‘Is it true? The President’s dead?’ asked the Chief of Staff, bursting through the heavy mahogany doors.
A solemn suited man gestured to the figure sprawled lifeless in the giant leather chair. The heavy jowls had a bluish tinge; the chest straining against buttons was still.
The Chief of Staff raised a questioning eyebrow. Clearing his throat, the other man spoke. ‘You’re aware that the Image Consultants had the President on a weight control regime? Only so much lighting and make-up can do.’
The first man nodded.
‘Someone gave him a Birthday Cake.’
‘Terrorists? Poison? Small explosion? Biological agent?’
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘Greedy son on of a bitch choked on the candle.’