The Propheteer

I. The Coming of the Chopper George, the chosen one, the grandson, son, brother, father and uncle of chosen ones, who was a dusk onto his day, had waited 8 years in the White House in the city of Washington for the helicopter that was to carry him back to the land of Texas. In this eighth year, on the 20th day of January, in the month of pardons, he climbed the White House fence, and looking westward, beheld his chopper coming with the mist. The medallions of his flightsuit were flung open, and his joy leapt sweetly over the Potomac. He prayed quite loudly, and with a lot of amens. But as he descended the lawn toward the helipad, an unease came upon him, and he thought in his heart: How shall I go in self-righteousness and without subpoenas? Nay, not without justifying myself shall I leave this place. For long were the nights of mumbling spent within its walls, and many were the kernels of popcorn caught in a row- 73, the night we bailed out AIG, was the record, by Condi. Too many times was I lost in its hallways, and how many tour groups were too late to help me find the nearest bathroom. And of the thousands of times I ordered KFC, Laura only caught me wiping my hands on the draperies twice. Truly, who can withdraw from such memories without an O’Doul’s and a heartache. Today, it is not a Commander-in-Chief ballcap I tear off, but my secret service beaconed underwear as well. Yet I cannot dawdle. The wild blue yonder calls me back onto her bosom, even as I never passed my flight physical. For to stay another term is yet beyond the power of voting machines. But in offshore accounts shall we take all that was here and all that will be collected for the next 100 years. Alas I cannot take the very stones of these walls though I should like to. But I have stuffed my flightsuit with Diet Cokes and Jolly Ranchers. Alone and without his nest the dodo must cross the sky. Now when he lay down on the veranda for a quick nap he looked again toward the west and his coming brethren. His chopper had begun to circle. And upon her pontoons clung the men of Texas, giving him the “hook-em-horns” sign. He farted with glee, and pointed to a nearby secret serviceman. In the awkward silence that followed, his heart cried out to his fellow Texans and he said: My brothers, sons of my dad’s friends, sopping with oil and drying off with money. How often have we had prarie dog culls in my dreams. And now you come in my wakefulness, which is truly no different than my sleep. “With my piggy bank, my pretzels and Ken Lay’s letters, am I ready at last to go. Then I shall stand among you, a millionaire Texan among millionaire Texans, and the illegal Mexicans we employ but pretend to want deported. And you, my beloved Oval Office, with my ipod stashed for extra long meetings. And you, my beloved Press Room, where I learned a dozen new words every day from my answer key. And you, Lincoln’s bedroom, where I would hide under the bed and growl when Putin stayed over. And of course the broken dumbwaiter where I would hide porn. Only one more winding shall I make through your spaces, only one last time to become locked in the coat closet while shortcutting. As he swaggered he saw from afar his deputies and staff hanging up on their lawyers and coming forth. As he heard them calling his dad’s name he turned and looked behind him, and, seeing nothing, he finally understood that they were calling him instead. He said to himself: What day is it anyway? And what the hell do they want? And what shall I give to him whom I already pardoned? And what shall I give to him whom I already gave no-bid contracts? And which of these was my Secret Santa who gave me a value-pack of tic-tacs? Before them shall my mind become a maze with no exit? Shall my thoughts become a fountain drink with no free refills? Or will God talk through me like before I started my medicine, when he told me to ‘transform’ the Middle East? A seeker of silences am I, and what many pearls/perils (I couldn’t hear him clearly) of wisdom has God told me when I muted commercials, that I may now pass on? “If this is my day of harvest I should not have slept til noon. If this is the hour of my final gratuitous speech then where is my teleprompter and earpiece?” This he said in words. But much in his deeper heart was quieted as he remembered the music from Star Wars. When he stepped back onto the veranda, humming, all his cronies had gathered to greet him. Even those whose ideas had been utterly discredited had turned out to see him off. Tears clotted every glistening eye as his face turned over the crowd. The elders among them stepped forth and spoke, saying: “Go not away from us yet. Lament! On your last day have you slept until noon and left only a shard of time for us to bask in your counsel. As you played Cowboys and Indians in your final dreams, we dared not wake you, not even for your breakfast burrito or your Washington Times open to Beetle Bailey. “No stranger are you among us. Because we all worked for your Father. Do not permit us yet to long for your favors. Stay in our company unto the end. Let not our 4-8 year exile from government hold us apart and our tax cuts become a memory. You have walked among us and bumped into walls. You have hidden behind the drapes and giggled. But we have loved your threat of veto and your power to portray even our final run on the treasury as a crisis of good and evil. But as we worked these years to veil our blossoming dividends in Exxon and Lockheed-Martin, our love has remained silent. Yet we love you more than the very voting machines that begot you. It is to our shame that we have not unfolded our love for all to admire and stood at your side. And the fact that your approval rating was the lowest in history had something to do with our silence.” Now others came forth and beckoned him equally. But his gaze did not rise to meet theirs. His head remained bowed and his mouth churning quietly. A great worry murmered through the crowd. But when those nearest him saw peanut shells falling upon the floor they breathed with an ease that spread quickly to their finges. They knew he would need a sandwich to compliment his nuts, so that as one the throng followed him to the parlor. There they took what chairs sat about, and the rest settled upon the floor. With a flush there came from the nearby half-bath a man named Dick, and he was George’s sous chef as well as the Vice President. He made great Nachos. He zipped up his fly, scowled and waited for his defibrillator to fire. George looked upon him with a trembling love. For it was Dick who first let him nap during staff meetings. And it was Dick who had a signature stamper made with George’s script, so that he could sign George’s papers for him. And it was Dick who was so patient in explaining Plausible Deniability, remembering to talk slowly, and using cut-outs and fingerpuppets to symbolize detainees. Dick snarled and hailed him, saying: Propheteer of God, in quest of a sandwich, long have you sniveled about your chopper. And now your chopper has come, and you must depart before the 1000’s of lawsuits against you mature. Sweet is your longing for your Texas. Yet as you leave us we ask that you speak again the slogans that have left your lips these years like truths. These slogans we will give unto our children for keeping, and they unto theirs for keeping. So that when the Democrats have once more collapsed beneath their own egos and greed and sex scandals, we may again set a place for fascism and fear-mongering in the halls of government. By the clockwork of human nature our time will come again in the eternal cycling of discontent. Therefore, sing to us now in the oversimplified wordage that only you can forge. As if speaking to a wall Dick paused and felt silly. George considered mayo or mus