The Oval Office, 11:39 PM, President Lieden on the phone with Speaker Crook, vacationing in the Sierra Nevadas, meeting with donors, eating alcohol-infused ice cream, bombing every time she speaks into a microphone.
Crook: Mr. President, you are the bedrock we need to stand on. The firm base. Don't crumble. We need you to stay young in your mind! Just a little longer, then you can check out, retire to the Bahamas or wherever.
Lieden: I want to live in outer space.
Crook: Or there.
Lieden: I want to live on one of Biff Jeezus's outer space colonies. He's having them built as we speak. Ninety-five percent of the human race will live on huge rotating doughnuts. The rotation provides gravity. I asked Biff, I says, 'Can you make one that spins at a slower rate so that the gravity's lighter?
Crook: Would you like to rule one of those? Maybe flap your arms and fly in the light gravity doughnut?
Lieden: Yes! I want to fly in the light gravity doughnut. I'm going to hire a kid to write some poems about the subject, publish it as a Christmas present-type book. My smiling capped teeth and receding hairline on the cover, by Moe Lieden, no credit given to the writer, pay him crap to do the job, stiff him on a promised bonus once the book has been out for a month. That's what I've decided Angie.
Crook: What's that, Mr. President?
Lieden: I've decided to be evil.
Crook: Writing a bill in 1994 that led to locking up millions of Black men for minor drug offenses isn't evil?
Lieden: I did that to secure the vote of the African-American community. The only ones I didn't lock up were the middle-aged and older, the ones who vote in a higher percentage than youngsters. So I locked up the youngsters. They weren't doing me any good, anyway.
Crook: I guess you always were a cold man.
Lieden: Hey, I'll wreck a country in the morning and pin a medal on a war criminal in the afternoon and watch a Hazel episode before bed. I like that Shirley Booth. Did you know she won an Academy Award?
Crook: For The Matchmaker.
Lieden: Wrong. Come Back, Little Sheba. I'd like to have Shirley Booth working in the White House. My maid, Shirley Booth. Would there be speculation as to whether or not President Lieden is doing things with Shirley Booth? Does he sniff her hair? I certainly would if given the chance. Shirley Booth may not be every red-blooded American uh...male's idea of an attractive lady, but I'd wine and dine her, just as I did when I pitched woo at my lovely bride, Dr. Lieden.
Crook: Mr. President. I have to go. A donor has arrived. I'm going to extract maybe a million from him.
Lieden: Is it Biff Jeezus?
Crook: Not Biff. He already gave.
Lieden: Ask him for a touch in six to eight weeks. He's to be questioned by the Space Committee. He'll be wanting to make nice for the sake of receiving taxpayer funds for his latest high as a kite idea. He wants to go to Triton.
Crook: What's that?
Lieden: Triton. I had to look it up. It's a moon of Neptune. It's way the F out there, two point seven billion miles! Billion with a B, not with an M.
Crook: What's he going to do there?
Lieden: Turn it into another Earth, a little one.
Crook: Well that's crazy.
Lieden: I thought the space doughnuts were crazy, but they're building them out there right now.
Crook: Sounds like a recipe for trouble. What if one doughnut goes to war with another doughnut?
Lieden: It doesn't bear thinking about.
Crook: I must go, Mr. President. Let me just say you're doing the best job! I'm so proud of what you've accomplished and I know we'll accomplish more. God bless you, Mr. President.
Lieden: Angie, you're a peach! My best to Dex.
Cassandra Hartliss Blade interviewed by Tyr Bolingbroke, NBC.
Interviewer: Your new book is entitled, Now What? The opening 500 pages detail the 2016 election, how it was stolen by Russia on behalf of their agent, Don Richman, and I must say that hasn't been proven. You then have 1,000 pages of an eight point plan on how to best govern the United States, with you, presumably as the one to govern it.
Blade: I never suggest in the book the one to implement the plan will be me.
Interviewer: You're not planning to run for President in 2024?
Blade: Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha--
Interviewer: --I don't see what's funny about the question--
Blade: --Ha Ha. It's just that I get that question so many times. I'm not running in 2024. If I do run you can play this video and say, 'See, she either changed her mind or she lied!' And who cares, anyway? Did you read my book?
Interviewer: I've read all of your books, even your cookbook.
