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Authors: Andrew Shaffer
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Soccer? We have football. Real football. They have James Bond? Say hello to Jason Bourne, who is much better looking. Needs to get laid more, though. You hear about Bond girls. Where are the Bourne girls?
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Chapter Seventeen
In Bloom
J immie woke up in a cold sweat. It was just after four. While he wanted to believe everything Connor had told him was fantasy, his mind was running wild. He’d searched for the GIF Connor had spoken of, the one with the body falling from the White House roof. It appeared to have been all but wiped off the Internet. Thankfully, he found it on a cached Fark link.
It was nothing, really—just a blur. Could have been a gnat flying past the camera lens. No wonder it hadn’t taken off. And yet . . . there appeared to be another figure on the roof. Just a shadow. But still . . .
After an hour of tossing and turning, Jimmie gave up on sleep. His brain was on fire with speculation. What had happened to Lester Dorset? He dressed and took the Metro to work.
It was still before seven when he arrived at the White House. He decided to stroll the grounds before heading inside. It was too early to hit the slot machines in the Press Room. Plus, he had to see the Rose Garden for himself. He didn’t know what he’d find—probably nothing—but he had to see it. He had to see where Connor claimed Lester had met his end, as improbable as it had sounded.
Trump’s revamped Rose Garden wrapped around the back of the White House from the East to West Wing. A pair ofSecret Service agents stood at attention near the back doors. Jimmie nodded as he passed them, just to be friendly. They didn’t acknowledge his presence. Behind the dark shades, it appeared they were catching some Zs. He thought he heard one snoring.
Even though it was early fall, the garden was still in full bloom. Jimmie couldn’t identify any of the flowers besides the roses. He didn’t know shit about flowers, except that they were expensive as hell on Valentine’s Day and withered to nothing a week later.
Jimmie shot a quick glance up at the third-floor family quarters. The lights were out. Was Trump awake right now, though? Perhaps he was already at breakfast or reading the paper in the Oval Office. The president frequently bragged about how little sleep he got. It didn’t sound like something to brag about. It sounded like something to see your doctor about.
A hand drew a curtain to the side. A woman wrapped in a bath towel opened a set of double doors and stepped out onto the third-floor patio. Her wet hair glistened in the dawn’s morning light. She was beautiful beyond comparison . . . and she was also the first lady. This was Trump’s fifth (but probably not final) wife: Victoria Trump.
She gazed out on the South Lawn, surveying the sand traps and water hazards within her domain.
Jimmie knew he should look away, but he was powerless. He’d never been much of a voyeur. However, it wasn’t every day that you saw the first lady step out of the shower. Or maybe it was every day. Maybe if he got here before seven every morning, he could catch a glimpse of the Hottest Wife on the Planet.
That wasn’t just in his estimation, either—that was an official title, bestowed by no less an authority than Maxim magazine. And it was well deserved. In person, the Latverian model looked even better than she’d looked on America’s Next First Lady .
Victoria caught sight of Jimmie staring up at her.
He froze in place.
She shot him a knowing smile and slowly undid her towel. Oh so slowly . . .
Just as she was about to show him her first ladies, a light came on behind her. She quickly wrapped the towel back tight around her as her husband approached from behind. He was fully dressed and holding his phone up as if filming video of her. Victoria batted him away and stormed inside. The president shrugged and tapped away on his phone, facing away from Jimmie. A picture of the first lady would pop up
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Chapter Seventeen
In Bloom
J immie woke up in a cold sweat. It was just after four. While he wanted to believe everything Connor had told him was fantasy, his mind was running wild. He’d searched for the GIF Connor had spoken of, the one with the body falling from the White House roof. It appeared to have been all but wiped off the Internet. Thankfully, he found it on a cached Fark link.
It was nothing, really—just a blur. Could have been a gnat flying past the camera lens. No wonder it hadn’t taken off. And yet . . . there appeared to be another figure on the roof. Just a shadow. But still . . .
After an hour of tossing and turning, Jimmie gave up on sleep. His brain was on fire with speculation. What had happened to Lester Dorset? He dressed and took the Metro to work.
It was still before seven when he arrived at the White House. He decided to stroll the grounds before heading inside. It was too early to hit the slot machines in the Press Room. Plus, he had to see the Rose Garden for himself. He didn’t know what he’d find—probably nothing—but he had to see it. He had to see where Connor claimed Lester had met his end, as improbable as it had sounded.
Trump’s revamped Rose Garden wrapped around the back of the White House from the East to West Wing. A pair ofSecret Service agents stood at attention near the back doors. Jimmie nodded as he passed them, just to be friendly. They didn’t acknowledge his presence. Behind the dark shades, it appeared they were catching some Zs. He thought he heard one snoring.
Even though it was early fall, the garden was still in full bloom. Jimmie couldn’t identify any of the flowers besides the roses. He didn’t know shit about flowers, except that they were expensive as hell on Valentine’s Day and withered to nothing a week later.
Jimmie shot a quick glance up at the third-floor family quarters. The lights were out. Was Trump awake right now, though? Perhaps he was already at breakfast or reading the paper in the Oval Office. The president frequently bragged about how little sleep he got. It didn’t sound like something to brag about. It sounded like something to see your doctor about.
A hand drew a curtain to the side. A woman wrapped in a bath towel opened a set of double doors and stepped out onto the third-floor patio. Her wet hair glistened in the dawn’s morning light. She was beautiful beyond comparison . . . and she was also the first lady. This was Trump’s fifth (but probably not final) wife: Victoria Trump.
She gazed out on the South Lawn, surveying the sand traps and water hazards within her domain.
Jimmie knew he should look away, but he was powerless. He’d never been much of a voyeur. However, it wasn’t every day that you saw the first lady step out of the shower. Or maybe it was every day. Maybe if he got here before seven every morning, he could catch a glimpse of the Hottest Wife on the Planet.
That wasn’t just in his estimation, either—that was an official title, bestowed by no less an authority than Maxim magazine. And it was well deserved. In person, the Latverian model looked even better than she’d looked on America’s Next First Lady .
Victoria caught sight of Jimmie staring up at her.
He froze in place.
She shot him a knowing smile and slowly undid her towel. Oh so slowly . . .
Just as she was about to show him her first ladies, a light came on behind her. She quickly wrapped the towel back tight around her as her husband approached from behind. He was fully dressed and holding his phone up as if filming video of her. Victoria batted him away and stormed inside. The president shrugged and tapped away on his phone, facing away from Jimmie. A picture of the first lady would pop up
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