of names or characters to those of actual people is done only to provide humor and interest.
Outside the room, the guards leaned against the wall, smoking cigarettes while they waited. This routine was getting old by now, evidently the President had learned that fame was a powerful aphrodisiac. These amorous sessions offered the Chief Executive his only respite from the terrorist crises that were now plaguing America's home soil so much that no American felt safe. The agents knew they would hear some whispers, moans, and maybe a scream or two of pleasure, before their charge emerged from the room, a few minutes before his "guest" inconspicuously slipped down the stairs and out of the private sector of the White House.
Inside the peach colored room, activities were progressing rapidly. A charcoal gray suit and burgundy tie lay across the Victorian green velvet chair, mauve sheath and flowered jacket crumpled on the floor next to the bed. Mona reached down to the single butterfly clasp that fastened the black lace bra over her breasts, and set the pale mounds of flesh bouncing free. Burying his head in their softness, the President slid her black lace panties to the floor. He smiled, knowing now that her blonde hair was acquired rather than inborn.
"Oh yes, Phil, I want you inside me now!" Phillip reached into the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. The President had to be careful, after all; he kept a supply of lubricated condoms for just these occasions. As he unrolled the condom onto his manhood, Phil silently cursed the cook for the spaghetti lunch. He hoped Mona wouldn't notice the garlic taste that still teased his tongue.
Just as activities reached their climax, Phil was overcome with nausea, sweating, and a sudden headache. "Mona, get help, I think I'm having a heart attack!"
The aide rushed into the hall, oblivious of her nakedness, screaming in terror. One of the agents gathered Mona's clothes and hustled her into another room, while the other radioed for an ambulance. The agent with the President quickly flushed the condom, and then hurriedly replaced the Chief Executive's slacks and undershirt. Mona was escorted quickly and quietly through a distant door of the mansion. The second agent hurried back to the Queen's Bedroom.
"Get on the com and have someone 'copter the First Lady back here from Camp David--and quick! Joe, he looks really bad to me."
Inside the ambulance medics recorded vital signs, in constant contact with the hospital. "His blood pressure is dangerously low, I can barely get a reading, but his heart is really racing." The President was unconscious now, and struggling for breath. Even the oxygen mask seemed to offer no relief. Bright red blood spurted from his nostrils; medics packed them with gauze, then inserted a tube into his throat to ease his breathing.
"Damn, I think we're losing him! Flat line heart rate." The second medic reached for the defibrillation paddles. "Clear!" A jolt shook the President, but there was no other response. A second jolt, still no response.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to report that President McClintock died earlier tonight at the age of 59." Television newsmen echoed the words over every channel in America. "Apparently Mr. McClintock expired from a sudden heart attack, while napping in the White House. Doctors at Bethesda Naval Hospital had given the President a clean bill of health last week and Mr. McClintock had no previous history of heart problems."
The White House Security Chief stood before his entire staff. "Gentlemen and ladies, we have a major security problem. Although our press releases have indicated that the President died of natural causes, autopsy reports indicate that his heart was in perfect health and that he did not suffer a stroke. At present, doctors suspect that the President may have been deliberately poisoned. Although there was no evidence of known poisons in his stomach, the swiftness of his death and the progression of symptoms seem to indicate a cyanide-like agent. The route of poisoning is still unknown. At the time he became ill, President McClintock was in the company of a young aide named Mona Lewis. We would like to be able to keep that affair quiet out of respect to the late President's reputation and the First Lady's sensitivities. However, we do have to consider the young lady to be suspect. A more likely culprit would be some terrorist group. It would be a feather in any terrorist's cap to evade White House security and kill the President in his own house. No group has yet claimed responsibility, and by claiming that the President died of a heat attack, we prevent bragging rights."
Helen McClintock looked fondly through the rooms she had shared with her husband for the last six years. These two floors had been their private residence; only they and their special guests walked these halls. Now the new President and his family would call this house their home. The last of her bags were packed in the Presidential Bedroom and stacked on the queen-size bed. Helen ran her fingers over the leaf pattern of the wallpaper and the relief carved in the woodwork, then walked across the gold carpet and into the hall. The bright yellow of the Lincoln Bedroom reminded her of sunshine, she looked up at the portrait of Lincoln and nodded a final goodbye. Before she walked down the red carpeted stairs, Helen stepped into the Queen's bedroom, where royalty had often slept. The peach and green was so classic, the white carved corbels arched to the ceiling. This calm, beautiful room was where Phillip had died. Helen reached into the small drawer on the nightstand. Only three condoms remained; the small pinprick in the foil where she had injected the sodium azide and DMSO were barely visible in the lamplight. Helen smiled softly to herself as she slid the evidence into her handbag. "Adultery is a sin, Phillip, dear," she whispered into the shadows beneath the canopy, "And the wages of sin are death."
