Hail to the Slash

The line clicked closed as the President had to do what we elect Presidents to do: make a decision. Only a moment’s thought sent the Gipper out the door, dressed in his best suit without alerting Nancy or the Secret Service. The chill of the winter Washington air beat against his aging frame, the whistling wind rustling both the trees of the White House lawn and Reagan’s skinny knees. His freshly-shined shoes carried him through the Washington streets and directly to the Russian embassy, where he found the gate unlocked for him and nothing but darkened windows welcoming him inside. The door was unlocked as well, and the embassy held nothing but a single desk and one Mikhail Gorbachev, a desk lamp trained on his chubby frame, wearing only a heavy fur coat, the overpowering scent of premium Soviet vodka, and a seductive, come-hither smile. Ronald wasn’t sure how to react. All he knew was that he could feel his own Head of State poking up against the inside of his pants.

“Mister Gorbachev…” He began, slowly undoing the buttons on his sport coat without pulling his gaze from Mikhail’s passionate brown eyes, only slightly gazed from the vodka coursing through his hardy Soviet frame. “...Tear down this wall. To my heart!” With a mighty show of strength and can-do American spirit, the Gipper tore his sport coat and dress shirt from his weathered frame, hurling himself onto Mikhail’s all-too-obliging fur-coated borscht belly and landing without a scratch. The Commander in Chief let his nimble fingers dance just under the coat and gracefully glide around Mikhail’s erect Soviet nipples and the rough carpet of hair that surrounded them. “They’re so hard.” Reagan remarked, his confident, breathy clearly impressed.

“Da. Is cold in Moscow.” Mikhail nodded, a proud smile on his face, as he ran his chubby, yet surprisingly nimble, fingers down the front of the President’s aging body. He started with a graceful circle around the Gipper’s chest, just barely grazing the inside of his tender nipples. These were nipples that Mikhail had wanted to touch for a long time, an urge locked up in the back of his calculating Communist mind until not a few hours ago, when a number of very lonely thoughts and the bottoms of more than a few vodka bottles had left him unable to think about anything other than that charming American and his freedom nipples, the ones that had worked so hard to threaten his precious Soviet way of life. Perestroika and Glasnost -- aside from what he had named his testicles -- had been working to close the gap between the two, and all that hard work was beginning to pay off. Mikhail let his borscht-fattened fingers glide down the Great Communicator -- one still entranced with the fantastic rigidity of his lover’s hardy Soviet nipples. Soon, Mikhail’s fingers made their slow, dancing way down to Reagan’s waistline, gingerly reaching into his star-spangled briefs and wrapping his lonely fingers around the President’s flagpole, the one holding up the tent of his suit pants. A few gentle strokes summoned a blush to the Gipper’s wrinkled face.

“Oh, Mikhail...” He said, breathlessly. “...I didn’t think you would go THAT far.” “Mister Reagan, there is much you don’t know about me.” Mikhail responded, punctuating his statement with a kiss on his lover’s forehead and a sly smile on his Soviet lips. He continued to stroke up and down the Great Communicator’s rigid penis, laying his hairy hand across his lover’s back in an almost fatherly fashion. Ronald was hardly uncomfortable with this. Quite the opposite, actually. For some time now, Nancy simply hadn’t been giving him what he wanted. Iran-Contra had practically impeached his own little Chief Executive, so this was a very welcome surprise, to say the least. Resting his aging head, and the still-sharp brain inside, against his new lover’s bear-like Soviet chest, the Gipper let Mikhail unbutton his pants and discard them- and his tighty red, blue, and whities- onto the beautifully ushanka-ed hat rack by the door. Reagan could feel his personal flagpole eagerly twitch with Mikhail’s loving touch and quickly bringing the President to the verge of his own Challenger explosion. Just then, however, Gorbachev stopped.

“Something wrong?” Reagan asked, his voice sincere and shaken.

Without saying another word in his silky-yet-harsh Soviet voice, Mikhail sprung into action. He moved surprisingly fast for someone of his age and size. He spun the Gipper around, displaying the graying hair on the back of the President’s wizened head. A smooth, oddly practiced thrusting motion forced a meaty, borscht-fattened ICBM deep into Reagan’s eager, wrinkled ass. It only took two or three emotionally charged, hearty stew-fueled thrusts to wrack both wrinkled bodies with pleasure. Copious amounts of warm, sticky cum filled the Gipper, while Commander in Chief found his own pocket rocket firing all over the door- a good ten feet from the dirty desk- and even pushing the Great Communicator into the hair-cushioned chest of his old nemesis. Both men merely laid on the desk for a good ten minutes after that, letting the last of their shared orgasm leak out of their respective, ample dicks. Gorby’s even remained buried in the Oval Orifice, bathing in its own warm, welcoming product.

After the last deep, recovering breath had been taken, both men sat up on the desk and found themselves on their feet. Ronald realized he had never even removed his shoes, and his socks had become splattered with... probably his own cum. It was hard to be certain. He walked his newly invigorated frame around the room and collected his underpants under the watchful eye of his new lover. After fastening his supportive patriotic briefs around his sagging waist, Reagan secured his Presidential bathrobe around his body and tried to come up with a story to tell Nancy about where he went.

"Heh," the space-man said, gesturing down to his nether regions. "I heard you were a little light in the loafers. But that's okay -- hell, it's better than okay. That's why I got Dick Cheney to borrow this time machine from Haliburton to send me back here to the, uh, whazzitcalled, past."

I was beginning to sense that this space-man had more attributes in his technology than his elocution, but I did not care. I felt a desire in my loins I had not felt since I'd shared a bed with my dearest friend in a log cabin back in Illinois.

"Don't worry, chief," the space-man said, unzipping his suit in a deft maneuver that left him standing naked before me in an instant. "One day, they'll name a part of the Republican party after you."

"You mean in Congress?" I replied.

"Don't mind if I do!" the space-man said, throttling my neck as he took me forcefully and repeatedly, prompting me to lose consciousness in a miasma of lust, asphyxiation, and overpowering cologne. When I regained my senses, the space-man was fading from site in the same glow, muttering to himself.

