I am blown away by the support the first chapter received. Here's the second one.
I know this chapter came out pretty quickly, but I'll try to slow things down in the future. It likely won't be too difficult, given that I am still a student. For now, I hope you will all love this chapter as much as I loved writing it.
Also, this chapter contains a couple references to one of the wildest music videos of the 1980s. If you review this chapter, try and guess which one!
The press room contained several things, one of which was an abundance of cameras and microphones. Within an instant of entering the room, the President's senses were assaulted by a barrage of clicks and claps.
"Hey, just give me a second, will you?" Fiddlesticks pleaded, putting a hand over his eyes as though he were looking into the sun. "It's hot in here."
Objectively speaking, the President knew this wasn't the case. It was a cold day outside the walls of the White House, and the structure itself was quite drafty, given how high many of its ceilings were. There were days when it was nearly impossible to get warm, even if huddled under a mountain of blankets.
"We will give you a minute," one of the reporters, this one from CNN, replied. "But no more than that. In trying times like this, the American people need stability."
"I'll try to provide that," the President replied. "That's what…that's what I was elected to do."
Wiping his forehead, Andreas Fiddlesticks sat down in the provided stool. He wished it provided more lumbar support; his back would ache quickly without it. But beggars can't be choosers, even when you're the most powerful man in the world.
The allotted sixty seconds soon passed, and the man from Fox News grinned. "And we're live! Speak to the nation, Mr. President!"
Fiddlesticks allowed himself an instant to appreciate just how slimy that smile was. It was no secret that Fox wanted to see him flail at his weekly address - anything that made him look weak or unprepared could (and would) be used against him in the future.
"Good afternoon, my fellow Americans," the President began. He knew he had to improvise, to think on his feet; he couldn't read off a teleprompter all the time like his predecessor had.
"I hope you are all enjoying the brilliant autumn weather. The fall foliage is one of the greatest parts of being an American. Perhaps after this address you'll be baking an apple pie, hopefully topped with some ice cream."
Fiddlesticks chuckled slightly at that last line. It was no secret that ice cream was his favorite dessert, and if he quipped about wanting some right now, it would make it seem like everything was okay. After all, if the President wasn't worried, the citizens shouldn't be worried either…right?
"Anyway, I wanted to provide all of you an update on our transportation infrastructure bill, the Rail Against The Machine bill as I call it. It has passed the House, but negotiations have stalled in the Senate.
"Am I happy about this? No, I am not, but it's important to be transparent with you. I was elected largely on a promise to do just that. If something's going wrong, I'll tell you. Anyway, I will push the Senators from Colorado and Vermont to eliminate the filibuster as soon as possible, because this is the future of the country we're talking about. I will keep you all updated on that effort."
By now another wave of heat was descending upon the President. He wiped more sweat off his brow, only belatedly realizing just how unprofessional that looked. Oh well - the GOP would hit him for anything they could think of, so why care about that?
Hot flashes…am I okay?
President Fiddlesticks sat up a little straighter; he was determined not to show the American people any weakness. These times were turbulent enough as was, so he decided to bullshit the rest of the speech, as much as he needed to.
"There's also a rumor floating around the Internet and other forms of social media" the President continued. "This is an entirely different matter, but it's important, although I truly believe it's mere malarkey.
"Anyway, some young whipper-snappers have decided to spread disinformation that Pokémon, the cute little creatures created by Nintendo, exist in the real world. Let me tell you right now - that is false. There are no such things as Pokémon, except in the collective imagination of humanity.
"Make no mistake about it: The United States is prepared to neutralize any threat that may come, before it reaches our shores. From sea to shining sea, we will defend our territory, and I will do so in my capacity as commander in chief. There is no need for the general public to worry at this time.
"That is all that needs to be said. Thank you all, and God Bless America."
"And…cut!" one of the reporters exclaimed. "Thank you, Mr. President, that was fantastic!"
President Fiddlesticks smiled weakly. "You really think so? Thanks."
In the back of his mind, all the President could think of was how much he wanted a glass of water. He'd guzzle it down like a camel if he could, because his throat literally felt like a desert.
I hope it's not that corona malarkey, the President thought to himself. If it is, then I'll have exposed so many other people. Maybe I should put on a mask now.
