A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I don't even own Richard Nixon
Sarah sat in silence, her hands folded across her lap, at the edge of a thin, cheaply-made mattress. She was in "her" room. The only room in the house modeled after her life, not her soul mate's life. The room was about 70 sqft. It was small, simple, efficient. It had a narrow, twin bed, with a black metal frame. Next to the bed was a nightstand with a lamp. Three feet away was a desk, stocked with pens. The walls were painted white. There was no television set, and no decorations. At the entrance to the room was a small closet to the left, and a tiny private bathroom to the right. The door was open.
Suddenly, she heard a light knocking sound. She turned. Richard Nixon stood at the room's entrance.
"Penny?," he asked.
Sarah responded, confused and a bit startled. "I'm sorry"?
"For your thoughts," Nixon answered.
"Oh," Sarah replied, curtly.
Nixon surmised the situation. "I recognize this room. It's living quarters at the Farm, isn't it? They haven't changed much since when I was President. I'm guessing you stayed here during your training. Is that right?"
Sarah nodded affirmatively.
Nixon answered her nod with one of his own. He placed his hands in his pocket, and leaned against the open door. "And, if I was a betting man, I'm guessing that you're wondering why this is your room here . . . your only room, right?"
Sarah nodded again.
Nixon continued with his informed speculation. "It doesn't seem fair, does it? This house has close to thirty rooms. But, except for this tiny corner, it's all Nixon. My childhood kitchen in Yorba Linda. My quarters as a Lt. Commander in the United States Navy, while on active duty. My first campaign office. The Oval Office. The meeting rooms at Camp David. Nixon . . . it's all Nixon's, isn't it?"
Yet again, Sarah nodded.
Nixon probed her eyes, and began to pace respectfully around the room. "If I could hazard a theory . . . I don't think this is the Universe being unfair to you . . . I think it's the Universe trying to teach you something. I mentioned I've known a lot of spooks . . . they lead lonely lives. And, I'm guessing you didn't have much of a happy childhood, did you? No baking apple pie with your grandmother?"
Nixon shook his head somberly. "Nixon didn't always have the happiest life either . My younger brother Arthur died when I was twelve. He was just a boy, only 7 years old. My older brother, Harold, died when I was 21. My father was a mean-spirited man who abused me, mostly psychologically but sometimes physically. As a grown man, I was wrongfully cheated out of the Presidency once, then unfairly betrayed by my own party and forced to resign. I lived to become the butt of comedians' jokes, and libeled by a media filled with liberal Communist traitors. But, through it all, Nixon always found meaning - found purpose - found joy. Based on this house, Nixon's guessing you didn't. The Good Place chose this room for you because you enlisted in the CIA hoping to give your life meaning . . . this room is a memory of that hope . . . of the contentment, the drive that you had as a young woman in basic training. But your active service turned those dreams to ash. You lived your life moving from hotel room to hotel room, mindless mission after mindless mission. The people you met, and even worked with, were mostly amoral scumbags. Not a genuinely decent human being in the entire bunch. You grew jaded, numb, to the work you were doing. You beat into your head that you worked for the 'good guys,' that the ends justified the means, didn't you? But the Good Place knows that you never believed that. Why, you were probably dead inside long before you wound up here. Sound about accurate?"
Nixon's words penetrated Sarah's very being. She sat, in silence, increasingly amazed at how much the former President understood about her. Maybe they truly were soul mates?
Nixon cranked a small smile. "But there's good news, sweetheart. Your life may have ended. But your existence didn't. You have all of eternity to find that meaning . . . that happiness . . . that you didn't enjoy on earth. In some respects, you have it better off than me . . . Pat, my wife. My brothers. My children and grandchildren. The people that I truly cared about . . . I haven't found them here. And, while that snarky customer service person and that Mor-Ganiel fellow both told me how Nixon's been 'adjusted' so as not to miss them . . . and they are 'sort of' right . . . a part of me still wants to talk with them. But you? You can make your personal connections here, the connections you didn't make in life. A fresh start, in a place populated by upstanding men and women . . . the types of people that you secretly longed to meet in life?"
Nixon finished his impromptu speech, and Sarah felt a wave of warmth come over her. Not knowing exactly why, she got up from the mattress, walked over to Nixon, and nudged him to envelop her in a comforting hug. She sobbed against her shoulders. And then, for a reason unknown even to to her, felt the urge to press her lips against his. It was a soft, sad kiss, no more than two to three seconds in length.
Sensing her vulnerability, Nixon broke-off the embrace. "Come. We have all of eternity. And I think you need a walk."