Blade: Thank you, I wrote that one after I upset and capsized every Libyan's life.
Interviewer: Your destruction of Libya and also of Syria made Putout wary of you, so he preferred Richman. That's what I heard from a senior White House staff member.
Blade: Is your source the Secretary of State?
Interviewer: How did you know?
Blade: He's my source, too, but he feeds me false information sometimes. He's not to be trusted but who is?
Former President Bongo on secure phone with President Lieden, his former VP.
Bongo: Heard you took a big dump in front of the White House Press Corps. You think that won't get lampooned at the White House Correspondents Dinner?
Lieden: It was not big. One big turd to start and three little ones. I didn't even fart.
Bongo: Unless the air that came out of your mouth that day could be thought of has having the worth of farts. Even Biff Jeezus's farts aren't worth anything, Moe.
Lieden: I had to poop! What's wrong with pooping when you have to poop?
Bongo: In a nursing home that question might not raise an eyebrow among nursing staff, but in my right ear it sounds like the statement of a man halfway to the funny farm.
Lieden: Oh, you're not going to commit Morris Lieden! I'm not leaving this job either. I'll do Roosevelt one term better, five terms!
Bongo: Twenty years and you haven't even done two. You'd be ninety-eight when you're done!
Lieden: A young ninety-eight!
Bongo: There may be something to Biff's rejuvenation treatments. Have you signed up for his program?
Lieden: Nah, too expensive. Dr. Lieden said let's grow old naturally.
Bongo: I'll lend you the cost of the program, three treatments, should get you to 250 years old.
Lieden: I'll ask this question because I know that if she were here, Dr. Lieden would ask about the state of this hypothetical Moe Lieden at 249 and 11 months--what's his mental health like? Is he sharp as a tack? Or like the end of a ballpoint pen? Can he urinate and shit without assistance? I can still do that you know!
Bongo: You need to put your shit in a toilet in a room with the door closed!
Lieden: Are you back on that?
Bongo: Don't shit in public, Moe! The public think you've lost it.
Lieden: They're right.
Bongo: Say again?
Lieden: I've lost my youthful exuberance to believe I'm doing the right thing. Now I'm doing the wrong things every day and I don't care that they're wrong and that I'm doing them. I'm a functionary. A cog in a machine. So are you. Wall Street's cog, President Bongo, commanding four-hundred-thousand per speech, not bad, but I bet you could get more. I'll sign on for this immortality option. I've bought regolith on the Moon. Soil there is called regolith, don't ask me why.
Bongo: I'm looking at a plot of land hard by the Valles Marinaris. In the morning I'll be able to take a five minute excursion by shank's mare to canyon's rim. The glory of the morning mists of Mars, otherworldly but weirdly familiar, as if mankind originated...on Mars. Sorry, I was rehearsing my lines for a documentary I'm doing for Biff.
Lieden: Is it about Mars?
Bongo: Yes, how only certain members of society get to live there in total freedom. Sure, 150,000 vat-grown humans transported on the first ship in sperm and ova forms, then grown like plants, they also live on Mars and could be called Martians, but they don't count, see?
Lieden: They're workers. Workers don't count.
Bongo: They sure don't. I want to say to them, "Don't bring me your complaints about the lousy job I did for you! I did my job, pleasing my donors, the health insurance lobby, the Wall Streeters, the war machine motherfuckers, I did my job so well that if I had a report card for my two administrations I'd sit here and admire it when I'm feeling guilty. Hey, this reminds me how much money I've made not representing the American people. I'm sure, Moe, you've felt the same oddly pleasurable emotion?
Lieden: We fail for a purpose.
Bongo: That's why I and several others picked you to be president. Can't have a strong leader out front in these times. Can't have a legalistic justice-minded leader who really wants to drain the swamp and exile the swamp creatures or better yet, put em in jail. Better to have a bewildered man in charge. Bewildered men can be guided. Do you feel others prodding you, Moe?
Lieden: That large turd prodded me from the inside. I had to let it go, Mr. President. Will I be on the ticket in twenty-four?
Bongo: What makes you ask?
Lieden: I overheard Vice President Parris and Secretary of State Sneffen talking about giving the nomination to Cassandra.
