Following a top secret briefing at the Pentagon, the President-Elect smoked a Newport cigarette. Barack remembered the promise made to his wife as he reached for a green and white cardboard box inside his soft, cotton dress-shirt. He promised to quit smoking if he ran for president. Barack’s lungs felt fine. He won the race. What Michelle didn’t know wouldn’t kill her, anyway.
Barack silently pealed the pack open, quickly checking his pants pockets for the book of matches an agent of the secret service loaned to him. A red- haired, freckle-faced young man, no older than twenty-three in appearance, loaned Barack the matches on the down-low. Barack was introduced to his new secret service team prior to departing from his hotel, on his way to a highly-secret meeting to include the two Bush presidents, Bill Clinton and Jimmy Carter. The pressure made him crave a cigarette terribly.
Barack took a liking to the red head– immediately requesting that Jason North be promoted to work in the White House and assigned to travel everywhere with the President. Every chief executive since Nixon had a choice secret service agent. The appointment of the post is more important than that of Secretary of State. The job is an informal chief of staff position for the president. Monica had oral sex with President Clinton with help from such dedicated members of America’s armed services.
During introductions of the twenty-two member squad, agents tried their best to make first impressions, but Jason stood out.
Barack smiled as the Newport balanced on his lower lip. He recalled his first conversation with Jason–
“Where are you from?” Barack asked.
“Cleveland, Ohio, Mr. President.”
“Your eyebrows are two different shades– one is red, the other white and your eyes are blue.”
“It’s an honor to serve, Mr. President.”
Barack smiled and replied– “Ride here with me, to the Pentagon.” Barack chatted for more than an hour with his new team. It was an opportunity for the President-Elect to change his staff around without any feelings being hurt. Barrack kept them all, but found a favorite.
Jason cleared the order with his direct supervisor, Christopher Smith– a first lieutenant still assigned to the Marines. Christopher nodded his salt and peppered head as the new President and his pick of the secret service closed the heavy, limousine door and sat back in plush leather seats.
“I need the utmost discretion.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Listen. While I’m inside the Pentagon receiving my vaccinations, I need for you to get me a pack of cigarettes– Newport Kings and I’ll need a pack of matches.”
“I smoke too, Mr. President,” North explained, handing the President-Elect his own book of matches.
Barack’s face tightened as he finished his cigarette and snuffed it out in a never before used ash tray of Land Rover One. He was now sitting alone in the back of the limo and wished he had not given Jason the night off.
Barack wondered if Jason would destroy his oath with the President-Elect and tell his supervisor about the smoking. It didn’t matter. No press conferences this evening or hands to shake. Michelle was in Chicago with the girls. No Smells to be concerned with. Women would clean his clothing the moment he changed.
The Roswell discussion at the Pentagon was not what Barack imagined. His arm ached. Physicians injected powerful anti-viral medications into his arm with an airgun. Although there were no needles, Barack’s arm bled, despite assurances that it would not.
Talks of an Islamic fundamentalist plan referred to as ‘The Gilgal Project’ exhausted Barack. He rubbed his sore arm, tasting nicotine on his lips. His head spun. He waited so long to smoke. It wouldn’t be hard to stop again. The strong Newport made him ill. As generals shared the many details of the Gilgal Project and Jimmy Carter injected his thoughts on a peace process, all Barack could think about was his white grandmother and his desire to smoke again. .
Barack thought about what Clinton said at the Pentagon meeting about Viagra and Roswell?
His focus went back to the choice of where to sleep– the Lincoln bedroom?
“Barack,” A voice whispered in the limo. Barack looked around, perhaps the driver had an intercom. limousine. He was alone now in the soft, leather seat. He rested his head as the car turned down Pennsylvania Avenue.
The whisper returned in vivid clairity, obviously, the whisper was not a voice made through transmission–
“Barack, it’s me…”
“Grandma?” Barack whispered. “We did it! Now what?”
