesterday.
As he sat there facing the bearded man who was studying the chess board, George tried to remember the Iraq War widow he met yesterday at the White House. She was young. And she brought photos of her two children, a son, 11, and a daughter, 7. The widow had long blond hair pulled back in a pony tail. She was in her thirties, George thought, and she was thin. Actually, she was quite cute. And the photos showed two beautiful kids, both with blond hair and big eyes. And of course the widow had to bring a photo of her husband, the one who died in Iraq three months ago nine miles south of Baghdad on a dusty road, a bullet to the brain. Unusual. A bullet from a sniper rather than a roadside bomb. The problem with the widow was that she was all emotional and came with a political agenda. George always risked this when he met with widows. They come to talk, he talks, he tries to make them feel better, and most do not bring up politics. But this one, though very nice and sweet, begged him to bring the troops home from Iraq. She asked her President nicely, George remembered, and she was crying at the time. She held the photos of her children and starting whispering to herself how it was hard to imagine that she would now have to raise the children without their father. She was babbling to herself about how she did not know what to tell her children. What was the death about? What was it for? Thankfully George did not have to address these questions because they were not really asked directly to him. The widow was more talking to herself, working it out with her herself. A personal thing she was going through. It was all very sad. But the thing that George noticed is that he did not cry. Oh at another time in his life he would have cried. Maybe even if he saw this scene in a movie he would cry. But not in the White House. In the White House, emotion was for sissies. He had heard that said by some teachers of acting. But this was not acting. This was not fiction. This was for real.
George’s thoughts of the war widow were suddenly terminated when the bearded man moved his black queen bishop pawn two squares forward.
What the hell? Every game the bearded man opened with something different. And George had never seen this before. Well, then again, George was not a chess player. So maybe this was a popular black opening. But heck, beardy keeps changing his style.
To Be Continued.
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