The United States capitol building, a neoclassical construction encompassing the style of Federal and Greek revival architecture popular during the late 18th and early 19th centuries stands stoically atop the appropriately named ‘capitol hill’. Eight concrete ionic columns line the entrances like cylindrical fangs leading into the mouth of a 175,000 square foot monolith ready to consume visitors with a lavish dowsing of art, history, and of course bureaucracy. A softly lit hall takes one through the bloated belly of the beast, underneath numerous chandeliers, past sculpted busts of historical members nestled into indentations, cordoned off by velvet rope and accentuated by burgundy drapes. The flooring, made of multi-patterned tile and marble gleams brightly, courtesy of a rigid daily cleaning regimen. Lamp stands are spaced at even intervals throughout, flanked by neoclassical benches as it takes you to an opening sporting numerous sets of burnished chestnut doors leading into the chamber of congress.
Reporters mill about the reception hall, checking their equipment, speaking into microphones, and trying to get a quote from one of its 535 suited members. Dark suited secret service agents stand by, studying the crowd through a scrutinizing glare with their hands clasped in front across their waist and listening to an earpiece tucked into their collar. The buzz is palpable with spectators openly chatting amongst themselves, speculating on the events about to take place while reporters doggedly pursue representatives who briskly traverse the hall, trying not to give out any information through practiced responses. A digital countdown timer posted above the doors alerts the anxious assemblage that it is almost time to begin. The spectators are checked and summarily herded inside by armed and uniformed Capitol Police officers while the reporters are ushered into a separate area designated for members of the press where they proceed to check their microphones, cameras and connections to their respective stations.
Behind them the public are led to their seats with more and more filing in one after another until the upper balcony more resembles a bamboo forest of gawking humanoids wanting to be a part of the political process. Words are exchanged, pictures are snapped of some of the politicians walking down the red carpeted aisle with some of them pausing to sign an autograph or two, all under the watchful eye of the Capitol Police and secret service.
At the front of the assemblage sits a would be stage consisting of three rows of elevated seats behind a bench style desk, reserved for senior members of the administration who casually takes their places with the highest chair in the top center reserved for the speaker of the house; a middle aged woman sporting dusty blonde hair, not quite shoulder length, straight and evenly trimmed sporting a burgundy pant suit topped off by a pair of gold plated wire-framed glasses. Taking her own seat, the speaker picks up a gavel from the desk, gripping it tightly with an eye on the timer which indicates ten seconds remaining. A cursory glance into the packed auditorium reveals that most onlookers have taken their owns eats and wait with bated breath for the proceedings to begin, which she signals with a rapid hammering of the gavel against the podium top as the timer reaches zero.
“Ladies and gentlemen”, she begins with a momentary pause to adjust the level of the microphone. “Today begins the beginning of an historic era in the history of our country. Never has a citizen of another nation been elected to run our nation as its chief executive, but the American people have spoken. Their voices were loud and clear across not only the United States, but the entire world. Change was demanded and as your public servants, we heeded your call. Now, as we arrive at this new path in our collective history it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you, the 46th President of the United States, Cat Riley”!
The public address system speakers blare to life, crackling softly, but rather than the expected rendition of ‘Hail to the chief’, the time honored song used to herald the arrival of previous presidents, the music has been replaced with a heavy bass rhythm coupled with gruff lyrics…,
“Aye yo Fuck ya’ll Russians,
Man, fuck you too.
Aye yo Fuck ya’ll Russians,
Man, fuck you too.
It’s the Cat baby, I get down like what,
See I’m the President, I don’t fuck with much.
Bloodline is, where my kittens at,
They off the President, Yeah it’s Cat!
Flanked by numerous dark suited secret service men the President-elect emerges from the back to a collective gasp from the audience upon noticing her attire. Rather than the traditional suit or other formal wear she strides out clad in a pair of ripped and faded blue jeans, a clashing pair of metallic gold Adidas JS Wings high top sneakers with a torn and mud-stained white crop top, a spiked, black leather choker, blue tinted Ray Bans and a silver and black Las Vegas Raiders baseball cap spun backwards atop her sunny blonde mane. But then, Cat Riley has never been much for fashion, consistently eschewing current trends in favor of more rugged rigging. She pauses for a photo op next to the hastily erected speaking podium while the new Presidential music continues to play.
Aww man,
there are some things I can’t stand
When Kim Jung holla, wanna shake my left hand
When Putin follow cuz he actin’ like my man
Merkel might as well swallow cuz she actin like a fan.