Sarah and Nixon left their home which, from the outside, resembled the White House, and took a stroll through their village. As they walked, they realized quickly that each of them saw the Good Place in a dramatically different way. To Nixon, the architecture resembled something akin to Disneyland's Main Street. Picture-perfect Americana, circa 1890-1925. To Sarah, for a reason unknown to her, the Village looked a lot like Tuscany. But, although the buildings and surroundings appeared different to Sarah and Nixon, the people looked the same. And they both noticed the same individual, wearing a red sweater, blue tie, and slacks sitting on a park bench. A gorgeous, shapely, naked blond woman was draped sideways across his lap, rubbing her stomach against his crotch, while protruding her buttocks towards his face.
Sarah gasped. "Is that. . . "
"Fred Rogers? Television's Mr. Rogers?," Nixon answered.
"And the woman?," Sarah asked.
Nixon shook his head. "Don't know. Don't recognize her."
Just then, Mor-Ganiel popped into existence, seemingly from nowhere.
"Kim Bassigner," Mor-Ganiel answered.
Nixon looked flumoxxed. "Who?"
Mor-Ganiel gestured towards the amorous man and woman. "You know . . . the actress . . . Vicky Vale, Vicky Vale . . . from Batman?"
Nixon's confusion did not abate. "Sorry, Nixon doesn't get the reference. Was never much for popular entertainment. I do remember the series . . . Julie Newmar made an excellent Catwoman. And Cesar Romero was a supporter of mine. Good man. Don't recall a Vicky Vale, though."
As he spoke, Nixon caught something from the corner of his eye. Signaling Sarah, they both concentrated their gaze on the couple.
Mr. Rogers had pulled out a vial of white powder from his pocket, and dumped the power on the blond woman's buttocks. With a credit card, he was aligning the powder into three thin lines. He started singing. "Won't you be my neighbor? Won't you be mine? Won't you be mine?" Then he placed his nose across her buttocks and snorted, one line after the other.
"Huh, what did you say, honey?" the woman responded.
Mr. Rogers slapped her hard across the face. "Shut up, bitch. I was singing to the cocaine."
Observing it all, Nixon and Sarah both gasped again.
Mor-Ganiel jumped in with an explanation. "Yeah, about that . . . some people, who lead exemplary lives on earth . . . they kind of turn into assholes here. You know, they figure they got into Heaven, so now they can enjoy being shitty to everyone. Plus, since this is the Good Place, they can get an unlimited supply of high-grade cocaine. And that doesn't help the whole 'acting like an asshole' thing. Mr. Rogers isn't the only one. You should see the pictures sent to Dear Old Captain Noah."
Mor-Ganiel looked down at a non-existent watch, similar to how he ended their first meeting. "Oh look, it's time for my break. Have a Bless More day." With that, he popped back into non-existence, vanishing before Nixon's and Sarah's eyes.
Two hours later, Sarah and Nixon entered Tangri-La, an Asian-themed bar that boosted stocking over 2 million flavors of Tang.
The interior resembled a faux-Hollywood depiction of ancient Tibet. Golden statues of Buddha lined the walls. The tables, chairs, and bar were made of a rich, dark-red wood.
Sarah approached the bartender. He was a tall, thin man, with rather unruly, curly hair. and dark, hazel eyes. His face looked tender, kind. "What do you recommend?" she asked.
"That depends," the bartender answered. "If you're going for a traditional flavor, I'd recommend kwagga. If you're going for something more experiential, then try the Gold Medal."
"Kwagga?," Sarah asked.
The bartender smiled, kindly. "It's a fruit. Kind of tastes like a cross between mango and cactus fruit. It went extinct during the Jurassic Era. But we can get anything here. As long as it's Tang."
Sarah smiled back. She was about to order, but Nixon interrupted and requested a Gold Medal. The bartender speedily poured a drink, and Nixon took a sip. Immediately thereafter, Nixon's eyes bugged out of his head.
The bartender laughed.
Nixon shook his head, shaking of beads of sweat that had instantly formed. "It tastes . . ."
The bartender interrupted. "Like you were Jessie Owens, in 1936, standing at the podium accepting the Gold Medal and proudly rubbing Hitler's nose in it?"
Watching the scene, Sarah perused the menu. Something caught her eye. "Ballet, what's ballet?"
The bartender smiled at her, as he poured a drink. "Here, I think you'll like it."
Nixon stammered a bit. "Something Russian? Bolsoi?"
The bartender answered, slyly. "Not quite."
Sarah imbibed. She felt like a little girl, in a pretty ballerina dress, having completed her routine, and basking in the glow of her father's approval.
She smiled at the bartender, then smiled at Nixon. Today had been a good day.