The President reached into his pocket to find that the KN95 he'd put there was now gone. Oh well - the wind must have taken it. It happens.
"What are you looking for, Mr. President?" Rosalina asked him.
"Oh…nothing" Fiddlesticks replied hurriedly. "I'm just fidgeting, that's all. There's no malarkey about that."
The Press Secretary gave Fiddlesticks a look of what can only be described as utmost concern, but eventually looked away. Evidently, she'd decided that the President could handle himself - he was the President, after all.
"Water," the President blurted out. "I'd like some water - who has it?"
Secretary Lawrence, who had entered the room just after the weekly address had concluded, raised an eyebrow at his boss. "Uh, there's a tap in your bathroom. Are you retiring this early?"
At first, Fiddlesticks was tempted to say Absolutely not. He needed to make sure everyone knew he was feeling fine.
Of course, that wasn't quite the case. The hot flashes were returning, and his throat felt sandier by the second. Maybe he really did have the virus. Either way, he needed some rest.
"I think I will," the President replied. "I need some time to myself tonight. After all, I am no longer young."
Rosalina winked at her boss. "That's no secret, Andreas."
President Fiddlesticks waved goodbye to the numerous members of the news media. He fervently hoped that they hadn't been recording the last few minutes.
He then turned around and headed upstairs to the apartment he shared with the First Lady. It was located deep inside the building in the interest of "security", though it also felt rather isolating.
Oh well. That was just the price he had to pay for serving his country.
Ordinarily, the President would have knocked on the door to ensure that the apartment's occupant(s) were okay with him entering. That afternoon, he did not. He simply swung open the door and entered.
The First Lady, Natalia Fiddlesticks, sat at the table, her concentration barely wavering from her sewing project. It was only when her husband stepped over the threshold that she looked up.
"Honey, it's so nice to see you again! How was your day?"
President Fiddlesticks decided to put a brave face on. "It went as well as could be expected, though I've certainly had better days."
"What's wrong?" Natalia enquired, her white blonde hair becoming very unkempt all of a sudden.
Natalia is my wife, and there are no cameras rolling in here. This is the one area of the White House where I'm entitled to privacy. Therefore, I can (and must) tell her whatever I need to.
The President sighed. "Negotiations on the bill aren't going that well. I'll have to twist some arms, but I'm sure we can still get it done. We'll deliver for the American people."
Natalia smiled. "That's what you do best, Andreas. It's a good thing you're President right now and not the former guy."
"I guess so. But there's something else, too" Fiddlesticks responded. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather today."
The First Lady gasped. "Put a mask on, then! You don't need to get anyone else sick!"
"I don't know that I'm sick, Natalia. And the pandemic's over - haven't you heard?"
"Doesn't change the fact that I'd rather not get sick. I know we're married, but it's still something I'd like to avoid."
"Fair enough" Fiddlesticks said, grabbing a KN95 off the bedside cabinet and putting the loops behind his ears. "I love you, sweetie."
Natalia smiled again. "I love you too, Andreas. Do you have any more meetings today?"
"Nope," the President replied. "And that's not malarkey, either. I'm free for the rest of the afternoon; I already gave my weekly address."
"That's excellent, Andreas. You're so on top of things."
The President gave a small sigh. "I think I'll turn in for the night. I really don't have much energy right now."
Natalia opened her mouth wider than one is told to in the dentist's chair. "That's not like you, Andreas. Are you sure you'll feel better in the morning, or should I send for the medical team?"
"I don't think that is necessary, sweetie."
"Are you sure? At our age, anything could be a problem. I love you so much, and I want you to be healthy."
"I'll tell you what" the President told his wife. "If I'm not feeling better in the morning, we'll get the staff up here. But right now, I believe I'll be fine."
I have to. Amidst the infrastructure bill negotiations and Pokégate, the people I serve want to know that I'm okay. They don't need a presidential health scare.
The President changed into his pajamas (yes, 75-year-old men did wear them sometimes) and brushed his teeth. He normally went to bed well past nine in the evening; it wasn't even 5 PM now. But if it ensured he was in top shape for tomorrow's engagements, so be it.
Despite his exhaustion, sleep did not come easily for President Fiddlesticks. He tossed and turned for at least fifteen minutes, except now he was shivering in addition to having the hot flashes.