The rap finally tapers off with Cat approaching the podium. She taps gently on the head of the mic, testing it for reverberation and satisfied reaches into the hip pocket of her snug fitting jeans to retrieve a crumpled wad of paper which is quietly unraveled before the murmuring crowd. Laying the paper out in front Cat clears her throat, ready to begin.
“My fellow Americans, even though I’m not American, I’m British but that’s beside the point since you elected me as your President. Anyway, my fellow Americans today marks the beginning of a new chapter in your history…, I say your history because I’m British and all that…,” a quick pause for an expected chuckle brings instead a dead silence prompting a bemused glare outlined with an arced brow. “Hmm, tough crowd. Anyway, we are assembled here today in tribute to your ruler. Your lands, your lives, your very possessions will gladly be given in tribute to me, General Zod…, Err, wait…,” Quickly she fishes into her pockets for a sharpie pen which is used to blot out certain passages which are explained with a wry smirk. “Sorry about that”, she continues unabated. “I was watching Superman just before coming out here. Great movie by the way, you should definitely go see it. So, where was I?” Her voice trails off, chasing a fleeting thought into the back of her mind in hopes of bringing it back. “Oh yeah, four score and seven years ago our daddies brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and justice for all…, bloody hell”! she cries in exacerbation, slapping the paper on the podium. “Why did I write my speech on Despy’s scratch pad? His handwriting is exactly like mine and it’s confusing me”.
An aide quietly approaches the President-elect, gesturing towards a teleprompter screen in front of her which draws a perplexed frown as her blue eyes lock onto the television-like device with a steady stream of words scrolling down from the top.
“That’s what it’s for? I thought we were going to watch Avengers Endgame”!
The aide, a young woman in her early 20s, likely an intern smartly dressed in a soft blue pantsuit with long, dark hair cascading past her shoulders explains the purpose of the teleprompter in further detail as Cat’s frown pulls further down her face into a pout as the young woman scurries off.
“I wanted to watch a movie”! she whines. With a sigh of capitulation, she dons a pair of reading glasses and leans forward against the pulpit to read from the teleprompter. “America is such a special place. When I first arrived on your shores, I took a deep breath stepping off the plane and coughed my bleeding lungs up! Seriously, you yanks need to work on your ozone layer. Still, this is the place where Häagen-Dazs is made so I guess that’s ok. I really think we should create a national ice cream day, don’t you? I mean, it’s so creamy and delicious, just imagine a holiday devoted exclusively to the best dessert in the world”. Her thoughts wander off into a fluffy world of soft serve hills, velvety valleys with rivers of refined vanilla, clouds of chocolate and a strawberry sky while her aides off to the sides gesture desperately, trying to pull her attention from the captivating confection. Their efforts prove to be as effective as a tug of war with a sugar-coated shooting star with her mind flying deeper into its delectable daydream. “I want some ice cream”, she mumbles under her breath.
A figure emerges from the crowd, casually dressed in black slacks, matching leather loafers and a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His long, sandy hair flutters behind as he strides briskly towards the podium approaching President Riley. Quietly he studies the Catmander in chief and then pulls away with a hint of a smirk crossing his pursed lips. Reaching into his right-side pocket the 40 something man with a shimmering bronze complexion fishes out a small tin of ice cream flavored mints. Popping the lid, he picks out a single oblong piece and stuffs it between her lips. Her eyes flutter as the tiny pill tantalizes her taste buds, bringing her back to the conscious world. Looking at the man she regards him in a bemused recognition.
“Christian”, she stammers while her mind plays catch up. “What are you doing here”?
“You need to go clean your room”, he states flatly.
“What”? She cries out in consternation. “In case you haven’t realized Mr. Underwood, I don’t have to do that anymore”, she gestures out into the crowd, towards the secret service agents, to a row of American flags and finally to the television cameras. “I am the President of the United States! I don’t have to do anything for anyone”!
“Ahh kitty cat”, he grins while reaching out to stroke the sides of her long blonde mane. “If you don’t scurry your little butt upstairs right now, I’m not going to bake that molten chocolate lava cake you’ve been screaming for”.
“But…,” through quivering lips she responds meekly. “But I’m the President”.
“You can go play President some more after you clean your room”, he says. “But a messy room distracts me, and I can’t cook a molten chocolate lava cake while I’m distracted, ok”?
“Oh, alright” jutting her bottom lip forward the young President takes the microphone in hand and addresses to congregation in a slow, sullen pout. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that my state of the union address is now cancelled because I have to go clean my room”.
As she turns to leave, she is followed by a trailing, raucous laughter, and guided by a stinging swat on the behind by Christian.
