In the mid-morning hours, in early December, several Secret Service agents stand outside the door. A line of Washington's rich and powerful movers and shakers stand in a mostly straight line. A few rebels purposefully stand a half step off center. Behind the guarded door, dark wood panelling that has witnessed decisions affecting all Americans, from the meek to the mighty, add an ominous and supporting mood to the four occupants. Mitchy, his skin an alabaster white hue, sits at one end of the table. The glass of warm, rich red liquid keeps drawing his bloodless eyes. At the other end of the table, we'll call him by his most commonly used name, Fucking Moron (FM), guards his bowl of ice cream. His plastic high chair, made from the finest imported plastic, provides a secure boarder. His imported silk bib protects his Chinese-made Italian suit. ThirdFirstL stands a step to his right, a white coat draped over her shoulders. In the corner farthest from her, Fence sits in a huddled ball whimpering, "Mother doesn't like it when there are other women around."
"Flakey," Mitchy greets the first entrant from the outside line in a toneless voice.
"Bad man! BAD man! BAD MAN!!!" FM screams, his tiny hand gripping the silver, gold-plated spoon until his knuckle turn white, ice cream flying as he frantically tries to escape the high chair. "WHOOOO! WHOOO! WHOOOO! Defcon red! Fire all missiles! Bad man at 3 O'clock! WHOOOO WHOOOOO!"
"Hush," ThirdFirstL says, patting him on his head. "Play with Barney," she hands him his stained dinosaur.
"PURPLE! Bad man can't touch him."
"Does he have to be here?" Mitchy asks, his voice a hollow shell.
"Zee nanny is at zee immigration office until zis afternoon. She vanted to say good bye to her parents and children before zey are deported."
"I won't vote for your budget!" A brief hint of defiance adds a bit of light to the darkened room.
"Look into my eyes," Mitchy's command can't be denied and Flakey's face slowly slackens under the soulless power. "What does your heart desire?"
"DACA, I want to have a voice in DACA."
"Vy?" ThirdFirstL asks, a rich black coat draped over her shoulders.
"I want to be relevant."
"Granted," Mitchy intones, dismissing Flakey. "Send in the next."
"Do I get to vote now?" Fence asks, his pen clenched in one hand, a bible in the other. "Did you include the part about the gays being taxed twice? Do I vote yes or no?"
"Sit down."
Fence returns to his safe corner, only after casting a fearful, loathing, lust-filled glance at ThirdFirstL
"Ah... MapleSyrup, welcome," Mitchy intoned as the next person sat.
"Maple syrup is from Vermont, not Maine."
"Whatever. AARP is raising a ruckus in Maine."
"Screw those old bastards. They can't get out to vote. I want the rich people in my state to be able to deduct more property taxes. Oh, and something about health care."
"Property taxes, done. Health care, I will pull out if I need to."
"I've heard zat before," ThirdFirstL says and slaps FM on the back of the head.
"So have I!" GeneralS says from a dark corner.
"What are you doing here?" Mitchy barks.
"I don't recall where my office is."
"You don't have an office here anymore. You are the Attorney General."
"No shit! Really, I don't recall that."
"Do I like him?" FM asks from behind Barney
"Today, yes. Tomorrow may be different," ThirdFirstL says, a blue coat draped over her shoulders.
"Am I being good? Are you proud of me?" FM asks, eyeing his two scoops of ice cream.
"Yes, you may vatch an extra half hour of Blue's Clues tonight."
"I'm gonna make Blue head of the FBI! He can solve any crime!"
