Fry closed his eyes and allowed the vibrations from the ship's engines to pass from the chair into his body. Just relax, he told himself. It will soon be done.

"I can do this," he heard Amy utter nervously. "Steady, girl…steady…"

Opening one eye and looking toward the pilot's seat, he noticed that Amy was gripping the ship's control column with one hand, and applying mascara to her eyelashes with the other. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he said, finding it odd that such an idle question would be among his last words.

"Oh, yeah," replied the girl without moving her head. "It's a huge time-saver." She gently pulled the stick closer, and the ship's prow rose, allowing the New New York skyline and the hilly horizon to disappear from the viewscreen. They hovered for a moment while she dropped the cosmetic brush into a conveniently located compartment, and then the rockets burst to life, launching them into the sky.

A feeling of wicked satisfaction filled Fry as he watched Earth's surface fade below him. Twenty-five minutes until the State of the World address begins, he thought, glancing at the built-in clock on the console. Nothing can stop me now—nothing but my own fear.

Amy switched on the automatic pilot and started to apply rouge to her cheeks. "This is the most supremely satisfying moment of my life," she gushed. "I wish I had the words to tell you how I feel. It's like…well, you know, it's like…freedom, and power, and beauty, and the birds, and junk. Fry?"

Her first thought was that he had excused himself to go to the lavatory. She lowered the applicator, turned her head, and gasped in terror.

Fry stood behind her, his face a mask of ruthless determination, his fingers wrapped around the trigger of a laser pistol, the barrel of the pistol aimed directly between her eyes. Next to his feet lay the opened, discarded black briefcase.

"Fry!" she wailed. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What nobody else has the guts to do," the fiery-eyed redhead answered. "Lay in a course for Washington, D.C."

"Oh my, yes," said Professor Farnsworth, gloating over his handiwork. "It's perfect. It's the most perfect thing I've ever created."

"Uh, Dad?" said Cubert, gazing down at the brand-new addition to his anatomy. "I wanted an outie, not an innie."

"Pish-tosh," said the professor dismissively. "Someday you'll thank me."

While Cubert sat and contemplated his navel, an unexpected visitor burst into the lab in the form of Bender. "Yo, propeller-head," said the robot in haste. "I found something that might interest you. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe it's not." In his hand he waved the garishly-worded pamphlet that Fry had obtained in an alley.

"Let's see that," said Farnsworth, taking the literature into his wrinkled fingers. "Nixon, eh?" After a quick scan of the pages he added, "Good Lord, at this rate he'll start the Apocalypse before I do!"

"Look at the ending," Bender urged him. "Look at the name of the guy who wrote it."

The professor adjusted his crystal goggles. "Orlando Garrett? Where have I heard that name before? Oh, that's right. Nowhere."

"Orlando Garrett happens to be the name of the chump who snuffed himself in the booth just before Fry went in," Bender related. "I checked out his web site. Turns out he was a total whack job who could think of nothing but how much happier we'd all be if Nixon was impeached, imprisoned, assassinated, or all of the above."

"Hmm," mused the scientist. "Could it be that he infected Fry with his paranoid fantasies somehow?"

"He never had a chance to talk to Fry," Bender told him. "He was history in the making by the time Fry came back from his battle with the vending machine."

Farnsworth tickled his chin thoughtfully. "That's very curious," he remarked, "but when you consider how many enemies Nixon has made since taking office…"

"Dad!" exclaimed Cubert, leaping up from his chair. "I think I know what happened to Uncle Fry!"

"Huhwhaaa?" the professor blurted out.

"It's a crazy idea," said the young clone, "but if it's true, then Amy may be in danger."

"Put the gun away!" Amy pleaded with the rigid, scowling Fry. "You're not yourself!"

"Do as I say and you won't be hurt," said Fry, tightening his grasp on the cold hilt of the laser gun. "Wait a minute…I'm gonna crash the ship into the White House and kill President Nixon, so you will be hurt…no, I take that back. Just do as I say."

"Fry, no!" cried Amy, her face white with terror and red with rouge. "You can't do that on my first solo flight!"

"Amy, you've been a good friend," said Fry with only a hint of emotion, "but if you make any attempt to change our course, I'll put a hole through your pretty little head."

"Awww," said Amy wistfully. "Uh, I mean, please don't kill me! I'll do anything!"

"What I'm trying to say," Cubert explained to Bender and the professor, "is that when Orlando Garrett killed himself in the suicide booth, he left behind a psychic residue that latched on to Uncle Fry when he went inside."

"Psychic residue?" said Farnsworth incredulously. "Preposterous! You've been reading too much Harry Potter."

"Look who's talking, Mr. I-can-fly-faster-than-the-speed-of-light," Cubert chided him.

"Man, that's gotta burn," said Bender.

The professor threw up his hands in indignation. "I've never heard of such an occurrence," he insisted. "I've never seen it postulated in any serious scientific journal, and I've read more than twelve thousand serious scientific journals. How many serious scientific journals have you read, punk?"

"Fifty-seven," replied Cubert, "if you count Psychology Today."

The megacity of Baltimore flew by underneath the Planet Express delivery ship, and the waters of the Potomac River appeared as a shining fringe in the distance. Amy sat motionlessly, struggling not to cry, badly needing to use the ladies' room. Fry paced back and forth through the cabin, ranting to himself, keeping his weapon trained on the pilot's seat. "That bodiless bastard won't know what hit him," Amy could hear him mutter.

A voice from the radio speakers suddenly broke the tension. "Amy! Amy, come in!" it crackled.

"It's the professor!" said the Asian girl with relief. "I'm saved!" She lurched forward to hit the receive button, only to be startled by an inhumanly high-pitched shriek and an avalanche of sparks.

Fry, who had just blasted one of the speakers to bits, blew the smoke from the end of his pistol. "Whoops," he said calmly but menacingly. "My finger slipped."

Amy sank back into the captain's chair and groaned despondently. I've got to think of something, she told herself. But I'm Amy, not Leela. Geesh, I'm gonna die…