I'll take his final words to my grave: "Mission Accomplished."

"About all I've done for this world. All the things that might live on after me."

"You have the most efficient military victory in a generation, consequential SCOTUS selections. For a one-term president, you got an awful lot to be proud of. In fact if it wasn't for the whole supermarket scanner thing --"

"I don't mean politics, Bill. Personal."

"Mr. President, may I ask if you'd be willing to define your terms?"

"Well, I keep thinking back to an incident back in New Haven I've been turning over in my mind ever since. For so long I'd rather not have spoken of it, but I'm getting on with things and -- when you were in law school, Bill, did they take freshman photos of your class?"

"I'm afraid I don't remember, but maybe that's not the only thing I'm not as familiar with up there as I'd like," he said, laughing that big belly laugh of his that welled up from his core like the hot of the Ozark springs. 

"If they'd taken one you'd remember," George continued. "They lined up my whole class at Payne Whitney and -- "

"The gym? Wow, I used to live over there. There's a picture of me and Hillary in the front of there in the big book. Put the thing in the stockphoto stockpile up in Chappaqua. Man, I miss those days. We had a little beachhouse there up in Guilford. Used to read Faulkner and Gabriel Garcia Marquez looking out on the coast. Sometimes Jordan and me --"

(As much as George adored Bill, the man could talk one's ear off.)

"No, it wasn't about the gym, Bill. It was about some experiment they were doing, though they didn't tell us that at the time. Bill, they had us each form a place in line and then call us into a photo room and --"

"Oh, that whole thing?" (God, he was so quick!) "Not my class. We were too late and liberated for that! But I heard about it at Georgetown. You think they'd let that effort fly at Georgetown?! That's what Catholic high school is for, George! Lawd almighty, the Jesuits woulda had a field day. But Hillary had one done at Wellesley, let me tell you. You know, they were supposed to be doing it to check spinal curvature, and she was of course straight and narrow, but this was all before she got all Wellesley on everybody."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"You haven't seen her cervical spine, have you? Her haircuts tend to obscure that little crane of the neck, but it's left quite an impression over the years. Hell, if you believe Joe Klein, I invented those rumors."

"I don't believe anything Klein reports about anything, not after 43. But what scares me, Bill, is I believe I might have a… fantasy about someone taking another photo of me, with the passage of time. For comparison's sake."

"Huh." Bill gave one of those over-the-reading-specs pensive looks he does.

"Would you be willing to see? I see your assistant has an Instagram on his phone."

"Aw, George, you know I don't swing that way. I've seen a lot of dicks swinging free in my day, as you might guess, but this other angle ain't me. I can't tell you I'm not flattered, but I just don't think of you that way. I'm sorry."

"Oh." One of those times when Yankee reserve worked for him so well. "I apologize for being so forward, Bill. Yet I thought with -- you and Stephanopoulos always used to seem so --"

"You wouldn't be the first to make that mistake, him included."

"I'm sorry, I'm not usually so... improper."

"Oh, hell, why don't you just show me? A man's gotta do one crazy thing before he leaves this place for good, right?"

"I assume so."

"Well, click-click!"

"I will, Bill."

"Atwater would skin you alive for this. You could lose your entire base."

"It is what it is." Though he still had an athlete's build, his joints had gotten creaky with age, and Bill helped him wing back his arms to remove the shirt. 

"No, let me finish." With that his pants were off faster than a Perot monologue, and like Perot, he had brought the goods for a real slideshow.

Bill wouldn't have pegged him for a manscaper, but the base of his shaft was clean as his record. 

"Hoo-ey, that is some shit! Did you pick up that habit over in China?"

"Oh, no. Barbara." He hunched down. "Here, check my spine."

George had thrown a lot of curveballs on the day, but there wasn't a damn curve on him now, not a curve down his whole back to his preternaturally tight elder states-ass. Every part of his posture was upright. For posterity, he convinced himself. The family dynasty.

“Mmmm, yeah. That’s it. Claim responsibility. Daddy loves a bad boy.”

At first he’d hated that video. How dare Osama blame him, the President, of misleading the American people? (And so what if he had? It was for their own good, damn it!) But in the days after the video was released, his once-flagging campaign for re-election gained popularity. People were scared of bin Laden, and ol’ Georgie boy was there to protect them. Winning that second term — and the pride of beating his father at his own game — was all the impetus he’d needed to develop an obsession with Osama bin Laden.

“Oh god, yeah. Stroke your beard. Mmmm, if only you’d take off that robe.” The stroking stopped momentarily as he paused to pull the well-worn dildo from the desk drawer, lubricate it, and insert it roughly.

“Oh yeah! Fuck my tight little hole, Osama! Harder!” He stroked his cock furiously as he bobbed up and down on the dildo.

“More! More! Oh… oh… oh god… YES!” he cried as jets of hot cum squirted across the desk.

He paused to catch his breath, then wiped off the desk and put away the dildo and laptop. There was one more thing he needed to do before he went back to work. He dialed a now-familiar number.

“Yeah, it’s me. Raise the reward money for capturing Osama bin Laden again. We really need to catch this son of a bitch.” He hung up the phone. It was time to get back to work.

 Nelson Rockefeller no longer suited Ford’s needs. Scuttlebutt around Washington was that Rockefeller had a fatal flaw: he was relentlessly heterosexual. It had proved his undoing in the end, all right. Bob Dole, on the other hand, had always had a thing for football players. He looked forward to spending long nights in the Oval Office with Jerry – Betty was hitting the bottle pretty hard in those pre-rehab days, so the president would need a lot of consolation – but sadly, it was not to be.

 Bob Dole had, of course, chosen another football player as his running mate during his own bid for the presidency, but that attempt had failed as well. At least they had enjoyed some hot nights on the campaign trail. Bob Dole loved running his fingers through Jack’s thick, sexy sweep of gray hair, even when Kemp wouldn’t shut up about supply side economics. “There’s only one trickle down that I’m interested in tonight,” Bob Dole would tell him.

