State of Grace
President Obama hung up the phone and turned to his computer screen. Joe Plumber, the President’s confident, knocked on the door, and the President ushered him in.
“You know what the best thing about this job is?” Obama asked.
“No, Mr. President,” Joe said.
“They can wake you up at all hours, but the one thing that really makes this job, no Mormons knocking on your door when you’re trying to catch up on your internet porn. What’s up, Joe?”
Joe looked quizzically at the President and smiled.
“Harry Reid here to see you, Mr. President.”
Obama shook his head and smiled.
“I hate my job.”
“No haters, Mr. President.”
Harry Reid shuffled in looking nervously at the carpet. Obama sat behind his desk and put his feet up on the desk and yawned.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” Obama said.
“Mr. President…”
“There was this movie. Guy dresses up like some bad-assed Mormon, white shirt, tie, glasses, shotgun. You know the one I’m talking about?”
“That would be ‘Falling Down’ I believe. Michael Douglas movie. I’m not sure the Character was ever established as a Mormon. Mr. Douglas is a Jew, I believe.”
“That sure doesn’t stop them from playing other religions. Didn’t Hoffman play the pope or some crazy shit, and Streep didn’t she play a Holocaust survivor and a nun?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I believe she did.”
Obama nods approvingly, and brings his fingers together into a steeple and stares at them.
“Let me ask you another thing, do you think my predisesor made a mistake by not calling for the murder of all Muslims like they did in Somalia and Ugoslavia? I often wonder about that. What if I were to go on tv and say, come on Christians, lets team up and kill those heathen sons of bitches. The women and children, too, of course. What do you think would happen if I went on the air and said something like that.”
“It would make Fox news happy, I suppose, Mr. President.”
“I suppose it would.” Obama nodded sadly, “And I hate those motherfuckers more than I hate Mormon Cocksuckers.”
“I’m not a cocksucker, Mr. President.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Obama said, looking Reid in the eyes for the first time, “I am a powerful and influencial man.”
Reid nodded and said nothing. Obama sat upright, removing his feet from the desk and turned the computer screen so Reid could see it. He typed return on the keyboard and the video began to play.
Two young, neatly dressed and trimmed, blond haired, blue-eyed, and bearded men dressed in white shirts and ties.
“Mormons for Mohammed-“
Obama turned the volume down.
“Have you seen this one?”
“No Mr. President,”
“Well, it’s the same old shit, Mama didn’t love me enough, Daddy didn’t give me enough money for 40 wives and so on. Lets skip ahead to the good part, what do you say?
“I’ve seen this and let me assure you-“
Obama waved his hand to silence Reed. He smiled broadly, “Shut the fuck up.”
Obama typed on the keyboard and a new video came up. It showed one of the men entering the Valencia police station, the door closing behind him. “We are on a mission from god. Knock. Knock.”
Again, Obama paused the video and shook his head in grinning admiration.
“I love the fact, these assholes took the time to mic themselves, that really shows they put some thought into this shit. You know, what I’m saying.”
Obama clicked the play button.
“Who’s there?”
Obama stopped the playback again.
“It does amaze that the cop actually played along.”
Obama hit the play button.
“Mormons for Mohammed,” the voice said.
“Kinda like, Jews for Jesus,” Obama said. Then on the video, the front of the police station exploded, “Then again.”
Moments after that the rubble landed, the second Mormon ran to the front of the ruined building.
“Now here’s where it gets interesting. See that smoke coming off him? Strapped to that one, is a neurotoxin that kills all the survivors of the original blast and just about everyone else in a two block radius. Made in your part of the world. Didn’t hurt the buildings though. Real estate is expensive in that part of the world. Guess passing Prop. 8 wasn’t good enough for you folks. You have to start blowing up police stations. Get your 40 virgins in this lifetime and not the next. Get yourself some fifteen year old girls.”
“Mr. President,” Reed blurted, “You don’t seriously believe.”
“Harry,” Obama said, “It is my professional opinion that everyone wants to fuck a fifteen year old girl including Barny Frank and Elton John. Further, I think it is safe to say, there is no Mormons for Mohamed, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine why. You all believe in the same god, don’t you?”
Harry remained silent.
“We’ve arrived at one of those crossroads, Harry,” Obama said, “one of those, ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ teachable moments. So start by rubbing your hand on your belly and the other on your head in opposite directions while hoping on one leg switching when you reach an assending prime number on each leg.”
Harry looked dumbfounded.
“Do it, fucker,” The most powerful man alive hissed.
Harry hopped.
“See,” Obama said, “Not so hard. Three on one leg, five on the next, then back to the right for seven and so on. Ever wonder how a shitbird like yourself climbed to the top of your shitstack, I did.”
“Mr. President?”
“So what General Cocksuck do I talk to about Cameron K. Duncan?”
“General Horn.”
“He’s not on staff.”
“He’s not that kind of General.”
“Understood,” Obama said, “You’re too old to be talking me out of this, so what’s his number?”
Reid gave him the number and he did Obama dialed.
“What?” Horn said once on the line.
“Do you know who this is?”
“I’ve got caller ID.”
“Cameron K. Duncan.”
“What about them?’
“How many are there?”
“Twentyfour, I thought that was obvious.”
“Not at this time of night.” Obama said, “I’ve got Reid here hoping in my office.”
“Rubbing his stomach and head, I hope.”
“You got it,” Obama said, “One of them is on Aaron Copland’s stealth bomber.”
“Which one?”
“The one flying out of San Francisco.”
“Which Aaron Copland?”
“The composer is dead as far as I know.”
“Alright, we’ll round up the other 23 and knock that fucker out of the sky. My boy will call your boy and set it up.”
The phone went dead.
“You can stop hoping and run out of my office.”
Reid fled for the door.
Obama turned the monitor to face him and typed “Karob.”
“A twentyfour unit measurement of gold.”
Obama nodded at the screen.