Bongo: Cassandra, come on! So Don Richman gets the other side's nomination, as looks probable. Cassandra versus Don Part Two! Can we handle the fun? Moe, seriously, you keep your shit together, literally and figuratively. Be assured we'll keep you on for a second term, can't guarantee more. In fact, be satisfied with two. Believe me, two is plenty.
Lieden: God dammit!
Bongo: What is it?
Lieden: I thought it was a fart.
CBS newscast.
Anchorwoman: Is President Lieden suffering from early stage Alzheimer's? Or is it Dementia? Could it be the man with the most powerful job in the world isn't all there upstairs? Tune in at 6:30 for a special report: The President's Brain.
Secretary of State Arthur "Artie" Sneffen's office aboveground. A marble bust of Abraham Lincoln adorns his wide oak desk. There is no other frill in the office except for a portrait of Calvin Coolidge. Defense Secretary Holroyd sits opposite him, snifter in hand. It's nine in the morning but why not, Holroyd thinks. It's happy hour overseas in some country we're bombing, ha ha ha ha ha.
Sneffen: Did you watch The President's Brain? Eighteen minutes of misinformation.
Holroyd: I learned he met Dr. Lieden in a hospital.
Sneffen: Yes, he was a gangbanger for a while, the Cornpop years.
Holroyd: I heard he was a real mean dude.
Sneffen: Yes, and Cornpop hung around with a bunch of real mean guys.
Holroyd: Cornpop versus Lieden. It's hard to believe either one of them survived.
Sneffen: Cornpop used to deliver buffalo wings to this office, to one of my predecessors, Cassandra Hartliss Blade. In spite of his dispute at the public swimming pool with Moe Lieden in 1959, Cornpop is a lifelong Democrat.
Holroyd: Cassie, I'll bet, gets greasy fingers from the chicken!
Sneffen: She makes sure she has a stack of napkins nearby.
Holroyd: I hate Cassie.
Sneffen: No one, not even Billy Boy, likes her.
Holroyd: We speak about her respectfully.
Sneffen: Without decorum what are we?
Holroyd: Plain and simple mass murderers?
Sneffen: I see President Lieden as a man still capable of polished discourse, but he needs a boost to achieve that capability. Dr. Grauchi's pink potions work well, but the president still manages to slip up, embarrassingly so.
Holroyd: You mean when he dropped trou at the press conference and took a big shit?
Sneffen: Not that. His faultiness with language, especially his tendency to go on tangents and forget his line of argument. He's easy to defeat debate-wise. I fear some heavy coaching mixed with pink liquid drug enhancement lies in President Lieden's next two years, resulting in rapid brain deterioration once the pink liquid can no longer help him.
Holroyd: Wouldn't it be something if Dinah Parris won the nomination?
Sneffen: I'd sniff that out. Parris has the Blades behind her, so I'd go after the Blades, pull Terry Stein's blackmail card.
Holroyd: You have it? What is it?
Sneffen: A DVD recording of what was originally a VHS videotape of former President Blade--granted, when he was no longer president--having sexual intercourse with a minor.
Holroyd: Well I always knew he's a pervert.
Sneffen: This evidence will certainly prevent the Blades from angling for Blade's or Parris's or President Lieden's nomination in twenty-four or any other year.
Holroyd: Diabolical my friend.
Sneffen: I've watched the DVD twice. Poor lighting mars some moments, but it's unmistakeable. Billy Boy Blade on top of a teenaged girl, couldn't be more than fifteen.
Holroyd: What a creep.
Sneffen: My favorite part is where they're talking, still have the clothes on, and Billy Boy Blade asks, "What was your favorite class in high school?"
Holroyd: Was her favorite class?
Sneffen: She had been removed from society by Mathilde de Sade, recruited by her to be an island girl on Terry Stein's private rock of selfish pleasures in the Caribbean. In the tape the girl replies she liked her English classes. She wrote poetry. Blade says, "Oh, can you recite one of your poems for me?"
Holroyd: Acts like he's interested in her pastimes.
Sneffen: Yes, a real cynic.
Holroyd: Does she recite a poem?
Sneffen: She begs off, claims to not remember them well enough to do them justice. Blade doesn't press it. He tells her to take her clothes off, he gets undressed, looks he swallowed a garbage can, splotches on his chest and back, his nut sack hanging halfway to his knobby knees sticking out from fat legs. This man is a grotesque, Secretary Holroyd! Dickens, if he had written porn, would've reveled in creating such a character as our Billy Boy Blade. He moves swiftly on the girl, I won't describe it further.