"And any jinxes," threw in Rick Perry, "are gonna be on y'all's limp-dick campaigns!"

The debate was still nearly an hour off. The green room choked on competing smoke-clouds from the candidates--anyway, the male candidates, as Iowa's fairly strict segregation laws were still in effect. Cain's foul cigar naturally predominated, but Perry's acrid industrial-chemical taint cut through the burning-garbage-pile stench neatly, like a Jethro Tull flute solo over power chords. Perry leaned back and exhaled pale grey smoke as the glass pipe slipped from nerveless fingers. "My goodness, Figgy, you certainly would make a better door than a window--though, to be honest, you're a pretty pudgy door!" Thus did Willard "Mallard Fillmore" Romney announce his arrival, behind the corpulent impediment and his sweat-drenched behind, still ensconced in the doorway's embrace. Gingrich, still endorphin-drenched from his unusually successful masturbation attempt, just sighed and hove his bulk fully into the warm room and its moist air, that his better might enter.

"Hey, Milk Baby, you want a bump?" Cain tucked his coke spoon back underneath his ugly shirt and leered at Romney.

With a nervous, throat-choked snigger, Gingrich tried to throw in "I think you should say 'Ho, Ender, you fart-knocker, when you talk to that Mormon hack--' but, as usual, nobody wanted to hear smug in-jokes from a pudgy jerkoff artist. He never did get to finish explaining his Ender OF CAMPAIGNS HAW HAW HAW joke, which, no matter what your feelings are on meat-clotted adulterers with rancid, hate-filled political beliefs drizzled in a tangy sauce of expedience and pandering, is at least a little bit of a bummer. Everybody deserves to finish their jokes. Romney's impassive mask hardly cracked at Cain's jibe, and he said as evenly as his speech modulators allowed "Why, you child of Ham, do you think it is that you always want something white to introduce into yourself? Is it because even your name bears the foul mark of your eternally-punished sins?"

"The FUCK did you just sa--" but Cain was cut off by Perry taking to his hind legs and stretching hugely. Naked, he stalk-padded around the room, preening and flexing with small noises of self-appreciation. Cain's anger broke against Perry's impenetrable obliviousness and fell back in rivulets seeking an easier target. "Hey Greendick--the hell were you running your mouth about white people for? Don't tell me you think these peckerwoods right here are worth a damn. Don't you dare tell me that."

"I was just reading my bible here in the bathroom--these stories are so inspirationa--"

"God DAMN you are a tiresome, awful little person. Shut up about your little revenge fantasies, Footfall, whatever. You want to see a foot gonna make you fall you come over here for a second."

"Why can't you ever be nice to me, Herman?"

"Because I don't like you. You're a bad person, and you're weak. Somebody asks you what you want on your pizza, you look over at me. Some iron-faced little tranny asks you to change your religion, you say yes. Some dumb jerk in the office asks for a quick hump, you say yes, then you cry about it."

"Well if you hate me so much, why don't you just--"

"Can't find any takers. I'm stuck with your sorry ass."

Like an arthritic elephant trying to sit, Gingrich collapsed in an avalanche of flesh to the floor before Cain's throne, angling his head towards Cain's lap like a guilty spaniel. "Aw, Herman," he groveled, "I know you don't mean any of these nasty--"

"Man, get off me!" Cain shoved Gringrich away and stood up. Romney, forgotten by the bickering couple as he'd be forgotten by history, kept to his corner, his characteristic prissy smirk playing across his crisp jaw. Since only Perry happened to see it, only Perry wanted to feed him a Dagwood of a knuckle sandwich. "Hey, you judgmental prick, why don't you either join us or go shove some Iowa corn up your tight-ass tailpipe for an hour or two."

"Rick, I can buy a couple million of you. I wouldn't, because it would be a bad investment. But I could, my friend."

"I ain't for sale."

"Yes you are, Rick. I buy and sell the companies that buy and sell little men like you. Usually we buy in bulk, so the prices stay low. Five thousand dollars, say."

Stung, Perry swiveled away to find his pipe. Cain, ever the savvy business man, decided to take advantage of an emotionally disturbed competitor to drive up the price on an otherwise worthless commodity. "Rick, you're not the sort of man," he opened, stifling a liar's self-satisfied chuckle, "who can be bought and sold at all...let alone for such a low, low price."

"Damn right," growled Perry, now absently patting his thighs for his lighter, apparently having forgotten his nakedness.

"Hell, I bet even this worthless little piss-pot here is worth...I figure...ten thousand dollars?"

Gingrich, spurned and insulted, writhed on the floor in a paroxysm of complicated emotion. Wallowing in the insult, he could only hate and yearn for Sheldon Adelson to forgive him, to take him back, to say, finally, that he had abased himself enough in public debates and at the feet of, he thought, cretins like Cain and Perry. What, he wondered, had he possibly ever done to attract the attention and enmity of these masterful men, Romney and Adelson? A lifetime of service, of boots licked and favors delivered, an entire career of craven fetch-and-carry errands, for what? For them to...to outsource his ritual humiliation? To force him to bow and scrape to a third-rate figurehead of America's second-worst pizza chain? How could he possibly sink any lower, he asked with a gleeful spur of self-hate lacerating his thoughts. What would it take for Romney to make him finally and totally really his?

"You got it, Herm. Ten grand it is. Dunno what I'm gonna do with...this," pausing to deliver an ungentle kick, "but I'll think of something. Hey," he brightened, "why don't you go find my pants, Froggy. After that, maybe I'll let you blow me before the debate--don't wanna go out there tense, you know." Gestured at Romney, "Might look like this uptight peckerhead."

"Say one thing for him," gloated Cain, "boy knows how to treat a prostate."

"Good to hear. Can't say I ever paid this much for a piece of ass before, but I tell you what. I'm gonna treat it like it's the cheapest goddamned thing I ever owned in my entire life."