The Oval office, so named because of its’ shape when it was initially opened in 1909 is the working space of the American President. It features three large south-facing windows behind the President’s desk, and a fireplace at the north end. It boasts four doors; with the east door leading directly into the rose garden, where the President will often address the media, the west door leads to a private study and dining room; the northwest door opens to the main corridor of the west wing, and the northeast door opens to the office of the President’s actual secretary. Presidents typically decorate the oval office to suit their own individual tastes and Cat Riley is no different. The walls are emblazoned with posters of heavy metal bands such as Judas Priest, Motorhead, Metallica and Iron Maiden. The artwork normally on display has been replaced by photographs of her friends and family with a smattering of autographed frames of famous rock stars including Rob Halford, Bruce Dickenson and others. A large, pink teddy bear sporting an M-16 automatic rifle stands guard by the northwest door and a slip n slide is stretched out across the floor. Five wooden, Victorian styled chairs line around the front of the expansive executive desk in a semi-circle; each of them occupied by Cat’s advisors. Gene Banton Senior sits to the far left. He is flanked by his son Junior, his daughter Cassie, Scott Schreiner and a 12-pound Persian cat, Genie.
“So, what’s on the agenda today”? Cat asks while absently spinning a small globe of the Earth.
“We need to get you ready for your summit with the Russian President”, Gene Senior replies, shuffling a stack of paperwork in his lap. “It’s this Sunday so we have a lot to do and a short time to do it”.
“I don’t care about Putin”! she cries in agitation. “Forget about him, let’s go see Godzilla”.
“Godzilla doesn’t hit the theatres until the 31st”, Cassie answers. “And by the way, Vladimir Putin is not the Russian President anymore”.
“He’s not”?
“Nope”, she shakes her head. “He was beaten in a landslide. Sam Marlowe is the new Russian President”.
“Marlowe? What the bloody…, she’s American! How did she become the President of Russia”?
“The same way you did”, Junior chimes in with his trademark smirk. “She took advantage of the new women’s empowerment program put into effect by President Trump”.
“Wait, what? Trump did that? I thought it was…,” leaning back into the cushy black recliner she lets loose an incredulous sigh while allowing her eyes to scan the ceiling above. “This is surreal”.
“The summit is being held in Reno, Nevada”, Junior offers. “At the Reno events center, but it’s a non-title summit and the usual rules will remain in effect. Essentially it's a glorified chat session. They even serve booze, Vodka I'm sure".
She regards him quizzically, her expression mired in confusion. “What? You make it sound like a wrestling match but call it a summit, why does a summit need a referee anyway, and aren’t summits where two leaders get together to talk about doing stuff that they have no intention of following through with, like the Paris climate accord? Since when did they need referees”?
“That happened when SCW took control of the United Nations”, Gene Senior offers. “One of the first things they set out to do was to re-write the rules of international summits. Mark Ward managed to slip it in as an amendment to the UN constitution, greased a few palms and got it passed during a special midnight session at the pub”.
“So, I have to wrestle Sam Marlowe”?
The big man frowns. “Not exactly, while they may call it a summit, it still looks like a wrestling match and will even will be held in the ring with a referee, the rules have been altered to reflect the political climate. No moves or holds will be allowed under international law".
“Hunh, a wrestling match with a ref but no moves...," adjusting her position in the plush chair, bringing her feet underneath her torso, Cat nods in a muted acceptance. “Will it be a nuclear summit”?
“No, Mr. President”, Cassie replies chiming back in. “It will be a standard summit with Sam Marlowe although we are still trying to negotiate a loser must disarm clause, but Mr. Ward at the UN is a bit hesitant about adding that stipulation”.
“What about Christian”? Cat asks, her voice rising hopefully. “He’s the head booker not Ward, surely he can add the stipulation to the match, err, summit”?
“He’s on maternity leave”. Junior offers. “He won’t be back until mid-2020”.
“What? But he’s a man, right”? Scratching her head in bewilderment she eyeballs her secretary of stupidity warily, suspecting another of his incessant pranks to be incoming, but he shakes his head indicating a negative response. “How can a man get…, pregnant”?
“You’ll have to ask Scotty about that”, Gene senior advises. “I still don’t know how he did it, but I guess he’s the secretary of fertility for a reason”.
“Alright”, the President acquiesces with a huff, spinning around in her chair. “Let’s forget about the Twilight Zone and focus on my summit with Sam Marlowe. How do you propose we approach this match, err…, this summit”?
“We need a mutual point of negotiation”, Gene senior says casting a downward glare to the cream-colored carpeting. “But the UN secretary General Mark ward still hasn’t said anything about our proposed disarmament stipulation, so we should plan as if he is going to decline”. Leaning forward he raises his glare to meet Cat’s and continues, “Mr. President, how would you feel if we could negotiate a roulette clause”?