He tried not to think about what might be wrong, what illness might be ravaging his body right now; all that mattered was getting as much rest as possible so that he'd be ready to face the day tomorrow.
Eventually, he did manage to drift off, and his dreams were a jumbled mess.
Later, if forced to describe it to anyone else, he thought he could remember the following: Puppet heads of several world leaders, dinosaurs wandering a jungle landscape, and himself as Superman. It made so little sense that he would be afraid even to bring it up; he would be laughed out of the room, even as the President of the United States.
Fiddlesticks woke abruptly some time later, shivering. He realized that he was lying in a pool of his own sweat, which his body had spent the night producing in abundance. No wonder he felt so gross.
Natalia lay to his left, still fast asleep. She didn't seem bothered by the fact that her section of the bed had also been permeated by the perspiration.
The President sat upright, but he had to do so in stages; he realized that his body ached a considerable amount, far more than the baseline for someone his age. Once his back was literally against the wall, he let out a deep sigh.
There was tightness in his chest, lots of it. And that's when the President knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he'd come down with something.
Suddenly, Natalia opened her eyes and shrieked like a banshee.
"What's wrong?" the President asked weakly.
"I'm in a pool of your sweat!" Natalia exclaimed.
"Uh…you're just now noticing that?"
"Whatever" the First Lady replied. "I really think we should call some doctors over. We need to get to the bottom of this."
The President shivered at the thought of being carted off to Walter Reed like an invalid. He thought he could walk to the chopper on his own two feet, but he wasn't positive about that. Still, if it was absolutely necessary, he would go to the hospital, even with how brutally the Republicans would make fun of him.
Natalia pressed the call button next to the bed. It had the word NURSE printed just above it; the President thanked his lucky stars that there wasn't one that said NUKE right next to it.
Less than a minute later, one of the White House doctors entered the presidential suite. "What's going on?" he asked frantically.
"I feel like shit," the President responded, far less eloquently than he usually spoke.
Natalia gestured at the puddle of perspiration on the bed, then said, "I think he needs to go to Walter Reed. They've got the best doctors there; they can make sure it's not anything too serious."
"Very well," the doctor responded. "Mr. President, please describe your symptoms."
Andreas Fiddlesticks was practically groaning as he gave his answer.
"I feel really weak and feverish, and my chest is tight. I think…I think I've got the 'rona."
"Good thing you've got a mask on, then" the doctor told him, his eyes expanding with clear concern. "We'll get you tested and then fly you to Walter Reed. Do you need a wheelchair, or can you walk to Air Force One yourself?"
"I can walk," the President insisted flatly. The thought of what the news media, fake news or otherwise, would say if he was seen in a wheelchair was literal torture.
Natalia did not protest, so President Fiddlesticks was escorted through the halls of the White House, past the array of servants who tended to the place. A few glanced at him with evident worry; the others didn't look up from their jobs. After all, when dealing with the President, it was best to avert one's eyes, but to do so in a respectful manner.
Outside, it was quite cold. It couldn't be more than an hour or two from sunrise, but the sky was still very dark. Had they been further from the city, stars would still be visible.
The presidential helicopter landed on the lawn a few minutes later. During those minutes, however, President Fiddlesticks had to contend with the reporter pointing the camera right at him.
"I'm fine," the President insisted, not for the first time. "Just going for a checkup, that's all."
"That's the spirit, dear" the reporter, a woman only slightly younger than the President, replied. She did not look up from her camera, which made the President's fevered mind wonder if she were just going through the motions.
Nonetheless, Fiddlesticks grabbed the side of the helicopter for support in order to climb inside. He was still wearing his mask, so his voice was a bit muffled as he hoarsely said, "I'm in."
Once the President had put his headset on, the blades of the copter began whirring once more, hence the need for the headphones. Despite this, he wasn't bothered by the noise; his head was swimming too quickly to care.
The helicopter lifted off, and President Andreas Fiddlesticks would have had an excellent view of the White House lawn. He would have been able to scan the skyline of the city he loved so much, appreciate the architecture and infrastructure that made up the glorious nation's capital.
Of course, there's a reason the words would have are used here.
The President sank into a feverish sleep as the helicopter flew over the city and into the airspace claimed by Maryland. It was all American airspace, so such distinctions weren't legally important, but they were still notable.