Romney had had enough. "Oh, shut up, Rick. You're as bad as the Negro is. I'm gonna buy this election like you just bought Newt Gingrich. While you petty men of little accomplishment bicker and engage in depraved acts, I'm setting myself up to own this bloated, inefficient republic. Your drugs, your sex, your tiny little kingdoms, it'll all be gone once I add the Americn Crown to the golden crown of righteousness I've always worn. You base, despicable wretches. All any of you are good for is death, so your souls can be added to the rolls. See you out there, gentlemen."

At such rough, masterful talk, Gingrich experienced his second near-erection of the day, somehow without the erotic aid of potent pharmaceuticals or the prose of Jerry Pournelle. Noticing this, Cain and Perry voided their bladders on Gingrich, munificent in their treatment of their devoted property. Striding away, Romney allowed himself to fantasize about knocking them all down, shaving them bald, and marching them before his entire clan. That would show them where the real power was. All of them, even Adelson. The entire country. He'd show them all what it meant to be bought, to be sold, to be owned.

 *

George knew he had a big head, but he didn’t expect himself to be so naïve. He anticipated some old widowed heiresses, disgruntled wives, and the occasional closeted gay man would suck him off. At most, he thought it would amount to five or six days of blowjobs, and who wouldn’t do that for a friend, especially when that friend was the President of the United States of America.

For the first ten, he had enjoyed himself.  He was surprised at the amount of men showing up, but he would just close his eyes and picture a current or past girlfriend. He was disturbed by one middle aged man, with the flesh of his overweight stomach hanging out of his striped button down shirt, and comb-over that looked like it was dyed using Just for Men. Before he put his drooling mouth over George’s mushroom tip, he dug his pig nose into the space between George’s testicles and thigh and whispered the nursery rhyme, Georgie Porgie, while sniffing like a dog.

After the second ten, George had decided he had had enough. He was sore and bruised and his imagination was failing him; he couldn’t get hard no matter how hard he tried.  He asked the secret service man who brought in the guests if he could talk to Barack, and received a piercing, questioning stare. George stared back, and the man nodded and walked down the hallway, but after locking the door from the outside. For the first time, George began to feel that he was a prisoner.

Barack entered. He seemed agitated and in a rush. His grey tailored suit was slightly crushed along his long slender legs, as if he had just been shuttled from a meeting, and George did not see the same friendliness that usually accompanied his friend.

“I think I’m done here.” George said with half a laugh, trying to make light of the situation.  “ I’m not Eros.”

Barack did not smile. “There are already eight more signed up for the rest of the week and the money is already spent.” He spoke coldly, and George thought he saw a bit of Chicago gangster in the way he shifted his hands in his pockets.

“Hell, I’d do it if I could,” George joked, “ but there is only so much I can control.” He pointed down to his half exposed genitals.

“We have drugs for that.” Barack replied dryly.

“I won’t do it. This has really gone far enough. There is only so much I will do. I am not a whore.”

“Oh, you’re not are you?” A large bellow of laughter escaped Barack’s lungs.

“ You’ll do what you said you’d do, whether willingly or if we have to force you.”

They stared each other down. George was betrayed, but he didn’t blame Barack, but himself. They both were addicted to the power, and now George was suffering for it. Barack pivoted on his right foot and began to walk out of the room.

Just as he was about to exit the door, he turned and smiled.

“I’m glad we understand each other George. Remember, it’s for the Democrats”

George glared back and the silence was only disturbed by the slamming and relocking of the door.

Five minutes later was when he received his first beating. He was a man, he told himself, and a man must fight on. They tied him down to the chair he has spent the last week attached to like an appendage, and forced Viagra down his throat.  When he refused to sit quietly while being blown, they gagged him, sometimes even letting the paying guests do the honor. A six foot three ex-marine would come in between sessions. He would throw George on the bed, and give him ten cracks on the back with his saber. His face never changed, remaining the blank dutiful stare of a soldier who knows his duty and follows orders.  When George was unable to engorge himself, he was re-drugged.

There were fifteen more that week. Yet only a few hours ago, the guard entered with a big smile on his face, the first genuine smile George had seen in ages that weren’t plastered on the face of some rich pervert.

“Last one and you’re done! I’m sure you are a happy man Mr. Clooney. Just think what you have done for democracy.”

George wanted to feel happy but he was a broken man. His body hurt all over, and while he could not see his face, he could feel that the luster that had seduced a nation of women was no longer in his eyes. There was no more George Clooney. He was unsure of who he was or what he would become after he would be freed.  He tried again to lean back in his chair, the velvet that should have been soft and comforting, just a reminder of the ghastly days and nights he was a victim to the lusts of the gluttonous. But only one more, he thought. Just one more time and it would be over. Tears began to build up in the corners of his eyes, and slowly cry down the bridge of his nose.

“This is a special customer Mr. Clooney.” The guard had re-entered and was carrying a green and white robe. George looked inquisitively at the cloth and suddenly realized that it was not an ordinary robe but priest vestments. “ He’s paying more than double the asking price, and so you’ll be required to put this on.” George didn’t know what to make of the situation. The guard untied his hands, and George sighed relieved. He looked at the red marks on his wrists and thought of the scars that would never really disappear, but it felt good to touch his hands. He felt an inkling of strength left in the tips of his fingers. The guard placed the robe over George’s head, and over his bare chest, leaving an opening around his crotch.

“What is this about?” George asked.

“Apparently, he used to be an altar boy and wants to relive some old fantasies, if you know what I mean.” The guard grinned wide and George was puzzled for only a minute before he realized what was meant of him. He felt a sickness grow in his stomach and he wanted to vomit. He would sit there and take it, but he would not be coerced into acting as a pedophilic priest. It was all too much.

There was a knock on the door. The guard quickly retied George’s hands behind the back of the chair.

“Didn’t think I would forget that did ya?" he laughed. He walked over and stuck his head out of the door. George only heard muffled whispers. He repeated to himself over and over to maintain just a little bit of his integrity, to hold on to a small part of himself so he would have something to start from when this ended.

