EXTRACT FOR
The Final President
(DOUG E. PIKE)

CHAPTER 1



ONLY REDD FENSTINYARD WOULD have the audacity to barge in on the President of the United States five minutes before delivering his first inaugural address - but then, you don't become the owner of the Atlantic Ocean by being shy.  Redd had bankrolled most of Boyd Lamm's campaign.  In fact, he wrote the first check Boyd pocketed.  Generous soul that he was, he only signed his name and date, leaving the amount up to Boyd, who unabashedly made the most of the opportunity.

"You gonna give it to 'em straight, Boyd?" shouted Redd, his ruddy complexion resembling five pounds of ground chuck.  At six-foot-six and three hundred pounds, Fenstinyard was incapable of acting like anything other than a charging buffalo.  Wearing his trademark plaid suit and Conus Granulatus cufflinks (one of the Atlantic's rarest seashells), Redd lumbered up to Lamm's desk, leaned over, outstretched his blubbery arms, grabbed the corners and gave the thing a good thump.  The aroma of twenty five-year-old scotch mixed with ocean water was unmistakable to the president.

President Lamm barely glanced up from his tablet.  He had just returned from taking the oath of office in the fallout shelter beneath the Capitol Building, and was now reading the final version of his inaugural address, sent to him by his head speech writer. 

A lanky man of medium height with receding, sandy hair and a wispy goatee, last-second cramming was one of Lamm's more modest personality flaws, on a long list of shortcomings.  Even that one had been successfully concealed from the public during the entire campaign, by the compulsive efforts of his fanatically dedicated staff.

Disgusted, Lamm puffed and returned his attention to the tablet's screen.  "You have any idea what the word sanguine means, Redd?" 

"Ain't that some kind of I-talian spaghetti?"  Redd loosened his grip on the furniture, looked up at the coffered ceiling and scratched his scalp as best he could, through a mane of slicked-back white hair.  "I've always been a man of few and simple words, so askin' me-"

"Typically one syllable and starting with an f," interjected Lamm, quietly, his weary, narrow eyes rapidly scanned the remainder of the speech.  "I sincerely doubt a two hundred thousand dollar per year, Yale-educated speech writer would deem my inaugural address the appropriate occasion to mention 'some kind of I-talian spaghetti,' Redd."  Lamm slammed down the tablet, sending parts flying, while the screen cracked and shot to black.  A faint hum was momentarily heard by both men, followed by silence and a puff of grey-green smoke.

The twelve foot high, polished mahogany door to this small, ornate Capitol Building office opened silently and the chubby, prematurely balding head of Chris Lamm, the president's twenty seven year-old son, cautiously peered in.  Ordinarily the rest of his corpulent self would have followed suit, but to open the door fully would have allowed in the flood of additional agitated bodies that Chris was barely blocking.

Chris straightened his wire rim glasses and gulped down the last bite of a salami sandwich.  "Hello?  Dad?  Mr. Fenstinyard, nice to see you.  Uh, you're already five minutes late and it's starting to get ugly out there, and I don't just mean weather-wise.  Mom's fuming." 

"She's always fuming.  Shit, I'm just going to have to wing it!" shouted Lamm as he rose to his feet and stormed towards the door.

"Atta boy!" shouted Fenstinyard, pumping his fist in the air.  "Give it to 'em straight!"

Redd quizzically stared at the unusual garment draped across the back of the president's desk chair and pivoted towards the exiting Lamm.  "Hey, Mr. President, you forgot something!"

Lamm stopped in his tracks.  "Throw it over, Redd!"

Redd stepped around the desk, grabbed the garment and threw it towards Lamm's outstretched hand.  It hit the floor a foot shy of the target.  "What the hell is it?"

Lamm angrily snatched it off the floor and gave it a shake. "It's a cape, of course," replied the president, "the official presidential cape." He threw the patriotically decorated thing around his shoulders and brusquely exited, heading towards the podium, amidst sudden silence and a thousand blank stares.

Chris looked back at Fenstinyard.  "Let the games begin," said the president's son.



*  *  *  *  *



KATHRYN LAMM, THE PRESIDENT'S wife of thirty five illness-filled years, sat in a bulletproof chair behind strategically-placed bulletproof glass panels, on a bomb-proof podium and shivered in the blustery thirty five degree air.  The assorted heads of state, congressmen, ambassadors and celebrities who surrounded the new First Lady shivered, too, but they did not share her inner rage over her husband's tardiness.  

