An Hour in the Life of Senju Hashirama

Hashirama's left eyebrow twitched in a mixture of amusement and growing irritation, something that seemed to be happening more and more frequently the further he delved into his paper work. As Hokage, it was his obligation to tend to the villagers' concerns, so he created the Genin Express, a mail system entirely run by otherwise useless ninja. Now, initially, he'd intended for people to send him letters only when they were in great need. Sadly, things did not go as planned. At all.

So far, in the course of three hours and fourteen minutes, he'd read twelve heart-covered marriage proposals (all of which he bluntly declined); ten asking for his hair-care secrets (he insisted that Madara's 'do was much better and advised that they go ask him); twenty-two ludicrous death threats written in Madara's surprisingly curly scrawl (these were placed on his night side table, in a nice box with about 500 other letters of similar origin); sixteen offering a 'good time', including highly explicit images of women (these were tactfully chucked into Tobirama's room); and a whopping nine letters regarding legitimate issues that were important enough to discuss at the next village meeting, but could hardly be considered problematic.

And, speaking of problems….

"Hokage-sama! We have a problem!"

Hashirama tried not to look as excited as he felt at the idea of leaving the tower as he looked up to the two out of breath Genin. If running through the village got them this exhausted, they obviously weren't training hard enough. He dully noted this for later and nodded at the two to continue. "Well?"

The first one sucked in a gulp of air before he started. "UchihaMadaraisharrassingchildrendowntown."

Damn, this kid had some lungs. Never had the Hokage heard someone say so much in such a short period of time without once closing his mouth and couldn't help being impressed. He had a strong suspicion the Genin was from the Inuzuka clan.

"I have no idea what you just said, but your enthusiasm is fantastic."

"T-thank you, Hokage-sama!" The poor boy bowed, not sure what to do with himself. His partner, after downing two canteens, spoke up.

"We spotted Uchiha Madara in the market steering—what did he call it again?"

"A rolly chair." His lungful companion supplied.

"—a rolly chair and screaming Uchiha war ballads at the top of his lungs to kids."

Raising an eyebrow, the Senju questioned, "And what's the problem? This hardly qualifies as even a potential issue, at least where Madara is concerned."

"The chair was stolen from Lord Tsukage's personal study, which could damage the already weak relationship we have with Iwa."

"What's worse, Madara's wearing what he claims is your dirty linen-"

"-and nothing else—"

"-on his head."

"Did I mention he was wearing nothing else?"

"A bunch of women were shielding their ovaries when we left, and your brother's been chasing Madara-sama around in Uzumaki Mit—I mean, your wife's robes."

Hashirama could think of only one word that adequately summed of the situation: "….Madara."