The President shrugs her shoulders apprehensively, her blue eyes darting aimlessly from point to point about the office, clearly not following the Secretary of the Treasury’s line of thinking. “Umm…, ok, I guess. I mean…, what is it”?
“A roulette clause”, he begins, “is where the UN places certain conditions onto a roulette wheel; conditions like a bikini summit – which I’m very fond of, by the way – or blindfold summit, or even an evening gown summit. There are other conditions obviously but I’m sure you get the idea”.
“Wait…,” Cat thrusts her palms outward requesting a moment of silence while her mind finishes an impromptu trip on a mystified merry-go-round. “Samantha Marlowe is the Russian President, yes”?
Everyone nods.
“Have any of you ever heard of Russian Roulette”?
Silence reigns as the members of the cabinet exchange blank glances upon delving into an empty pool of thought. One by one each member, save for the platinum furred Secretary of naps, who snoozes through the meeting peacefully, shakes their head in declination.
“Ugh”! Following a hoarse groan Cat clears her throat and speaks up. “Russian roulette”, she begins with a hint of derision directed towards her cabinet, “is where some prat places a single bullet into a six-barrel revolver, spins the barrel and…, you know what? Forget it! I’m not doing any bloody roulette summit”, she states flatly. “Especially not against the Russian President, so scratch that idea. Come up with another idea”.
“How about a pudding summit”? Junior offers. “Intelligence says she’s real big on that”.
“You’re kidding, right”? Cat scoffs while rolling her eyes. “You expect me to put on a bikini and wallow in a tub of pudding with Sam Marlowe while discussing nuclear treaties, climate change, trade deficits, and international governance”? She spits. “Intelligence my arse! If intelligence were petrol the CIA wouldn’t have enough to propel a flea’s motorcycle around a raindrop”! Cat pauses with a dismissive wave of her hand while the gears begin to grind once more. Chewing up the pudding summit she moves on in search of other ideas, only to cast them almost as soon as they appear – from a suit and tie scaffold summit to a blindfold pinata summit and more. Shaking her head dejectedly she lowers her head, softly banging it against the desk. “Look…,” she continues in between headbutts. “Let’s just forget about the match stipulations and focus on how I can beat her, alright”?
“I’m afraid we can’t do that Mr. President”, Cassie pipes in with a nervous timbre.
“And why not”? Cat demands casting an angry glare at the redhead secretary of mutant affairs. “No, wait,” she butts in sarcastically before Cassie can answer. “Let me guess, it needs to be ratified by the UN”?
“No, Mr. President”, she replies shakily. “It has already been ratified. We can’t do it because if you beat her, you’ll go to jail for assault and battery. We don’t wrestle anymore, ever since SCW absorbed the UN. Matches, which are now called summits can only be won through negotiation and we have nothing to negotiate with Samantha and the Russian Federation”.
“So, what do they expect me to do, talk her to death”?
“No, that would be manslaughter and international jail time”.
“Bloody hell”! Pulling at her long, blonde strands Cat cries in dismay. “What kind of nitwit nation am I running”? Leaning forward she reaches for a red button on the desk and presses it, activating an intercom where a young voice answer cheerily,
“Thank you for choosing the White Waffle House, may I take your order”?
“Send in the secretary of saturated fats and cholesterol”, Cat replies. “I’m in the mood for something greasy, fattening and all around bad for you; a meatloaf made in bacon grease sounds good”.
Shutting off the intercom the President spins around in circles in the executive swivel chair, closing her eyes while tilting her head towards the ceiling. The rapid rotation of her body induces a sense of dizziness but the commander in chief continues while her cabinet reviews their options for the upcoming summit Sam Marlowe. While unsure of the new Russian President’s prowess at the negotiating table, Cat reasons that she will be backed up by a team of professionals – unlike herself – who are undoubtedly pushing her through a rigorous preparation process at this very moment. With her own lineup of lunacy seeming to insist that she has no negotiating points leaving her chances of success at the summit very much in doubt. And when in doubt Cat reverts to her time-honored tradition when confronted by unforeseen adversity; she simply gives in to the mindless whims circling about her head. Abruptly she plants her sneakers into the carpet bringing the spinning chair to a violent stop and gazes absently at the gold chandelier hanging above the center of the rapidly rotating office. A door creaks open followed by thudding footsteps which propels the distracted, would-be dictator to lower her gaze to identify the figure, but the world continues to wobble around her dizzy blonde head, and she is unable to distinguish the figure from the foggy landscape.