It had taken many hours for Kathryn's doctors and personal attendants to get her ready on this inaugural morning, as several of her more persistent chronic conditions had conspired to make this most special occasion most torturous.  Today's culprits were gout, vertigo, restless leg syndrome, a kidney infection and acid indigestion, whose combination certainly did not make her normally dismissive disposition any better.  Miraculously, her staff had overcome all this and got her to the required place at the required time.  Naturally she would have preferred to have stayed home and watched the inaugural on TV from the comfort of her king-sized bed, one she did not share with her perpetually dour husband.  And now he was late - for his own presidential inauguration.  If his goal was to make American history, he was going about it in the worst possible way.

"Here I am, my dear.  Hope I haven't kept you waiting long," said President Lamm, placing his hand on Kathryn's bony shoulder.  "How do you like my little surprise?"  Lamm grasped the gold-fringed corner of his presidential cape and gave it a flutter, exposing the meticulously embroidered Great Seal of the United States.  "Handmade in Guatemala.  It took six months to complete." 

It took Boyd three times to hear his wife's response above the din of the shocked and restless crowd. "You look like you should be attending Wrestlemania, not your own inauguration!" she yelled.  Kathryn waved him off and turned her attention to the contents of her open purse, where she rummaged among a pharmacy of vials for the one that contained her favourite tranquilizer. 

Boyd expected as much from Kathryn.  Compliments and encouragement were not part of her vocabulary.  She came from old New England stock, poker-faced and grim.  No one had smiled in her family since they had side-stepped bear crap when getting off the Mayflower, so it was easy for Boyd to let her remark slide off his back.  He grinned a politician's grin, as if she had told him he made Zeus look like a jelly fish in his grandiose getup.  But this was Boyd's moment and he was not going to let his wife's or anyone else's negativity ruin it.  The crowd was stunned, hungry for words, an explanation, and he knew what it would take to bring them around.

Boyd stepped to the podium, outstretched his arms above his head and looked up at the ominous grey sky.  A tiny cold raindrop splattered on his freckled forehead and then a second on his upturned left palm.  Five seconds, then ten, went by.  Silently, symbolically, Boyd Lamm tried to bond with the forces of nature in a gesture meant to silence and inspire the audience - and it did -- while all he thought was: I wonder what sanguine means.

Then President Boyd Lamm lowered his gaze and arms and spat over the front of the podium.  It was a defiant spit, an angry, sloppy spit; the type of spit done prior to a back-alley brawl, done with the intent of getting your opponent to piss in his pants, turn and run.

Too bad the audience didn't see it that way.  From their perspective it was nothing less than a disgusting act performed by an ill-mannered lunatic who, incredibly, was now the president.  "How dare you!" came shouts from the podium and the shocked crowd.  A wave of revulsion rippled back through the assembled thousands.

Lamm came within a hair's breadth of the microphone and spoke; his pear-shaped vocal tones were at once soothing and threatening:  "What I have just done, please, please...  What I have just done is admittedly, at first blush, a horrible and disgusting thing, totally reprehensible and inexcusable.  But I beg you, please indulge -"  Boyd felt something wet hit the back of his neck.  Instinctively, he touched it and rubbed it through his fingers - spit!  Then he heard Kathryn's rare and piercing cackle.  Looking over his left shoulder, he saw her beet red face.  Wiping her mouth, she poked pale, pious-looking Vice President Wes Pointe repeatedly.  "He did it!  He did it!" she managed to screech, simultaneously trying to suppress a gush of laughter.  Wes, ashen, shook his head in denial.

A second blob of spit hit the president's cape as he turned back towards the audience, from where it came, he had no idea.  Then a third, followed by a fourth, from alternating sides.

"Wait!  Wait!  Please, you've missed the point," Lamm implored.

"It's more like the Pointe, Wes Pointe, didn't miss you!" shouted Kathryn, who quickly turned to her attending nurse.  "I am having a splendid time, Luella!  Please, feel free to spit at my husband."

Lamm resumed:  "Can we all please settle down?  There was a distinct purpose to my repulsive act, my fellow Americans.  My intent was to startle you and I can clearly see that I was successful in my attempt at that, if not in conveying my purpose."  Lamm brushed away spit with the handkerchief handed to him by Chief Justice Phil Dinwell.  He neatly folded the piece of cloth and handed it back to Dinwell, who flung it under his seat.