That evening, Sarah and Nixon enjoyed a sumptuous dinner at the faux White House. Nixon dined on baby elephant, Sarah on chicken. Both of them drank prodigious quantities of Tang, flavored to taste like merlot.
Nixon licked his lips. "Hmmm. . . it's true what they say. Endangered animals are always sweeter. And, since it's not real meat, from a real elephant, there's none of the guilt."
Sarah laughed. She got up from her seat and walked flirtatiously towards her soul mate. She sat down across his lap, and placed her arms around his neck. "I just wanted to thank you . . . for a wonderful day . . . for understanding me . . . for making me laugh." She reached over and began nibbling on his neck, twirling her tongue in small circles, and then mixing in a playful bite. "I can be very, very . . . appreciative."
Nixon sat there, basking in the glow, as Sarah's lips worked her magic on his neck, while her arms explored his body. Then, without warning, Sarah jumped off.
Nixon's face grew apologetic. "I get it, it's too soon, isn't it. Nixon understands . . . we can do this, when you're ready."
Sarah responded with a wicked smile. She bent down to her knees and, with her teeth, grabbed the zipper of Nixon's pants. She unzipped him, then began licking the most sensitive spot of his underwear. "No, it's not that . . . I just thought that maybe I could teach Woodward and Bernstein the real meaning of Deep Throat."
Nixon pushed her gently aside, as he responded playfully. "Sweetheart, you're no Kissinger . . . and, while you're a lot damn better looking then him, Nixon has another idea. . ."
"Oh really?" Sarah answered, cat-like.
Nixon responded by lifting Sarah off the floor, sweeping her into his arms, and throwing her on the couch. He lifted up her dress, revealing a surprise.
"No panties?" he answered.
Sarah emitted a soft moan. "I was . . . I wished them away five minutes ago. They vanished."
Nixon placed his nose near her garden and took in the fragrance. His eyes gleefully observed her mound of public hair. He muttered in delight.
"I see you wear a respectable Republican bush. Not one of those foreign wax jobs. And not one of those RINO, prep-school, country club Bushes either, like Prescott or George."
He dropped his pants, and climbed aboard the couch.
"May I?" he asked.
"Yes," she uttered in delight, opening her legs to invite Nixon's presence.
He mounted her. As he did, Sarah noticed a change in his appearance. His face, previously confused and dopey, now looked riled, almost villainous.
Nixon laughed, and boasted greedily. "I'm going to invade you like Cambodia. Pound you without end. But without any Democrat-imposed premature withdrawal."
Then, she spotted a canine, watching them.
"Um, there's a dog," Sarah said, and Nixon pounded in her furiously.
"Oh, that's Checkers," Nixon answered. "He's my COCK-erspaniel. And he likes to watch."
As Sarah stared at the dog, the absurdity of the situation hit her. The snarky customer support. The Tang. The tiny room. A beloved children's television personality, acting like an asshole. And her soul mate . . . a brilliant and insightful man, but also utterly paranoid, bitter, and just a little bit crazy.
She had an epiphany, as she watched Nixon's face, his eyes practically burning red, huffing and puffing as he kept thrusting himself inside her.
"Um . . . . I don't . . . think . . . this is the Good Place . . ." she exclaimed.
Nixon laughed, as he kept thrusting maniacally. "Sweetheart, I don't know about you. BUT NIXON'S IN THE GOOD PLACE. YEEEHAWWW!"
Sarah awake in a cold sweat, thrusting herself up from her pillow. Immediately, she tried to gauge her surroundings. It was a dark hotel room. She remembered, she had checked into this room earlier that day, before visiting that big box store. The television was on. She must have fallen asleep watching it. It was the History Channel. An old documentary, about the life of Richard Nixon, was playing.
She tossed around her bed, and picked up her cellphone from the nightstand. She turned it on. The display read "3:17 a.m." She checked her phone. No new messages. That bastard from the big box store hadn't called her. He didn't call her. She extended her arms and slammed them into the bed. Then, as she drifted back to sleep, she smiled a little bit. She had her life. Maybe she was open something more meaningful than what she knew. And the bastard? He really seemed like sweet guy. Sure, he was just a mark. But she didn't think he had any useful information. So, worst case scenario, she'd get to spend some time with a genuinely nice guy. If he called her. Sigh. No matter. She'd just go back the next day. Maybe tell him a cheesy pick-up line. . .
A/N: So that's the end of this story. Hope I made you laugh. Many thanks to WillieGavin for pre-reading and giving me his thoughts! Please leave a review. And, as this story is now rated "M" (I think it's borderline, but wanted to play it safe), if you liked it, please do me a favor and get the word out. And, if you like my writing, read & review my other stories as well.