“Let’s talk straight here,” McCain was saying, his dark eyes twinkling manically. “The Iranians have nuclear weapons and they’re giving them to terrorist organizations who want to hurt us. Do not yield. Do not flinch. We got to stand up and fight like true American patriots. We’ll never surrender. They will.”
The alarm bells still echoed in the distance as Cheney frowned and fumbled through papers. “It’s not that simple, John,” he said under his breath. “You’ll learn that the vice president must abide by certain rules… or at least have a forged copy of the president’s stamp and signature handy at all times. Now where the hell did I put that?”
“I am fully prepared to be commander-in-chief,” McCain replied, shuffling from right foot to left foot like he was about to wet his knickers. “You saw how well I did in class with the hand shaking. I don’t need on-the-job training. In fact, I’ve come to request a promotion…”
“NOW?” Cheney peered at him over the top of his glasses. “You can’t be serious.” Sometimes when those blasted alarm bells went off, Cheney contemplated doing horrible knee-jerk-reaction type things… things like running through nurseries, punching babies… or shredding the Patriot Act and throwing the pieces into the Observatory Circle fireplace… or grabbing Condi by the hair and slamming her head against the headboard as he…
“Look, I’m gonna give it to you straight, Sarge. Only the most deluded of us could doubt the necessity of war. And even the #2 in command could use a #2 at a time like this. My point is this: why not me? I have military leadership and legislative experience and I know what it’s like to be captured and tortured and to never give up, never give in.”
Cheney paced two steps right, then two steps left and proceeded to his office door. He opened it and hollered down the hall, “CONDI! HIT THE SWITCH! THE SWITCH! HIT THE SWITCH! THE SWITCH FOR THE ALARM! DO IT! DO IT NOW!” The alarm finally stopped ringing and Dick slammed the door and sat down. He looked down at the desk impulsively and grabbed a peppermint candy, unwrapped it precariously and stuffed it into his mouth, grinding it like ice. “You were saying?”
“It’s time for us to put our political differences aside. Ahmadinejad is after us. It’s obvious that he’s trying to cause some commotion and penetrate our stronghold…” McCain continued.
“So you essentially want to be the VP to the VP.” Cheney muttered, picking up the phone receiver and starting to dial.
McCain nodded.
“Well what do you think I have Condi and Karl on the pay roll for?”
A sickly thud shook the office windows, sending Cheney flying out of his seat in a flurry. McCain turned to the oversized windows where a clamor of voices was rising. He couldn't help that his eyes instinctively bugged out and his jaw dropped slack. That's just how McCain reacts -- straight and honest, no facades.
Cheney grasped his chest and stared wide-eyed, just barely making out like letters “RON PAUL REVOLUTION” through the semi-opaque window. The scrawny kid holding the sign waved his free arm rapidly and a wall of college students came barreling over the green hill carrying signs as if it were all-out warfare.
“Good God, it’s worse than we thought…” McCain said, still slack-jawed. “The Zombie Revolution has begun!”
Cheney was sweating. Am I having a heart attack? He wondered.
“Are you alright, Dick? Your expression looks much like mine when I was in a small prison bunker in Vietnam with a broken foot.”
The clamor outside was reaching an almost deafening decibel as the Ron Paul supporters pushed up against the windows like spawning salmon. Just when one commotion gets resolved, another arises. Such is the way the Training Facility works, McCain surmised. It looked like a Libertarian Jihad out there.
“We will not be silenced! Viva Revolution!” one supporter yelled at a deafening roar, through a megaphone. “Gynecologists are people too! Down with the IRS! Down with the CIA! Down with the Department of Homeland Security! Ron Paul Revolution!”
“Take… care… of… this…” Cheney said between breaths, clutching at his shirt.
“Does that mean I’ve been promoted, sir?” McCain’s heart skipped a beat as he put his helmet back on. With a quick salute, he added, “I won’t let you down, sir. I know I’m capable. I know I’ll win and they will lose. Then we can focus on Ahmadinejad and the lunatics that threaten our core values.”
Cheney crawled over to the shiny black phone again and pressed 1. “Condi…”
“You need an ambulance again, don’t you?” she asked dryly. She was getting to know that breathless tone by now. It happens like clockwork every six months or so. She had the ambulance on speed dial -- although, she usually called Bertucci’s Brick Oven Pizza first on accident. She shrugged her shoulder-pads. Bertucci’s deserves to be programmed as #1… they ARE the best, she thought, remembering to press #2. Dick says he prefers Slice of Life and W always raves about the "choke-proof" Dominos crust, but she usually ordered Bertucci’s and neither of them have ever noticed the difference.
Condi was tired… and pining for pizza. That’s all she had to live for most days. While Dick and Karl were immersed in elevated terrorist threats, White House fires and press conferences, she was calling ambulances, shutting off alarms and ordering pizza. She contemplated how she could get her foot in the door for the next administration. She had half a mind to join the VP training program herself… that is, if she hadn’t seen how mangled Joe Biden ended up. A lucid thought slowly emerged amid the chaos: someone here, at this camp, will likely be the next president. If she could figure out who, she could start campaigning for the secretary of defense position. (Of course, this could all wait until her Bertucci’s order arrived.)