“Hang on”, she says groggily. “Give my head a minute to clear up, everything is spinning like crazy”.
“Maybe my voice can clue you in”? The guest suggests in more of a husky statement than question, assured in her familiarity with it. “You know who I am kitty cat”.
“Christian”? Her eyes flutter in recognition of the voice and she starts to slap the sides of her head to waylay the whirling world. “Just a second, I think I’m coming around”.
“Honey, I’ve got all day”. He replies breaking out a nail file and tending to a cuticle on one of his manicured fingernails as Cat picks away at the cobwebs.
Finally, the world, while still spinning, has slowed enough to allow the President to distinguish her cabinet and the well-groomed blond man sporting a basketball sized baby bump tucked away behind a maternity shirt bearing an ‘RIP Grumpy Cat’ logo. Shaking her head for good measure she studies the unusual visage briefly before allowing her jaw to go slack in astonishment.
“You’re already showing”? She gasps. “But…, last night…, when you made me clean my room in the middle of my state of the union address, you looked normal”!
“What can I say”? he grins, placing a hand protectively over his belly. “Scotty works fast. The doctor says at the rate the baby is growing I should be giving birth this weekend”.
“I don’t want to know where it’s gonna come out of”, Junior quips, drawing a snickering response from the other cabinet members.
“We’re looking at a C-section, dumbass”, Christian fires back.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever”, Cat interjects hastily. “We’re in the middle of preparing for my match with Sam Marlowe…,”
“You mean summit”, Cassie corrects.
“Whatever, what are you doing here Christian”?
“Since I need to work to be able to pay Scotty’s beer bill, I took a job as the secretary of agriculture, which means that, during this time of budget cuts I’ll also be working as the white house chef. I came in here to tell you that I would love to cook up a bacon fat meatloaf smothered in country gravy for you, but I can’t”.
“And why not”?
“Because you haven’t cleaned Genie’s litter box. If you want to eat you need to clean the litter box”.
“What? Do you know who you are talking to”? She demands, her voice rising to a sharpened edge. “That rubbish may have worked during the state of the union address but not anymore. I am the President of the United States and I will eat whatever I bloody well want whenever I want”!
“I was also planning on making five gallons of Once a year cheesecake ice cream”.
“But…, I’m the president…,”
“With hot fudge topping”.
“I need fudge…,” her voice shrinks upon realizing that she is over the proverbial barrel. “Still, I’m the President”, she mews helplessly in a last-ditch effort to escape the task set before her.
“With whipped cream”.
“Meeting adjourned”, she snaps, bolting to her feet. “You tossers are useless anyway, and I have to go clean the litter box”.
The situation room, officially known as the John F. Kennedy conference room is a 5,525 square foot conference room that doubles as an intelligence management center. Situated in the basement underneath the west wing of the white house the “sit room” as it is referred to by key personnel features long, maple conference table lined by a dozen reclining executive chairs with one at the head of the table reserved for the President. In addition to advanced encrypted communications technology allowing the commander in chief to maintain contact with the armed forces during times of crises the room, effectively shut off from the rest of the world with access rigidly controlled also features numerous television monitors, a wall mounted ‘war map’ and a battery of sophisticated computers and even a small bedroom and kitchen tucked in behind adjacent doors.
Following her morning chores of taking out the garbage – which was broadcast live by CNN as she had trekked through the press accessed rose garden – President Cat Riley enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of ice cream and Oreo cookies on her way to the sit room, determined to find a ‘point of negotiation’ her cabinet had previously informed her did not exist. She strides into the room with a half-eaten tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream tucked under one arm and a bag of Oreo cookies in the other where she is greeted by the smiling faces of Kristjan Baltasarsson, the newly appointed secretary of war, Ty West, the chief of staff, and an assortment of highly decorated, and uniformed Generals and Admirals. Nodding her head in greeting she gestures her ‘war council’ to take their seats while she elects to remain standing. Setting the ice cream and cookies down on the table, swiping a handful from the bag before leaning against the edge.
“I’ve called you all in today because my cabinet members are a bunch of bleeding idiots”, she says, scanning the breadth of the table, locking eyes with everyone briefly before continuing. “They say that I need a point of negotiation in order to whip the Russian President’s arse”! Taking a bite of a cookie, she reaches down to swipe a few crumbs from the grossly oversized tee shirt covering her torso and half of her bare legs. “I strongly disagree with their assessment. I want to go to Reno, and whip Sam Marlowe’s commie arse, and I don’t want a point of negotiation”! She slams her small hand against the top of the table for emphasis. “I want a one on one match, no treaties, no negotiation shite, no disarmament talk and no summits. Just figure out a way for me to get into that ring, tie up that bloody ginger like a pretzel and make her tap out like her citizen’s reasons for hope. Now, plug in your brains and get to work”.