Holroyd: Please!!!!!
Sneffen: No, I shall not. I wish to purge the images and sounds from my head.
Holroyd: How did you acquire this holy grail of DVDs?
Sneffen: A member of a rap group had it and sold it to me.
Holroyd: How did he or she get it?
Sneffen: This rapper moonlights as a State Department informant, with a code name and a monthly salary of 615,000 dollars. This rapper killed to acquire the DVD from the home of a high-ranking LAPD officer no longer with us because the rapper killed him to acquire the DVD. Had the policeman not come downstairs to eat the rest of his Pasta Roni Angel Hair Pasta with Herbs dinner he wouldn't have been killed by the rapper's State Department-supplied firearm.
Holroyd: Collateral damage.
Sneffen: Perfectly understandable when one is in the wrong place at the wrong time. The rapper will not suffer consequences for killing the policeman, anymore than the United States suffers consequence for its daily killing of random people.
Holroyd: He's a government employee, why should he?
Sneffen: I've made numerous copies of the DVD. I plan on showing it to Cassandra, and soon. I want her to go away.
Holroyd: What about Billy Boy? I'd like to see the expression on his red face when he sees himself raping someone.
Sneffen: He'll find out about it from her without having seen it. Oh, the awkwardness in that relationship, at least for a day or two! Cassandra, unfortunately, is well aware of her husband's faults when it comes to the softer sex, but she'll know it will be difficult to run for President if her husband gets investigated for statutory rape. The statute in this case, if the time stamp is authentic, hasn't yet run out.
Holroyd: It would make a hot-selling DVD.
Sneffen: If it were legal to sell it, Secretary Holroyd. I suggest you take your mind away from it.
The David Rockefeller High Security Compound for Problematic Inmates in Brooklyn, New York, a while back, when an entrepreneur and eugenics promoter working for Israeli Intelligence, Terry Stein, had a special visitor. Bribed guards made extra security precautions to allow this VIP access to Stein in the Compound's most luxurious rumpus room, equipped with pool table, plenty of comic books, Highlights and Newsweek magazines to read; a ping pong table and a bar with three full time cocktail waitresses, each of them older than Terry Stein's type.
VIP Richman: Mathilde said she's going to blab everything. Any insight as to whether or not she's bluffing?
Stein: She's in a tough position, as am I.
VIP Richman: Remember that vacation my missus took with Mathilde and yourself on your yacht, the Government-Protected Pedophile?
Stein: I miss that boat.
VIP Richman: All three of you pressured me to smoke marijuana. I didn't want to. I pop pills, see? I like little pills to help keep me going. You have to be alert, but maruh-jew-wanna? No go.
Stein: In other words, you're boasting you're a square. Are you gonna get me out of here?
VIP Richman: You'll get out, one way or another.
The Young Genocides set. Chuck Booger does his daily Richman-related segment while Lana Armenian looks at her messages.
Booger: And another thing that's become more and more noticeable is Richman's dementia. He can hardly get a sentence out without sounding like an idiot. I mean, he is an idiot, but now his brain is failing.
Armenian: But doesn't that make you feel sorry for the part of Richman that's fading? I mean, getting old happens to all of us.
Booger: Richman as an old man, as a grandpa, I guess he is a grandfather, but yeah, it's true his aging is not what I'm making fun of here, but his deterioration is obvious.
Armenian: As is Lieden's.
Booger: I wouldn't go that far.
Armenian: According to five White House Press Corps people I've talked to the president defecated on the stage in the press room.
Booger: I've heard that rumor. I have sources, too. One told me the president just farted a little loudly.
Armenian: No Chuck, I mean he dropped his pants and took a shit in front of thirty people.
Booger: Allegedly.
Armenian: He allegedly took a shit in front of thirty people, with cameras!
Booger: Where are the pictures then?
Armenian: The Secret Service confiscated them.
Booger: The phones too?
Armenian: Everything.
Booger: If someone had a camera implanted in his chest they'd dig it out of his body?
Armenian: Undoubtedly.
Booger: All right, this is getting silly. The bottom line is, Richman is demented, Lieden is my President, I don't believe he took a shit in front of thirty reporters. I want to see proof.