“Here he is.” The guard opened the door wide and George’s eyes gaped. Paul Ryan stood before him in the entranceway of the little Edwardian bedroom. In short pants, a gold cross, and holding a Missal under his left arm, Ryan smiled bashfully.  This was an event that even George could not understand.  Was Ryan so desperate for this fantasy that he would donate against his own campaign? Couldn’t have found a real priest to do it?

The guard closed the door and the two men, a priest and a young boy, were left alone in the room.  George kept his eyes on Ryan’s face, watching his every move and trying to guess what this all meant. Maybe it was all a ruse and Ryan was actually there to free him and reveal to the world the debauchery he had been tortured in.  It wasn’t.

Ryan walked up to George and got down on his knees. He pressed his palms together and bowed his head down between George’s legs, as if he was about to say an act of contrition.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” prayed Ryan, “It has been three months since my last confession.”

“I won’t do it. I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! Please, please just let me go!” George screamed in agony. He began to cry, exhausted of his whole existence.

But Ryan showed no sign of sympathy or the forgiveness he professed in his faith. He stood up, walked to the door, and whispered unintelligently to the guard. He closed the door and watched George, like a hyena waiting for the moment to steal the carcass from a pride of lions.

It was ten minutes, but to George time had stopped. In walked Barack, visibly agitated with a pack of Marlboro Red in his left hand. He slammed the door behind him and walked over to a small wooden chair in the corner, grabbed it by the back rail, and placed it in front of his frocked victim.  He straddled the chair and packed his cigarettes. He pulled out one and lit it, taking a drag and letting the ashes fall upon the exposed thigh. George watched as the grey tobacco landed on his leg, and then looked up at his tormentor, once his savior. 

“Now George, why do you have to start trouble now? This is the last thing you have to do for us, but still you make it difficult.” Barack inhaled another drag of his cigarette.  “Don’t you know I have a country to run? Now you are an actor. This man is giving us a very big donation,” Barack glanced over at Ryan, who had started praying a rosary, the glorious mysteries, and beamed in the glorious irony. “Now our donor wants you to forgive him his sins, and I think you know what his penance should be.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” George sputtered out of his trembling lips, his composure completely gone. “You can have everything of mine. Please, just let it end now.”

“Do you realize who I am? I am Barack Obama, president of the fucking United States, leader of the damn free world. You think you can plead with me. You think that I have compassion for you.” Obama stood up, glaring down at George, a hunched over corpse of once a cocky man. He sipped his cigarette, sighed, and relaxed the tension in his face. “ You do this, and not only will you have protected the future of the Democrats, but you have will have helped millions of Americans.”

George was momentarily stunned, until Barack could no longer hold a straight face and was doubled up in laughter. George wanted to say something, anything to convince Barack to let him go. He wanted to find that man he played pickup basketball with and talked shit about the Republicans. It couldn’t have all been a trick, a ploy for George’s celebrity to help win the election. But George was too weak. His lips could find no words that could penetrate the man standing before him, proud in his victory.

“Do it or you disappear,” Barack asserted and walked out the door. George gave up. He stared down at the floor, totally shattered. He gazed at the paisley pattern on the Oriental rug, and tried to lose himself in the swirling maze. He was almost gone, until suddenly, he realized that Ryan had reinstated himself in front of George and was once again starting his reconciliation. George lifted his head and let his blood shot eyes cut Ryan’s with his despair but Ryan was impenetrable, a Republican to the end.

*           

Outside the door, Barack took the last drag of his cigarette. It was these little moments he cherished. What bit him the most about being president was that he couldn’t enjoy a cigarette like in the past. Now he always had to be on the watch that someone would find out.

“Oh Father, I have been a bad Catholic. I have had lustful thoughts about other boys and I have been telling lies. Please Father, what shall my penance be?”

Barack heard Ryan through the door. He was mystified and somewhat disgusted about Ryan, but he knew it is wrong to judge others on what we don’t understand. He was just thankful he was not raised a Catholic. The tragic life of an altar boy.

There's no reason Lincoln and Rufus should have gotten along. Like James and Lincoln they were on opposite sides of nearly every issue. But Rufus had that southern charm going for him and Lincoln walked around DC like a really scrappy, really ugly puppy—the kind of dog Rufus could never never resist and was constantly trying to convince James to adopt. 

To be honest, James was most surprised to even see Lincoln at a bar. He wasn't the bar type and this particular bar was not only full of Democrats, but known for being where political machinations happened—the exact thing that Lincoln detested and publicly sniffed at. But there he was, 20 feet away, downing some gin and laughing at Rufus' joke. James debated just acting like a child and calling it a night, but then Rufus caught his eye and waved him over and he sighed, grabbed his whiskey and braced himself to meet Lincoln. 

"James!" Rufus said, clapping him on the back, "You must meet the charming Mr. Abe Lincoln. Abraham, this is my dear friend Mr. James Buchanan."

"A pleasure," James said amicably, but Lincoln's eyes narrows as he said, slowly, angrily, "Oh, I know who Mr. Buchanan is. The Northerner who loves slavery. The Northerner who brought slavery to Cuba."

Then he nodded at Rufus, finished his drink and stalked out of the bar. And well, after an introduction like that, how could he do anything but hate Lincoln?

*

Despite the fact that it was known in Washington circles that he and Rufus were….companionable, Lincoln continued to be Rufus' friend. In deference to James' moods, Rufus never brought it up and never forced them to interact again. But James knew that he enjoyed the tall, odd-looking man's company and he knew that sometimes Rufus would come home late and crawl into bed smelling like whiskey and meat and muttering about log cabins. James tried not to hold it against him and tried even harder not to be too jealous.

*

Of course, during their next longest interaction, Lincoln had to go and be a big god damn hero. 

They were at a bar and he and Rufus were trying to be discrete while having, well, a lover's quarrel. Over drapes. It was ridiculous and James knew it was ridiculous, but it was his house and Rufus may have been his and he loved him, but he was not going to get a say in the drapery of the living room of James' own family home. He wasn't. And so they were bickering and were drunk and maybe a bit louder than they intended to be. So of course that's when Jackson—the asshole—walked by.