On the final note Cat finally takes her seat, leaning back in the chair while cradling the tub of ice cream and propping her Pikachu slipper-clad feet atop the glossy finish. Digging into the chocolate tub with a tablespoon she looks on as her team slips into discussion, tackling the situation at hand. Cat’s mind slides down the sugary slope of Mt. Moo-phoria whisking her away from the moment and she rides the crest of caramel into a sweetened swell of cookie dough, marshmallows and brownies which threatens to drown her in a delirium of decadence. A sob sobbing also rides the surge, wafting over the waves and splashing her ears with intermittent sniffling which abruptly carries her back to the conference in progress.
“Alright”, she demands in perturbance, setting the tub down and grabbing another cookie. “Who’s crying”?
As if on cue all eyes slowly gravitate across the table and settle on the muscular, though quivering secretary of war, Fenris, who dabs at the corner of his eyes with a tissue.
“I – I’m sorry”, he chokes. “It’s just that…, that I don’t understand why we have to resort to violence”. Finishing with the tissue, now sopping wet, he discards it into a nearby waste basket and pulls another from the box. “It’s so distressing I mean, why can’t we all just love one another”?
“Who the hell made you secretary of war”?
“Y – you did Mr. President”.
“Ugh, I really need to do a better job of evaluating people for these jobs”.
“Why do you want to inflict bodily harm on Sam Marlowe”? he asks, his voice quivering. “She’s a fellow human being, not an enemy to be destroyed”!
“That’s it”! She shouts bolting from her chair. “I’m demoting you to secretary of sissyfication”! Thrusting a finger towards the door she resumes her diatribe. “You don’t belong in my war room, so get out! Go hug a tree in the rose garden, you gutless wonder”!
Fenris demurely obliges, taking the Kleenex with him as he departs the room leaving Cat and her would be war party to their work. Angrily she scans over the remaining occupants, her blue lasers burning a hole into each member who fidget nervously in their seats.
“Is there anyone else”? She asks pointedly. “Are there any more damned peace mongers in my war room”? An uneasy silence permeates the atmosphere, enveloping it in a thick, palpable haze of timidity. Satisfied she retakes her seat, as well as the tub of ice cream. “Good, now let’s figure out a way to bypass this negotiation nonsense so I can’t beat the bloody hell out of Marlowe when I get to Reno”.
The discussion resumes while the President returns to her tub, digging away at the slowly melting confection. Dani Weston, the secretary of love appears to have hit upon an idea which she begins to debate with her colleagues. Objections are raised and countered, one bite at a time until all objections have been devoured leaving nothing more than an empty calm, and tub.
“Why don’t we just …,”
“Bloody hell”!
“What? I haven’t even told you the idea yet”.
“I’m out”, Cat snarls and leans forward to pick up a phone, depressing a flashing red button which happens to be a hotline to the secretary of agriculture/white house chef. “Christian”, she speaks hastily. “I’m out of ice cream in the situation room, bring me another gallon”. Without waiting for a response, she hangs up the receiver and casts a curious look to Dani. “What is your idea”?
“I was going to suggest that we simply declare war with Russia”, Dani replies. “If we’re in a state of war you won’t have to negotiate, just whip Samantha’s ass like you want to do any way”.
“I like it”, Cat says as a smile creeps across her face. “But what are the legalities involved? We can’t just start a war for war’s sake, we need a reason or Congress will want to impeach me”.
“That’s easy enough to do Mr. President”, the voice comes from the far end of the table and belongs to the secretary of yodeling Griffen Hawkins. Leaning forward he sets down an electric guitar with a wry smirk and explains, “Russia is a Christian nation”, he says. “And Congress is Wiccan. So, if we tell them that the CIA has discovered Sam Marlowe going to Church on Sunday…,”
“They will demand we retaliate”, Cat mutters, finishing his sentence for him. “That’s brilliant”! She cries excitedly, her voice rising to a sharp peak. “Let’s do it”! She exclaims. “We’ll go to war with Russia and I won’t have to negotiate with Marlowe in Reno. Hooray for war”!
“Excuse me, but we have a small problem Mr. President”, the voice emanates from the direction of the door drawing all eyes onto an exceptionally pregnant Christian Underwood, who stands at the doorway, a plaid muumuu draped over his formerly lean frame with his right hand resting atop a beach ball sized belly.
“Damn it Christian, I’m trying to plan a war, what do you want”?
