Presidential flash

Courtesy of the White House Museum

‘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.’


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