"Oh what's wrong, Aunt Fancy, your husband cutting off your allowance? Forbidding you from the quilting bee?" he said to Rufus, with a huge smirk. "Maybe if your maidenhead was still intact you could find yourself a better quality man than doughface here."

No one, least of all James, least of all Jackson, expected Lincoln to deck him one after that, But James didn't mind all that much either.

And after that, well, he could deign to give Lincoln a nod and a smile in public, even if he hated him. Even if he hated that he had been the one  who defended Rufus' honor. Even if he hated that Lincoln was kind about the horrible, shameful thing between him and Rufus.

*

It's almost fitting that Rufus dies in Cuba. Almost. 

*

James wasn't sure if he was going to be able to make it to the funeral. And if he got there, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to make it through the funeral without trying to throw himself into the ground. He was already out of sorts the morning of when there was a knock on the door and there stood Lincoln.

 "Hello," he said, eyes red like James'. "I thought. I mean. I thought you might like some company. On the way there. I know, you and I—but Rufus always said we'd get along if we only just talked and…" he swallowed hard before continuing, "I think he'd have liked it if. We went there. Together."

And James was so surprised, so honestly touched that for the first time since he heard the news, for the first time since he saw the body—Rufus' body cold and stony and not like him—he broke down and sobbed. Lincoln just through an arm around him and rubbed his back.

*

They maybe become friends after that. 

*

It's no secret that Buchanan hated Douglas, but Lincoln hated him too and so they bond over that. They argue a lot—they argue most of the time—but they also get in loud, exuberant discussions about what a dick Douglass was and how awful Jackson was and how they hated, well, most of Washington is. It's nice and if it means James starts thinking of him as Abe and if it means they go out and drink whiskey too much together and if it means coming home to his home--Rufus' home--a little less lonely that's ok too.

*

He didn't know Abe could arm wrestle until he saw him take down Millard god damn Fillmore in a bar match.

The thing about Fillmore is that he's really, really boring and really, really forgettable, but he's also built like a goddam Ox. And Abe, well, isn't. Abe is awkward and gangly and tall and ok, he has some arm muscle (all that wood chopping!) but he's not Fillmore. Fillmore who, James is sure, went into the Mexican War and just ripped people's head off with his bare arms.

But Abe doesn't even flinch when Fillmore challenges him, just grins, crazily, downs his shot (James may be a bad influence, in regards to drinking) and goes to town. It isn't even close.

If afterwards James starts having dreams about tall bodies and strong hands holding him down, well. No one has to know.

*

It comes to a head in James' study one night. He's exhausted from the campaign, the speeches, the pandering and Abe is just as exhausted as he always is, like he's carrying the world on his back and he wishes he didn't have to. They're barely talking, just sipping brandy next to each other, legs touching a little, books on their laps. It's….nice. It reminds James a lot of Rufus and that doesn't hurt nearly as bad anymore. It feels right, like it would make Rufus happy to know that James became friends with his friend.

Abe breaks the silence by clearing throat and saying "Want to arm wrestle?"

James doesn't even know how to process that for a second and so he just stares and so Abe continues, more awkwardly, "I just….I can't even focus on the words anymore. Sometimes doing something physical helps with being so tired. And you always enjoy watching me wrestle at the bar…" and then he shrugs and smiles a little.

"I….sure?" James says, because he does like watching Abe wrestle, but he knows he's not going to win. He's doughy and uncoordinated and it's not even close to a fair match up. But then he thinks about those dreams and touching Abe, even a little bit, and smiles. He adds, more confidently "Yes, of course! But try not to break my hand—the future President can't put a broken hand on the Bible, after all." 

Abe laughs, pulls over the coffee table  and starts rolling up his sleeves. James does the same and then they're sitting across from each other, staring into each other's faces in a way they never had before and grasping each other's hands. Abe tightens his grip and James shivers, just a bit. 

"Oh my count," Abe says "One…..two……three."

And they're off and James was right, it's not even close to a fair fight, but Abe is going a little easy on him so they struggle for about twenty seconds before Abe easily slams his arm down on the table. 

James loses track of what number loss he's on before he finally wins one. It takes longer than it does with Abe, but after about a minute he's successfully pinned Abe's arm down and he feels pretty proud about that. Abe is still grinning and laughing and puts his arm up for the next round. 

Only this time when he tightens his grip, Abe starts stroking his thumb on James' hand. It startles James so much he loses in about five seconds and then his arm is pinned and Abe is still stroking with his thumb and then his other arm comes up and starts tracing designs on James' pinned arm and suddenly James can't breathe.

 "James." Abe says, softly "James, I…." and then he pulls the hand stroking James arm off, reaches across the table, cups James' cheek in his hand and kisses him. Hard. 

And before James can process it there's tongue and his own hands are moving and it's like they've been waiting for this moment for years, ever since that first night in the bar, ever since forever. They're awkwardly making their way up the stairs, shedding clothes and shoes, murmuring things they can't mean or hear and then they're on the bed, naked, and Abe is pinning him down and kissing his neck and James feels like he might explode.

"Abe…" he starts to say, "Abe, Rufus…I. You know I--"

"it's ok," Abe says. "I know. It's fine, it's ok." And then they don't talk anymore.

*

It's not the best sex James has ever had—and Abe is not Rufus—but it's still wonderful to touch and be touched. He wakes up with the sun coming through red drapes (Rufus won that argument in the end) and Abe pressed against him and he smiles before he remembers to be sad. He smiles before he remembers that they should never do this again. They're on opposite sides in a fractured country and James was barely holding it together after losing Rufus before he started running for President. And Abe is too kind, too sweet to be ignored for a campaign, for an office. 

He sits up to start to say all this, but Abe looks him in the eye and smiles. Gives a small nod of understanding. James knows he gets it.

*

They don't talk again until Inauguration Night and they don't really talk much then either. Abe barges into his hotel room after the victory party has died down and kisses him his congratulations. 