“Hey, you called me, remember? Anyway, we’re out of milk”.
“So”?
“I need you to milk the cows”.
“What? We’re in Washington DC”! She snaps in mild irritation. “There are no cows here”.
“We have a herd of cows grazing on the south lawn”, he answers. “I moved them there when you said you wanted homemade ice cream”.
“I’m the President of the United States, you bloody prat! I’m not milking any cows”!
“And I am a true blue, dyed in the wool gay man honey. These hands are touching any kind of tits so you either milk the cows or go without ice cream”.
“I’m the President…,”
“I was going to make red velvet ice cream”.
“Of the United…,”
“With strawberries and whipped cream”.
“I’m trying to start a war…,”
“And cream cheese”.
“So I can beat up Sam Marlowe…,”
“And mix in some cake batter”.
“I hate you”.
“You can play war after you’re done, ok”? He smiles warmly.
“Meeting adjourned”, she announces rising suddenly from the chair and makes for the door, turning into the hall. “I have to milk the cows, and while I’m at it start that war”!
“This is Brooke Baldwin reporting live from the CNN center in Atlanta where it has just been learned that President Cat Riley, with the backing of Congress has issued a declaration of war against the Russian Federation mere days ahead of a highly anticipated summit with Russian President Samantha Marlowe. Little is known of the President’s motivation for issuing this declaration but our sources tell us that it could possibly be related to Marlowe’s insistence on creating separate restrooms for members of the LTBGQIA community in addition to Pansexual, male, female, androgynous and co-ed washrooms bringing the total from two up to 12; a violent upending of former Russian President Vladimir Putin’s long standing adherence to the Bathroom treaty of 1987. Other sources however point to Marlowe’s staunch refusal to dye her hair blonde, which was reportedly in an agreement made between Former President Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev which allowed Russia to change their flag colors to match our own and Reagan reportedly wanted the Russian president to color his hair to match the American leader’s. Still, another source informs us that the former Soviet Union’s embrace of Soccer over American football is most like the cause of dissention between the two superpowers. To hopefully clear this up we take you to the rose garden where our reporter Ms. Priscilla Willow is standing by”.
The golden maned, more socially conscious re-named former backstage reporter for SCW Priscilla Willow is standing by in the rose garden on the mild, sunny Friday flanked by a throng of anxious newshounds having caught the scent of a potential scoop and descending as a pack onto the white house lawn where they check and re-check their equipment before a backdrop of the Presidential podium standing just outside the doors to the oval office, which is concealed by a pair of white satin curtains which have been drawn to a close. Rumors begin to filter through the crowd as to the purpose of the impromptu Presidential address ranging from Christian Underwood’s unexpected pregnancy to President Riley’s declaration of war on the Russian republic with additional seeds being planted by reporters calling into their respective networks. Some even attempt to water the seeds by sowing the misinformation among the gathered civilians. Before long however; the secretary of yodeling Griffen Hawkins shows up on the deck, his trembling arms overloaded with heavy concert speakers which he sets down on each side of the podium. Hastily he connects a series of color-coded wires and power cords before darting back into the confines of the oval office.
Moments later the newly selected Presidential anthem ‘Fuck Y’all’ performed by rap artist DMX blares through the speakers with a guttural growling which perks the ears of everyone in attendance, drawing their attention to the podium. The curtains part and, flanked by the dark, aviator shades wearing secret service agents the President emerges, striding through and stepping up to the political pulpit. Taking a moment to adjust the level of her cutoff jean shorts and tuck in a billowy white ‘Wu-Tang clan’ tee shirt the commander in chief sets down a Carl’s Jr. double bacon cheeseburger atop the prepared script and flips her white ballcap backwards.
“Not that I particularly care”, she begins. “But thank you all for coming”. A pause ensues as her aqua lenses scan the rose garden, looking over the assemblage and eventually settling on a pathetic figure quivering at the trunk of a large cedar tree. “Before we begin, I need somebody to bring out a truckload or two of Kleenex and deliver it to the sissy out there”, she gestures with her right hand, pointing to the former SCW champion and self-styled ‘white wolf’ Fenris who tries to console himself in a piqued wail,
“War”! He cries. “This is horrible”!
“Now…,” she resumes. “You all want to know why we have declared war on Russia and the fact of the matter is, we had no choice. You see, the Russian President Sam Marlowe left us with no alternatives by insisting we go into Reno without pancakes…,” tripping on her words Cat rears her head back to see that a grease stain has run from the soaked burger onto the paper. “No, that’s not right, although I could go for some pancakes right now”, she says, reaching down to wipe the grease off with her index finger and then licking the tip. “It says…,” donning a pair of reading glasses offered by an assistant she leans over the podium trying to make out the smeared word. “Damn it, what does this stupid thing say”? Turning to an assembled group of advisers for an answer she is dismayed by a round of shrugging shoulders. “You people are as useless as tits on a bull”.
