In this room, death at his fingertips, he is God.
His angels in white flutter about the room, whispered orders their wingbeats: more sunlight above that fight there, zoom in on that spray of blood, doesn't anyone know how to work the cannons? Someone caresses the button for the victory trumpets, eyes on the beautiful blonde twirling a mace onscreen, but a wave of his hand and they snatch their own away. As long as the president's favor is his crown, none will dare disobey him.
He smiles and takes a sip of wine. This will be another good year.