When the President woke up, the copter was just landing on the helipad near the entrance to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. With its giant central tower built of white marble, the structure was instantly recognizable. The hospital was lauded as one of the best in the nation, and why shouldn't it have been? It served the President, after all.
Fiddlesticks stumbled out of the helicopter and was escorted towards the hospital doors. The Secret Service officer to his left asked him a question, but the President's auditory senses were too fuzzy for him to make it out.
"What was that, again?"
"I was asking, what happened? You projected so much confidence when you were declaring Pokémon to be a hoax."
"This has nothing to do with Pokémon" President Fiddlesticks shot back. Even that simple action, forcefully uttering that assertion, made him feel light-headed. If he wasn't careful, he would crumple to the ground in a dead faint.
"I know it has nothing to do with it, Mr. President" the Secret Service officer on his right replied. "We're merely worried about your physical health - why shouldn't we be?"
"I'll walk out of here" Fiddlesticks insisted. "I won't let the American people see me like this."
In reality, the President knew very well that this ship had sailed. When you had the most important job in the world, you could never let your guard down around the media. Even when you thought they weren't paying attention, they were. Big Brother was always watching you.
Shivering in the cool early morning air, the President crossed the threshold into the lobby of Walter Reed. There, the receptionist gasped at the sight of Andreas Fiddlesticks.
"Mr. President - are you okay?"
"Yes, I am." Quite frankly, the President was sick of people asking him that question. Even if he were to drop dead (which he was determined not to), VP Randolph would become President, and he supported the same policies. The American people deserved continuity, and they would get it if needed.
"His symptoms suggest otherwise," the Secret Service guy on Fiddlesticks' left told the receptionist. "We'll need to give him a physical exam, perhaps some monoclonal antibodies."
The receptionist nodded. "Well, you know where to take him for those treatments. I'll still be here if you need everything. Get well soon, Mr. President; the nation is counting on you."
Everyone in this country of over 330 million people is depending on me to pass the infrastructure package. It's all low-key. There's no pressure.
The President was led into an elevator, at which point one of the Secret Service agents pressed the button for the floor containing the presidential suite. The elevator shot upwards at a blistering pace, so much so that Fiddlesticks nearly lost his balance; he was forced to grab the railing on the elevator wall in order to stay upright.
And then they were in the presidential suite, after which everything became a blur for Fiddlesticks. Perhaps his brain had decided that he'd accomplished his goal of walking into the hospital under his own power, and thus he didn't need to expend any more energy.
As such, he was only vaguely aware of a nurse placing a blood pressure cuff on him and ordering a chest X-ray. The President also felt his mask pulled down and a swab go up his nose, which he barely resisted the urge to sneeze out.
"Okay, we'll send that off to the lab," another nurse said. "See if he has a breakthrough infection."
"When will the test results be ready?" At least, that's what President Fiddlesticks tried to ask the nurse, but in his jumbled state of mind, it probably didn't sound remotely like what he meant.
After the COVID test had been administered, the President was helped back to his feet. At this point, every step was a Herculean effort. Walking down the hallway to the bedroom was akin to running a 5K.
"There you go, Mr. President" a nurse crooned to Fiddlesticks, speaking to him as though he were a sick child and not the most powerful man this side of the Atlantic. "We'll get a tube in your arm, give you some antibodies…that'll help you fight off the illness, and you'll wake up feeling much better."
She probably meant to reassure him, but the President couldn't help but feel mocked for that. It was almost violating to be treated this way, even if it was justified by his illness.
"How long to heal?" President Fiddlesticks moaned. Every word, every sound, every thought was an effort at this point, and he probably sounded inebriated. Sure enough, the nurse misheard his question.
"No, Pokémon are not real, Mr. President. Don't worry about that, you've done very well. Now get some rest, because you need it."
Fiddlesticks wasn't even going to try to protest. His eyelids were fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, each one a leaden weight he desperately wanted to put down. Sleep sounded very good right now, even if it would lead to more bizarre visions, fever dreams he couldn't sweat out.
The President fell asleep like a light being turned off. Contrary to the nurse's words, he would not be feeling better when he woke up; in fact, he wouldn't be at Walter Reed, or even on Earth. Of course, that wasn't the nurse's fault.
Sleep was not the cure he wanted it to be.