It definitely is the best sex James ever had, but he still wishes it had been with Rufus. 

*

They see each other around town after the election, but being the President is time consuming and the country is falling apart and those differing beliefs they held--have always held--are getting harder to ignore. They make polite conversation in public and Abe will occasionally send him letters that show understanding and caring, even as James' presidency goes to shit and Douglas starts to take it all away. 

It's petty and shows no party loyalty, but he cheers every time Abe wins a debate.

*

After the election--after his ousting, his humiliation--when James turns to Abe and says "If you are as happy in entering the White House as I shall feel on returning to Wheatland, you are a happy man," he knows that Abe gets it. He wants Abe to love being the President like he loved Rufus, wants Abe to fix the country like he could never fix his heart after the loss.

And maybe he doesn't love Abe, but he loves him for understanding him in that moment and smiling.

Which is maybe why they kiss after he says it.

*

Harding mumbled something incoherent. Calvin shrugged. "In any case, you must come in and dry yourself off!"

Several minutes later, Calvin returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, one of which Warren accepted graciously. "I had to escape. All those scandals are taking a toll on me, and I didn't know who to turn to..." He turned his gaze to Calvin, and his deep soulful eyes begged for comfort. Calvin held his gaze for a moment, then gave him a wry smile. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes."

Harding was true to his name, his commander-in-chief standing at attention. Calvin raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, the smile remaining on his face. He began to undress himself, never taking his eyes off of Harding's executive branch. Warren, though, was worried. "This will cause another scandal if it gets out. I don't think my presidency can take one more..."

He frowned. The hell? The consultant sighed, clearly reluctant to delve into specifics. “You’ve heard, I imagine,” he began, “rumors. Haven’t you? Rumors of tradition, of ceremony, of the ways that things are done around here to ensure - to ensure successful future campaigns - a majority Republican house - responsibilities and roles that it falls to the Vice President to perform. Some of them are widely known. Others are not.”

“I’m fully committed to joining in the race, if that’s what you’re saying,” Paul said. “I’m absolutely on board with Mitt’s vision, his -”

Paul stopped as the consultant raised his eyes to meet his. The consultant seemed almost - wistful? Apologetic? Paul couldn’t be sure, but he found himself stifling a twinge of annoyance. I’m not a child.  “Paul. Kiddo. Can I give you some advice?” 

I don’t suppose no is a legitimate option. “Sure.” 

“You’re a young man. You have a great career ahead of you. You’re on Ways and Means, for Chrissakes. Turn it down. Get reelected and plan ahead from there. You don’t need this.”

Paul laughed. He couldn’t help it. The consultant threw up his hands. “I know, I know. You’re about to be one of the youngest Vice Presidents in United States’ history and I’m just a tired old fact-checker who couldn’t make a go of his own. You’ll do what you want.” 

“Is that all you need from me, then?” Paul couldn’t help himself from asking. If it was rude, the other man had been rude first and he’d been in this room for hours. They hadn’t even let him bring his core-stabilizing bouncy ball he normally used instead of a chair. 

“Almost.” The consultant leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Paul, I’m going to assume that what I’m about to tell you, you haven’t heard before. And I need you to understand that it’s not going to come up again, that if after we leave this room you try to mention it to me or to anyone else - I don’t give a shit who, your wife, your fellow Congressmen, Mr. Romney, anyone - you will be out of this race and out of your seat that same hour. Palin will look politically relevant when we’re through with you. Is that something we’re clear on, you and I?” 

Paul nodded. 

“Wonderful. That’s wonderful.” The consultant ticked off something toward the bottom of the sheet. “Traditionally, the President - takes - the Vice President upon assuming office. At least once, sometimes more often, but that’s really something that we leave to the President’s discretion.”

Paul shook his head. There was something in that sentence he was supposed to pick up on, he was sure of that, but a day of questioning had left him fuzzy and exhausted. “Taken?” 

“Paul, you’re a man of the world; you’ve been a congressional aide.” 

“I really don’t see how that’s -” 

“All right, then, I’ll spell it out for you, if that’s how you want to play this. But Paul, I’d like to remind you that I didn’t think you were ready to hear it and I still think you ought to drop out.” 

“You’ve made that clear. And I hope you understand I don’t mean any disrespect when I say that only makes me more determined to hold that position.” 

“As Vice-President, you will belong - to the president - physically. Sexually. That’s the simplest way I know how to put it.” 

Paul laughed again. Not because he didn’t believe the man - everything about his demeanor suggested this was not a man who’d gotten his current position by making jokes - but because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“It’s been this way since the Founding Fathers. Yes, all the other Vice Presidents have done it. Yes, all of them,” the consultant continued, putting up a hand against Paul’s increasingly choked laughter. “Yes, I’m serious, and yes, this will include you. I’m not going to waste my time or yours by waiting for you to process this information - there’s plenty of background in the folder we sent to your office this afternoon and you can review it at your leisure. It has to happen only once; but the President can choose to set additional terms, if he finds them agreeable.This is how things are.” 

Paul, dazedly: “When?” 

“So you can keep up.” The consultant smiled, a bit grimly for Paul’s taste. “Inauguration night, after the speeches, before the parties.”

“And the others - they know?” 

“All involved parties and relevant staff have been briefed on procedure.” 

“But everyone doesn’t - they wouldn’t all know - when I accept the nomination, would people - would Congresspeople -” 

The consultant shrugged. “Have you heard anything?” 

That wasn’t the answer Paul had been hoping for. “But Mi- Mr. Romney knows? Did he know about this when he nominated me?”

“That’s really not for me to say.”

“All right. Okay. I see. Okay. Okay.” 

“I know I shouldn’t volunteer more of my advice when you clearly don’t want any,” the consultant said, smiling more gently this time, “but something I can tell you about Mr. Romney is that he’s not the kind of person who goes looking for a fight. I wouldn’t recommend giving him one. He’s a very gracious winner. This can be easy to underestimate. Don’t make that mistake.” 

