a fiftieth story...'election special'

So he had triumphed.

And his overriding emotion at first was relief.

It was only when hastily amending the one thousand one hundred and eighteen words in his pre-prepared victory speech did it dawn on him with horrible clarity, he had won himself the Worst Job In The World.

~

‘Five minutes, Mister President’, called in one of the presidential aides through the dressing room door, finger to his ear piece. 

‘Five minutes?’

‘Yes, that’s right sir’. 

Mister President sighed, and put down his pen.  Five minutes left of the next four years.  Four years in which he would be expected to fulfil his high fluted promises, four years in which he would inevitably fail to do so.

Hmph!

His wife appeared in the doorway, smelling of elderflower and wearing a ‘Vote Democrat’ broach on the lapel of her jacket.  She frowned when she saw Mister President hunched over his desk, spectacles hanging from a cord around his neck, shielding his eyes. 

‘What’s the matter, dear?’ enquired Missus President as she made her way over to him.  Mister President sighed again and shifted a little in his chair.  ‘Four years, Elma’, he said wearily, ‘four years’.  Missus President stood behind him and put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.  ‘You’re tense’, she remarked.  Mister President was indeed tense.  Tense, nervous, frightened.  Take me back to dear old blighty…oh, how he wished!

He put his hand on Missus President’s hand and held it there, then pressed her hand into the hollow of his shoulder.  Four years, four…, Christ on a motor bike, what am I doing?

They were still for a moment, Missus President lovingly stroking Mister President’s silver mane.  Then Mister President spoke: ‘Elma’, he said, breaking the silence, ‘Yes, dear?’ replied Missus President almost in a whisper.  Mister President let go of his wife’s hand, looked at himself in the mirror, not even so much as a line on my forehead, ‘Elma..do you think I can go through with this?’

~

The expectant crowd was getting a little restless.  They were simply desperate to see the new Leader of the Free World; it seemed to them he was fifteen minutes late, but what was fifteen minutes in comparison with four years!?    

Four years in which the country had been brought to it’s knees, exposed as a bullying, hoarding, unsympathetic megalith, run by borderline psychopaths, blood as well as oil on their hands.

But Mister President, or rather the new Mister President, had come as a knight in shining armour, and today had finally lanced the boil on Uncle’s cheek, was about to wade into the cesspit of corruption and in Herculean style clean the place out.

Or so they hoped..

..so Mister President had promised.  The problem was in his heart of hearts he didn’t actually envisage getting in. 

~

Mister President walked out the dressing room with his wife in tow, flanked on either side by a couple of security guards, both the size of an industrial refrigerator.  His aides were there to greet him in the corridor and shake his hand one by one.  At that moment Mister President deeply resented their sycophantic smiles, these people who had been too good at their job, had now left his life in ruins.  And at the end of a long line was his campaigns manager positively bursting with pride – the high executioner, might as well have had an axe in his hands.

‘Congratulations, Mister President’, ‘Well done, Mister President’, ‘Go get ‘em Mister President’, ‘God bless America, Mister President’.  The stage was set, and fast approaching, up the rickety stairs, through the wings and..

~

The spotlights seemed like a dozen beaming suns to the President, scourging his retina.  He could barely make out the delirious, flag waving mass before him, was grateful for the lectern to lean on as the cheering built to a crescendo.

Flashbulbs!

The President’s heart had gone from being in his mouth, to being in his shoes.  These nitwits, why the hell should I give a damn!  The thought of bringing back conscription flickered across his mind, a cruel smirk breaking across his features.  TV cameras caught it of course, and commentators everywhere saw at as a sign the new President was relaxed, comfortable in his new Power Soles, or at least getting used to them.

And when finally the joyous kerfuffle abated, the President gripped the edge of the lectern, took a deep breath, and spoke: ‘Thank you so much’ he began, although he didn’t mean a word of it, his moral being stripped naked of it’s clothing of principles with every second that passed, while his raving mad supporters erupted.  They had elected a grateful President, and he had proper command of the English language!  The cockamamie bullshit was at an end!  Hallelujah!  I’ll show these buffoons there is no God thought the President, chuckling vengefully. 

Indeed the whole situation, from politics and love, law, war, peace and harmony, nearly everything the President was beginning to find darkly amusing.  Guantanamo or bust would have made a better campaign slogan.  Only fifteen minutes ago the futility of his predicament as both Leader of the Free World and as a member of the human race; the folly of a whole nation of human beings, the grim reality of four years in government had not fully registered.

Love, peace and harmony? mused the President, before contemplating how to follow his introductory platitude..

..Maybe in the next world, but not in mine.