AUTHOR'S NOTES:I couldn't resist poking fun at a couple of shows in this exercise, inspired by a headline in a less than reputable "newspaper". It is meant as a piece of entertaining fiction only. It's a darker piece, but I blame that on the fact that I've been paying attention to the news lately. I should know better. Thanks to Betty for proofreading once again. I'd love some feedback. What did you like? What didn't you like? If you don't tell me, I'll never know.
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Copyright held by Taleweaver Sept 2001
With an ashen face and perspiration running down his temples, the president crumpled to the carpet beneath him. "Mr. President! Mr. President!" The secret service agent turned his head toward the door and yelled loudly for someone to call the doctor.
"He won't last long I'm afraid, all the best medical care can do for him now is make him comfortable."
"But you're his doctor!"
"M'am, I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker. He's had a massive heart attack and it's damaged the heart badly. His only hope would be a heart transplant, and frankly I don't think the President has that much time."
"Is that your final answer?"
That's my final answer. I'm sorry." With that the doctor left the room.
The two people sat quietly in the darkened limousine until the doors were all closed and they were left alone.
"Well, what've you got for me?"
The man in a rumpled overcoat withdrew an unmarked manila envelope from within his overcoat and passed it to his car-mate. While the envelope's contents were being examined by penlight, the until-now silent man explained.
"It seems that quite a few vials of the President's blood was taken and stored when he took office; with those Dr. Hoya can extract enough DNA to do the job. He warns in there..." at this he pointed to the sheaf of papers. "...That even if it were to work, there's no guarantee that he would be the same as before. He listed the pros and cons as he sees them, but he concludes by recommending against the procedure."
The well-manicured lady read through all the papers carefully, skipping over nothing. She committed it all to memory, nodded and then looked up.
"Thank you Mr. Lars. You've been most helpful, but you are the weakest link. Goodbye." There was a muffled report that sounded much like a bag being burst, and Mr. Lars slumped over in his seat with a neat hole between his eyes. The woman leaned across the car, shredded the papers she'd just read and piled them beneath the dead man's face. Then she sprayed the paper and the body with lighter fluid, and walked away from the car. She drew abreast of two other men, turned and spoke only two words.
"Do it."
One man nodded, and a minute later, the long black car lifted off the ground in a horrific explosion. With a satisfied nod from the woman with the photographic memory, the three got into a waiting car and drove away into the night.
The First Lady pulled the sheet over the familiar face and turned to the doctor standing beside him.
"Remember, not a word about this. Is the other one ready yet?"
"We can expect him to gain consciousness any time now, but I warn you he may not be the same."
The President's wife waved the man's concerns away.
"I can explain any oddities away as stress. The most important issue is that no one suspects anything is different. I will guide the new one myself to minimize the risk of a leak."
The first Lady strode into the Oval office and poured herself a cup of coffee from a silver carafe and relished the knowledge that everyone else in the room was waiting on her words. It was a heady feeling. Too bad she couldn't take office herself but she could draw comfort from the fact that her plan would be put into action soon, and no one would suspect anything out of the ordinary.
That afternoon she sat by a bed in a well-guarded bunker. She waited patiently for the man's eyes to open and was relieved when the breathing form in the bed began to stir. Once the watery blue eyes focused on him, she sat straighter and said "Good afternoon Mr. President."
"But that doesn't make any sense! Why would I want this bill passed? It'll put thousands of people out of work!"
"I only know that before you got sick you were talking about pushing this bill through to save money for the American people. I supported your decision then, as I do now. Those people will find other work; they'll survive."
"Only after the unemployment rate skyrockets, woman! It's not a sound decision!"
Trisha Clarke sighed and held her hands palm up. "Very well."
"I'd rather talk about the firearms." The President walked to the window and watched the line of Secret Service agents patrol the grounds. "Vice President Ladson, we need to do something to get those guns out there off the street. Normal citizenry don't need guns, so I want a paper drawn up. Unless the owner of a firearm is a member of the police force or works for the government, they are no longer allowed to possess a gun of any size or caliber. Got it?"