Armenian: You want to study video evidence of the president pooping.
Booger: Yes, it'll make a good thumbnail, it'll get clicks.
Dracula Deadface's office in Silicon Valley. He has a faux Warhol multi-colored portrait of himself on one wall of his coffin-shaped office. Numerous marijuana plants and licorice packages on the floor. He wears a cape when he paces in his office, thinking up new ways to outrage Twitter users. His latest: let users of his platforms know it's okay to call for the killing of Russian soldiers in Ukraine, and to praise neo-Nazi militias there. Biff Jeezus appears as a hologram near the "feet" section of the coffin-shaped room.
Deadface: I thought our meeting would be at one?
Jeezus: What is time to we immortals?
Deadface: I find I'm still preoccupied with it.
Jeezus: That will pass. You haven't had a compassionate thought for the so-called little guy in how long?
Deadface: Since never.
Jeezus: Good, you're maintaining it, the not caring attitude. If all the Redwoods fall does that really affect my ability to achieve the perfect orgasm?
Deadface: I can't feel my orgasms.
Jeezus: Did you have the Covid strain that takes away sense of touch? I believe it was the Rho Variant, or the Nu? Or--
Deadface: No, I'm immune to Covid. I signed up for the antidote offered to Ratfuck Bastards early on in the pandemic, January 2020. By March I was immune.
Jeezus: By March 2020 I already saw my wealth erupting into more mass as the year would unfold.
Deadface: 2020 by far was the most exciting and bestest year ever.
Jeezus: On Earth anyway. We'll measure time differently on Mars, on Triton.
Deadface: The Triton mission is a go?
Jeezus: Yes, taxpayers generously contribute to all of my ideas. I don't reward them for being generous to me. I just extract more money from them and give them quick package delivery because our culture has been trained by me to believe waiting a few extra days for a package is one of the worst things a typical American could experience.
Deadface: Give it to them before they think of wanting it, that's the way we're heading.
The Presidential bedroom, the Liedens sitting up in bed like Bob Newhart and Suzanne Pleshette, except they're not likable people. He reads Air Force magazine, an article on the positive side of carpet bombing, recommended to him by General Bomb. Dr. Lieden reads How To Care For Aging Parents, 3rd Edition, by Virginia Morris.
Lieden: This author has a Curtis LeMay attitude.
Dr. Lieden: How so, dear?
Lieden: Carpet bombing. Once Ukraine gets taken over, or most of it, by the Russians, I can send our mighty-winged B-52s over Russian positions taken in the war and blow the living fuck out of them, turn swaths of Ukraine into a desolate land. Send in the construction crews, money to Caterpillar, man, war is the funnest way to make money!
Dr. Lieden: The loss of life, darling.
Lieden: Honey, I've had a hand in killing millions--you look so scrumptious in your soft white nightgown. Pull it up and let husband see your stuff.
Dr. Lieden: I'm reading, but I'll give you a little diversion before we call it a night.
Lieden: THE KIND OF DIVERSION WHERE I GET CONFUSED BECAUSE I CAN'T EJACULATE BECAUSE YOU WON'T LET ME INHALE YOUR HAIR AND GROAN LIKE AN INSANE MENTAL PATIENT??? LAST TIME WAS TOO MUCH FOR DR. LIEDEN, HUH?
Dr. Lieden: First of all, lower your voice. We're okay, Hank! The President's enjoying a basketball game! Second, I'm going to have to find you a plaything, but that's going to be hard what with focus on the Terry Stein suicide--
Lieden: Suicide! Hah!
Dr. Lieden: I'll find someone for you. I know that Jennifer Psyop doesn't mind when you sniff her hair.
Lieden: Jennifer is a good sport. A good woman. Oh, she's got nice hair! Red hair, almost auburn. Auburn fragrant hair on a press secretary, that's a poem! God gave her auburn hair, Moe gave her a job to be his voice, a voice which said, "Jennifer, your hair smells particularly delightful this time, did you change your shampoo? I enjoyed your previous shampoo but I can move on from it to this new fragrance!"
Dr. Lieden: All right, I'm done reading, let's take care of your immediate problem.
Lieden: If I didn't have you to keep me going how would the world get by?
To be continued.
Vic Neptune
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