Behind her, Christian Underwood, having just given birth, and back in his customary black speedo leans against the sliding glass doors with a bowl of cake batter cradled in his arms. He quietly whips the mixture while watching the proceedings taking place in front.
“Alright fine”, Cat grumbles in annoyance. “If nobody can tell me, I’ll just wing it”. Crumbling the paper into a ball she tosses it towards a nearby waste basket, missing the five-foot shot by roughly the same distance. She pays it no mind and returns her gaze to the people anxiously looking on. “The truth is, I don’t give a damn. You see, I’m scheduled for a match, or a summit, or what have you this Sunday in Reno against Sam Marlowe and I want to beat the bloody hell out of her. It’s really that simple. But this…, idiocracy that I call my cabinet says that I must negotiate with her instead. Fine, whatever”, she exhales grievously, blowing a strand of hair upwards and resumes, “but they insist that I have no negotiation points! Still, they say I have to go and talk to the bloody ginger”. She rolls her eyes in disdain, moving on. “To hell with that”! She cries, her voice rising to a pitch. “I just want to get into the uhh…, negotiation ring or whatever and weave her hair into a rope and then hang her with it. I mean, normally I would just nuke Reno after her plane lands, but then that would ruin my chances of getting my hands around her commie neck”.
His attention turns from the address by his employer fully to the creamy cake batter and Christian begins whisking harder and faster. His actions promote a gentle thumping against the sides of the blue Tupperware bowl.
“After all, who does Mark Ward think he is? He takes over the UN and institutes all of these ridiculous rules and expects everyone to follow them without even being briefed”!
Faster and faster the cake batter is churned, dissolving from a lumpy paste into a smooth texture. The thudding of the whisk against the bowl continues to grow in volume and draws the attention of a scattered few attendees but Cat rambles on.
“And if Sam Marlowe thinks I’m going to talk trade, heh, I’m going to apply a deficit on her bloody head! I’ll take her new bathroom treaty and flush it down the toilet with her riding shotgun. That bird has no idea what she’s in for I’ll tie her limbs into a cobweb and hang it in the Oval office to catch the flies…,”
Finally satisfied Christian stops whipping the mixture and dips the tip of a finger into it for a taste. The velvety concoction tantalizes his tongue with a savory blend of sweetness and zest. Rolling the batter across his palette he carefully uses his taste buds to identify the ingredients while recalling the amounts used. “Hmmm,” he says softly. “Not bad but I think it could use a touch more butterscotch”.
“Bloody hell, can’t you see I’m addressing the nation”? Cat demands, angrily spinning on the heels of her bedroom slippers to face Christian. Immediately recognizing him her expression goes from sour to sorrowful as she hangs her head in anticipation of his next chore. “Show’s over everybody”, she whines into the microphone. “Go home and do stuff, I have to go make butterscotch”.
Abruptly stepping from the podium Cat strides briskly past Christian who shrugs bemusedly, “All I said was…,
“Good morning sleepy head, your breakfast is ready. It’s under the hotplate on the breakfast bar; butterscotch pancakes”.
Christian leaves the bedroom, gently closing the door behind as he departs leaving Cat to flutter her eyes and stretch her limbs. Kicking the bedding to the floor she slowly rises up, stifling a powerful yawn while reaching for one of Scott’s oversized tee shirts to throw on as Christian’s voice rings out once more from the hallway reminding her to get ready to drive to Reno for her match with Sam Marlowe. Sliding the red and gold Powerhouse gym shirt over her underwear Cat slides her feet into a pair of bright yellow Pikachu slippers and starts for the door, pausing to grab a hardback edition of Grumpy Cat memes.
She trots down the carpeted stairway with purpose, the book clutched tightly in her hands as her feet thump rapidly down the steps. Christian is seated in the living room on the sofa perusing the June 1943 edition of Cat fancy magazine while Scott lazily channel surfs from his ragged recliner which groans in protest under his heft. Noticing Cat approaching from the corner of his eye Christian offers a smile and adds,
“Don’t take too long kitty cat, we have to leave in an hour”.
Without acknowledging him Cat slides in behind her boss, peering over his should and raises the 948-page book, slamming it down on top of his head drawing a throaty guffaw from Scott while he rubs his tender dome in confusion.
“Owww! What the hell was that for”?