John Ladson made the appropriate note on his notepad and nodded.
"Anyone who is not permitted by law to own a firearm, and is caught with one in their possession will face either a stiff fine or time behind bars. No leniency."
The First Lady gritted her teeth, but smiled sweetly, "If we're through?"
The President waved her away. "Yes, yes, go on."
When Trisha Clarke left her husband's office, it was with a sly grin. He had fallen into her trap neatly. A few well-placed lies here, a little wheedling there and she was pulling the strings. It was a small victory now, but as time went on she would paint him to be a monster not fit to run the country. Once the American people grew dissatisfied enough with their president to vote him out, it would be too late for him. She knew that her politics outshined even the Vice President's. As soon as she could run for office, she would enter the political ring and quite likely emerge victorious. She was already viewed as something akin to a saint for staying married to that two-timing maniac. It would take time, but one day she would sit behind the desk in the Oval office.
"It's been six months now since President Clarke made the new gun law, and things have gone from bad to worse. There has been a rise in the murder rate all across this country, gang numbers have swelled, rape and mugging numbers have take a sharp upturn. Unemployment is at a previously unheard of rate, the homeless clog our streets and parking lots, and the American standard of living has slipped to a horrible nightmare. Now he wants to test this new space program on humans! There is something wrong with the man I tell you. He ruins our way of life and then claims that because of the condition of our once-fine country, we need to look at the stars. He puts hard working people on the unemployment line, whole families out on the street and then tells us that we need to live out there among the other planets!" The radio show host gestured wildly behind his microphone, indignant and wild eyed. "I'm afraid of what he'll do next folks, and if we don't send him a message that he needs to stop, who knows what new law he'll pass? Are our reproductive freedoms next? Will we be limited to how many children we can have, and what if we go over the number of kids President Clarke thinks we should have? What then? We are losing activists every day, they disappear and no one ever hears from them again. President Clarke is getting rid of his opposition with strong-arm tactics, even the man's own wife has disappeared under mysterious circumstances, and our freedom of speech has slipped between our fingers. Stand up for yourselves! Do whatever is necessary to get this tyrant out of the Whi...Erk!" The furious radio personality was jerked from his chair and thrown up against the wall of the booth. A large hand ripped the microphone wires from the wall, effectively cutting the transmission short. A moment later a certain high profile, obnoxious celebrity was dead with only a bullet hole in his forehead to tell the tale.
As one person died, another was being born. As he was being cleaned, his eyes took in everything and it was quickly obvious that he could see clearly. The doctors made a note of this and thought it remarkable since newborns are known to have no focus. The child ranked a high Apgar score, was quiet and calm and became the talk of the ward. Although he was whispered about, no one but his mother expected he would be the key to their future. She knew. She paid attention to the signs and dreams she'd been gifted with, but said nothing to anyone. She was simply grateful he was her first born, for President Clarke had indeed passed a reproductive numbers law. Any mother already having one child was surgically prevented from giving birth again, any mother having more than one child was forced to submit to an abortion, and the number of abandoned babies climbed frighteningly. She tried not to listen to the news that grew darker everyday and instead focused on her son. She taught him right from wrong, made sure he had a higher level of education than any of the other children in their neighborhood, taught him morals that would serve him well, and made sure her son John was properly groomed for his destiny. When he turned twenty, he was voted into a high position in the government that had ruined the country of his birth. The United States had become little more than third world country, and had grown worse with each passing year. The American people were more than ready for a savior by that time, and even some of the government officials were ready for a return to the glory days. So it was with little opposition that one warm autumn day a man in a blue pinstriped suit looked out at a throng of people and said,
"Ladies and Gentlemen I give you your new President...John Sheridan!"
Taleweaver