"We are at a crossroads, all of us, and I think we all recognize that.  Who would have dreamt ten years ago that this great nation would be forced to cede the mineral rights to Yellowstone National Park to the government of Taiwan, in order to satisfy debts we could not afford to pay back?  Who could have conceived that a rogue hacker in Russia could find a way to crack into the IRS's computer system and convert every American taxpayer's last name to Shmuggle?  And who could have had the foresight to anticipate that this proud nation, a former financial powerhouse, would now be the recipient of foreign aid from the likes of Uruguay and Morocco?

"Yes, these are troubling times, my fellow Americans, very troubling, indeed - but we've faced huge problems before (Lamm was now loosely reciting an inspiring half-time speech he'd seen on HBO two nights prior) and we've always managed to pull together and solve them as a team, until now.  America is a resilient country, a country of go-getters and risk takers - well, it once was.  Now it's kind of sleepy and lethargic, its populace more concerned with doing whatever is expedient.  A devotion to leisure has replaced the devotion to industry and experimentation.  Our former sense of duty and commitment has morphed into a preoccupation for, and love of, laziness.  In short, you are all a disgrace, a herd of pampered cattle lacking intelligence and purpose."

The crowd thinned noticeably, and the rain picked up, as President Lamm pressed on with his assault on the nation and its citizens.  Some of those who remained relentlessly threw sopping wet programs, wadded-up napkins and other soggy debris towards the presidential podium.  Not thirty feet in front of the rostrum two hot dog vending carts raced between barricades and never came close to hitting an inaugural attendee.  Groups of security guards laughed and pointed at the contenders, then gathered around the winner demanding free food and drinks.  For not complying he was beaten and Tasered multiple times, then robbed and stripped.

"Shame, shame and disgrace upon you, America!" resumed Lamm.  "I am truly embarrassed to stand here knowing America's history and its potential, and..."  The powerful hand of Justice Dinwell grabbed the president's sleeve as the steady rain turned into a downpour.

"What is it, Phil?  For Christ's sake, in case you haven't noticed, I've got a damn speech to deliver here!"

Dinwell, who had formerly been Commissioner of the NBA, spoke sternly from behind a savage scowl, the one he formerly reserved for suspending a miscreant player or sending back flat soda at a playoff game.  "Mr. President, you have said enough."

Astonished, Lamm relented and looked towards Kathryn for encouragement.  She had left without saying a word.  Luella, who had remained, spat towards the president, missed, and hit the robe of the chief justice.  She burst into tears, ran up the slippery stairs and fell.  Nearly unconscious, she tumbled all the way back down and ended up at the president's feet.  Lamm helped the soaked, woozy woman stand and asked, "Can I count on your help in the future, Luella, if I overlook what you did here today?"

Luella brushed back her rain-soaked hair, revealing a nasty cut on her forehead.  "Certainly, Your-," she started to say.

"President, president, my dear.  That's the proper form of address in this country," finished Lamm.

 

CHAPTER 2



HOURS LATER, ALONE IN the Oval Office, President Lamm spun carelessly around in his black leather desk chair like a man without a care in the world.  Lost in reverie, his state of bliss was suddenly interrupted by the nagging thought of having lost something precious.  Instinctively he reached for his jacket pocket, pulled out the object of his concern, and breathed a sigh of relief.

He brought the painted metal figure to within an inch of his nose and addressed it most soberly:  "King Edward I!  How nice of you to attend my inauguration.  I am so pleased you agreed; you have no idea!  If you have no objections, I will now return you to your generals and troops, who are comfortably waiting for you in my desk drawer."  The three-inch-high metal figure's sour expression did not dampen the president's joyous mood one iota -- the sudden influx of bodies into the president's chamber did.

"Dad, the inaugural balls have all been cancelled; the media are in a frenzy and there are anti-Lamm rioters causing havoc in a dozen cities!" shouted Chris, unwrapping a candy bar.  President Lamm raised an eyebrow, and then dug between his two front teeth, trying to dislodge a nagging remnant from an earlier snack.

Former US Air Force General Hugh Marlowe, now Lamm's Chief of Staff added, "The major networks and news services are all demanding one-on-one interviews and an immediate press conference explaining what the hell transpired at the inauguration.  If you don't issue an apology and comply with the media you're going to find yourself the first President of the United States impeached before he got his chair warm, for Christ's sake!"

Lamm nonchalantly straightened his necktie and adjusted his tie bar.

"Speaker of the House Sam Wainwright wants to see you pronto, Mr. President," said one-armed Press Secretary Beatrice Coldteeth.  She had been on the fence about taking this job when it was offered to her, and was now convinced she had made the wrong decision in accepting.  Her mind raced to find a way to blame her predicament on her ex-husband. 

