Trump: They’re just jealous-not just of me, but of our great country. Their food is terrible. Their sports are terrible. Bridget Jones has absolutely nothing on American diaries. I mean, Gone Girl-such a superior diary. Way more intrigue. 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
Jimmie 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 of Secret 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 on Instagram any second now.
Jimmie’s phone chirped in his pocket-the president hadn’t posted to social media. He’d sent a group text. Jimmie’d forgotten to switch his phone to silent! Shit.
It chirped again, and Trump swiveled around.
Without thinking, Jimmie dove headfirst into the Rose Garden.
Chapter Eighteen
Roses Are Red, Lester Is Blue
If he’d had time to hesitate, Jimmie would have balked at jumping into a flower bed filled with so many roses. Where there were roses, there were thorns. Even a boob like Bret Michaels knew that.
However, as he lay flat on his stomach under the cover of the flower bushes, Jimmie realized he hadn’t been scratched. He was going to have to dust the dirt off his suit, but there wasn’t a single thorn that had poked him. The flowers were fake. Every single one of them. No wonder the Rose Garden looked so majestic in late August.
Jimmie silenced his phone and rolled over onto his back. Looking up, his eye was drawn to some lettering on the underside of a rose petaclass="underline" “Made in China.” Through the faux foliage, he could see that Trump had disappeared back inside, chasing after Victoria. What the hell had Jimmie been thinking? And more important… what the hell had she been thinking?
Something scurried through the dirt near him. Before he could even turn his head to check it out, the thing was on his chest.
The first family’s dachshund, Opulence, was staring him in the face. It yipped twice, shrill and piercing, then sniffed at his lips. The dog could probably smell the coffee on his breath. If it was looking for food, it would have to look elsewhere-Jimmie had decided to start showing up to work with an empty stomach to avoid any further “incidents.”
Opulence turned its attention to the paper bag in Jimmie’s hand.
“Not my tuna sandwich,” he mumbled. Though, really, what did he care? He was going to get seventy-five bucks every day to spend on food. He was going to pack the pounds on. The dog looked scrawny, and winter was coming.
The skinny wiener dog darted for Jimmie’s lunch bag… and pushed it out of the way. It started digging in the dirt. Looking for a bone it had buried? Maybe dachshunds weren’t into tuna salad.
The dog popped its head back up, and what it had in its mouth was not the bone Jimmie was expecting.
It was a human finger.
A gray, rotted human finger covered in dirt, but a human finger nonetheless.
Jimmie had a good guess whose finger it was even before he saw the gaudy golden ring on it. The inscription encircling the oversized ruby confirmed his suspicions: 1993 PULITZER PRIZE WINNER.
Connor Brent was right. The previous ghostwriter was most certainly dead.
Chapter Nineteen
We Don’t Dial 9-1-1
EMPLOYEES ONLY. NO TRESPASSING. WE DONT [sic] DIAL 9-1-1!
The sign was meant to keep intruders at bay. There was even a little icon of a pistol, in case you were too dim to get the point.
Jimmie, however, wasn’t a trespasser. He was a White House employee. He ran his badge over the card reader and heard the door unlock.
He hesitated with his hand on the knob. Despite his obscenely high clearance level, he couldn’t entirely be sure he wouldn’t be shot on the other side. If he was going to do this, though, he had to move quickly. The White House opened up for tourists in another sixty seconds. He was in one of the most popular rooms: the Reagan Library. The room was stocked with VHS copies of Ronald Reagan’s favorite movies-everything from outlaw Westerns to gunfighter Westerns. No books. If there was a single book in the White House outside of Trump’s own, Jimmie hadn’t seen it yet.