“And when he loses?” Paul found himself asking. Why are you asking that, why would you ask that, why are you even considering - 

The consultant smiled again. “He doesn’t.” 

When Paul left the small basement room a few minutes later, he found himself wondering if any of the surreal proceedings that had taken place there that hot afternoon had been real. 

The next few days were lost in a flurry of activity - after accepting the nominations there were the speeches, the briefings, the strategy meetings, the wardrobe fittings (“no, that’s 6% body fat,” he couldn’t help correcting the girl taking measurements) - and Paul barely had time to think about the cryptic conversation he’d had with that odd, final consultant. He and Mitt hadn’t even been alone in the same room together, and nothing the older man had said or done suggested that there was anything out of the ordinary. He behaved just as he always did - patiently, courteously, with a touch of amusement behind his slow and careful speech. 

When the moment came, they were in the hallway, and Paul was not prepared. They’d been discussing something about the timing of the speeches when the last of the aides stepped back into the conference room and Paul felt suddenly, stupidly aware that it was just the two of them. 

Everyone knew but you, he thought to himself, his face burning the the realization that once again he’d been the last to pick up on it. “I don’t think it should be a problem,” he continued brightly, “if we move the section about education cuts toward the end of -”

“Leave the education cuts where they are,” Mitt said. Nothing in his voice was different, but Paul couldn’t move. “I need to talk to you about something.” 

“All right,” Paul said. “All right, we’ll talk.” This was the smallest hallway in the world. How did people step around each other in this absurd hallway, he wondered. No room. 

“Here are a few things this isn’t, Ryan,” Mitt said, stepping deliberately - and chest-tighteningly - closer. “This isn’t a joke.” Now one of Mitt’s hands lay on his shoulder, the other casually tugged on his belt loop. “And this isn’t a game.” The hand moved. “So I want to make sure that you’re paying attention.” 

“I am. I’m paying attention, I am,” Paul insisted. A finger traced the hollow of his collarbone and he twitched helplessly, gasping. Could the others hear them talking? 

“They told you what’s going to happen to you after the election.” Not a question. Paul nodded. “Good. I wanted to be sure that you knew - that you accepted it - that you were ready.”  

“This is - this is why you nominated me?” 

The words came in close and warm against the shell of his ear: “Ryan, this is why I ran.” 

The speech began, and Paul found himself avoiding eye contact, wresting his thumbs together and staring at the patch of lineoleum in front of his wingtips. He did, however, find himself acutely aware of every move the speaker made - every time Mitt’s hand landed on the podium in a resounding thump - every stride toward or away from the front of the stage, every pleat in his khakis - as if he were invisibly tethered to Mitt’s every move. 

The lights were very bright, and very hot, and it seemed to Paul that every single person in the room was looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. They know, he thought wildly. Or some of them. Some of them have to know. They can tell. He froze in what he hoped was an attitude of casual vice-presidentiality. 

Is Condoleeza smirking at me? Paul jerked wildly in his seat, trying to avoid her withering contempt, and found himself staring into Janna’s eyes. Stop fidgeting, she mouthed affectionately at him, then closed her hand over his. Paul couldn’t breathe. 

You can’t do this, he told himself. You’re about to be the vice president, for Christ’s sake. Have some self-control. He forced himself to look back at the podium - just like everyone else is doing  - just look at his tie, just focus on the tie  - have some self-control. 

But he’s looking at me. A twitch grew and stretched itself out along his frame into a warm and pleasant shudder.

He is not, he is not looking, and if he were it would be in - in the normal way - the way that any president looks at his vice president. 

His vice president. His. He found himself awash in a wave of lust so acute it was determinable only by the filthiest of protractors and shivered.

Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Think of something - anything - 

He looked up. 

Their eyes were exactly the same shade of blue. 

“Well, yeah, but….”  Jack let his voice trail off.

“Used to be we were men in battle,” Ike said grandly.  “Men were men and the sheep weren’t nervous because we had each other.  It was a beautiful thing, the band of brothers.”

“Okay, I can see how….”

“And sometimes people would get a little handsy.  Just because, well, that’s how it was.  Later, when you had your own command, you’d get in a WAC you liked, but before then…well, you made do, Jack.  You made do.”

“I suppose,” Jack said.

“Oh, don’t be so missish,” Ike said.  “We all know about the Navy.  A ship leaves port with three hundred sailors and returns with a hundred and fifty couples.”

Jack squirmed uncomfortably.  Some days there just weren’t enough injections in the world….

“And it’s just us presidents together,” Ike said.  “Plus your brother-in-law puking in the bushes.”

“Fuck,” Jack said.  “That fucking Hollywood fuck.”

“English, too,” Ike said.   “But more Chamberlain than Churchill, if you catch my drift.”

Jack caught it all too well.  He sighed.  “I’m pretty sure Crosby’s slapping his kid around.”

Ike shrugged.  “Maybe it’ll toughen him up, but a mean drunk’s as useful as a garter snake in a toolshed.”

“That…was surprisingly profound,” Jack said.  Maybe the injections, plus the martinis, plus the pills….

“So,” Ike said, clapping Jack on the shoulder.  Jack barely winced.  Oh, yeah, the stuff was definitely kicking in now.  “This band of brothers thing….”

Jack let Ike pull him closer.  “It’s just us, now,” Ike said.  

“Harry,” Jack protested.

“Busy being broke.  For fuck’s sake, throw that sorry bastard a pension.  And get him a dog.  He could use a friend,” Ike said.

“Herbert,” Jack reminded Ike.

“Looks like a baby got run over by a Sherman,” Ike said.  “We’re the only standing presidents, so let’s salute each other.”

“Oh, look,” said Pat distantly.  “My husband’s being sick in the roses and yours is…kissing Eisenhower?”

“Trust me,” said Jackie in her airy, insubstantial voice, “if that’s the worst he gets up to….”

“I hear Marilyn’s going to be here tonight,” Pat said maliciously.  Jackie lowered her sunglasses to look at her sister-in-law.