The President gave his chair one more good spin and then brought it to an abrupt halt.  "Listen, I don't know what inauguration you all attended, but the one I was at could not have gone better."

"Sir, there's a call from Redd Fenstinyard," said Chris.

"Tell him to go to hell.  I'm the president now, I don't need him anymore.  As I was saying, I am tickled pink over today's performance and, as for the uproarious aftermath, well, things will settle down, they always do.  You should all read more history."

"Read history?" asked Chris, swallowing the last of his candy.  "You mean watch videos and stuff?"

Vice President Wes Pointe entered the room, plunked himself down on the Oval Office's centrally placed couch without saying a word to anyone, aimlessly began flipping the pages of a copy of Better Homes & Gardens, and then suddenly stopped.  "Are you ever going to take off that ridiculous cape, Boyd?" he asked from behind the magazine.

"Don't speak so disparagingly of it, Wes."  Lamm affectionately brushed the material.  "FDR himself wore a standard issue naval boat cloak at the 1945 Yalta Conference and on other occasions during the Second World War.  So, as you see, there is historical precedent for my wardrobe decision.  It's not nearly as controversial as everyone makes it out to be."

President Lamm rose from his seat and strode to the middle of the room.  He stuck his belly out a bit, as was his habit, stroked his necktie twice, and then tucked his thumbs into the corners of his pants pockets.  Lamm rocked back and forth on his heels and gathered his thoughts.

"Congregate 'round, gentlemen, and you, Beatrice; there is something I need to make clear before we start tending to everyday business."

When the last of them, Wes Pointe, complied President Lamm began:  "You all are going to need to be aware of my philosophy of government, as it will be your decision-making guide for the next four years, or more.

"To make this simple, picture a giant, thirty, maybe forty feet tall, by the name of...Guvvy, who lived, let's say, in a small rural village in England, during the Middle Ages."

"Mr. President, this is hardly the time for a fairy tale," said the vice president.

"Patience, Wes," said the president, barely veiling his displeasure at the interruption.  "As I was about to say, this Guvvy is, well, not the brightest chap, but he is without a doubt well meaning.  His purpose is to protect the village from marauders and foreign armies.  He does an adequate job of it and in return the people of the village supply him with food and drink.  They also mend his clothes as needed, buy weapons and pay him a percentage of their income, in return for his services.

"Now Guvvy sometimes makes mistakes.  For example, in the course of his work, or occasionally by pure accident, he may step on a villager or two, or perhaps on their livestock or home.  He might leave his campfire unattended and burn down part of the village.  These things happen.  Once in a while Guvvy, purely out of curiosity, might peek in a window at an improper time, steal livestock, lie, or he might accidentally misidentify approaching strangers and slaughter them, only to later discover that their intentions were peaceful."

"Sounds like Guvvy is out of control," suggested General Marlowe, as he hiccupped and lit his cigar.

"No, not at all, general," replied the president immediately.  "Let me continue."

A fragment of a red brick burst through an Oval Office window, sending shards of glass onto the president's desk.  The missile knocked a porcelain bust of George Washington onto the floor face first, where it broke into myriad pieces.

Chris dove into the Oval Office restroom.

"As I was saying, I will continue.  Chris, get out here!"  Lamm casually picked up the half-brick, inspected it for a second and threw it out the hole through which it had entered.  Chris sheepishly rejoined the others.  Lamm resumed, "Yes, the villagers gripe incessantly about Guvvy's mistakes - in fact, they actually enjoy doing it but deep down they know they can't do without the old boy.  If they angered him he might stop doing his job, or even turn against those who provide for him.  So at the risk of being Guvvy's victim, they turn a blind eye to his blunders, no matter how bad they are."

"And you're implying that it's no different here in the U.S. today, even with thirty percent unemployment and collapsing infrastructure?" said Beatrice.  "And General, can you put out that foul cigar?  It reeks."

"I can, but I won't," replied Marlowe, smiling.  He blew a thin stream of blue-grey smoke her way.

"Exactly, Beatrice" said Lamm.  "The U.S. government can not only be bad, but atrocious, and the public will continue to sing patriotic songs on the Fourth of July; visit the monuments that are a tribute to government and pay their taxes, God bless 'em."  Lamm laughed.  "I tested the waters at my inauguration, just to see how far I could go."

"But they booed and threw debris at the podium," said West Pointe, flinging his magazine back on the couch.  "They're rioting in the streets from coast to coast!  Aren't you going to demand that governors start calling out the National Guard?"

"If you listened to what I just said, Wes, you would understand that I can get myself back in everyone's good graces with just one good speech."