OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 13: "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT?"
By The Binary Alchemist, 2012
Over coffee and donuts, Heymans Breda cleared his throat. "Let's go forward on the assumption that today is going to be an absolute cluster-fuck, okay? That means it can only get better."
The motion was carried with no opposition. "Right. Once this is done, we get a bottle and get shitfaced. Dismissed!"
###
Breakfast was a rare treat—smoked salmon imported from the icy waters of Briggs Mountain, courtesy of Major General Armstrong. "I don't care if you're fifty—you're still a greenhorn pissant - and I still loathe you only slightly less than my younger brother", the card read. Roy saluted the Ice Queen and smirked into his coffee…
"So…the losing commander should pay a forfeit to the winner. Is that what you are suggesting?" Roy offered Major General Armstrong a confident wink. "That could potentially violate codes of conduct, Ma'am. It could mean…anything."
"This is strictly between you and me, Colonel. I've been wanting to punch that smirk off your idiotic face."
"So this wager does not exclude…physical contact, you're suggesting?" he purred seductively.
"You revolt me. You don't deserve the privilege of touching my body."
"What if I win? The Briggs troops are outstanding—but nobody is invulnerable."
The smile above her mug of grog was confident and nasty. "You won't."
And he never had beaten her, a fact that she taunted him about more than once. Each year after the battle was conceded to Briggs Roy would meet with Armstrong in the War Room, presumably to review the field reports and determine how Mustang's troops had been bested. Nobody really knew what when on behind those closed doors. There were rumors, of course. Mostly they involved manacles and leather dildos and possibly riding crops, none of which were used on the victorious commander. No one ever found out and no rumor had ever been proven as fact—although it was noted that Mustang always looked a little tired and uncomfortable on the long train ride home.
After her most recent victory over him a year before The Promised Day, she had actually implied that if he lost to her again she might require him to own up to the rumors that ran riot behind Mustang's back. "Nobody rises that quickly to the top on his own two feet, Colonel. I've heard you done a lot of overtime on your knees. Your meteoric rise to the top would bear out my suspicions. When the Briggs troops capture your men again next year," her voice was low and threatening, "I'm going to find out exactly how you've done it."
"What—you don't' believe that it was my leadership and organizational skills?"
She held up her sword before him. "I think it was…a more direct approach." She began to slide her blade in and out of the scabbard in a gesture that left little room for misinterpretation.
Seemed like an eternity ago.
Olivier Armstrong had kept their game of forfeits secret, and while he was no longer involved in the Spring Maneuvers it amused him to think that his current officers had no idea how high the unofficial stakes used to be between Mustang's troops and Brigg's Mountain in the war games—although with Colonel Hawkeye commanding—
"It would never happen. Never in a million years. Colonel Hawkeye would never allow it…probably." He shook his head, dove into his breakfast, preferring not to dwell on the outcome if the two notorious military valkyries ever came to blows.
He was dabbing fresh butter on his muffin and imagining slathering it on a pair of buns far more appealing when the butler discreetly interrupted his pornographic reverie. "Sir, I believe you were recording a segment of that children's reading program this morning after your interview with Mr. Samuelson?"
"Oh, hell. I forgot. And Sheska's too busy to remind me. What do they want?"
Sebastian handed Roy the phone. After a few minutes of listening Roy's dark eyes twinkled dangerously. "I see. Well….under the circumstances I think we can work something out. I'll see you in an hour, gentlemen."
He was still smirking during his morning interview with Donal Samuelson when the topic of his opponents in the upcoming election were discussed. "So far, no-one has openly declared to oppose you. I have a strong hunch this is going to change once the festivities are over. How do you feel about that, sir?"
"I'm ready for the challenge," Roy told the newsman confidently.
"Do you expect your opponents to come from the military or from the civilian sector?"
"Well, Donal, if a candidate meets the qualifications and is prepared to go into this for the fight of his or her life, it hardly matters. The question they should be asking themselves is this: do they have the best interests of the Amestrian people at heart? Do they honestly want to serve the people? Do they understand this is a commitment that will consume the whole of their life—even put their safety at risk—because you can't go into this without being willing to give the whole of yourself and your life, even sacrificing many of the simple pleasures of one's personal life and privacy."
"Speaking of which—I understand from your press secretary that there is going to be an announcement in today's paper regarding your personal life—a very special announcement. Mr. President, you and I have known one another for years—I don't think anyone has followed your career as closely as I have, so if you don't mind….would you consider breaking the story here for our morning listeners?"
Roy's smirk changed to a genuine smile. "I supposed I owe you a scoop after all these years of tailing me, Donal. All right. I had planned to announce this with my partner, Edward Elric, but last night he and our children were in Resembool saying farewell to their grandmother, Dr. Pinako Rockbell-"
"—yes, we aired her obituary on the news this morning-"
"-indeed, and it was well done. We appreciate that tribute. After talking last night with Edward we agreed that I would go ahead and announce this morning that Edward and I will be married this spring when the Institute goes on break for a week."
"You're getting married in the middle of the first election campaign? Don't you think the voters may see this as a bid for public approval?"
Roy chuckled. "I had told Edward years and years ago that, in light of past events, I would leave the decision up to him. He had come to the conclusion during a recent research trip to the Eastern Kingdoms and formally proposed to me in front of our family. Our son and daughter travel a good deal, and the four of us decided that the spring interval was the best time. Naturally, Edward and I would prefer a quiet family wedding-"
"—but this is the first time our nation's leader has ever married while at the helm as Fuhrer or President, making this a state occasion."
"Indeed. There will be compromises from both points of view. Still, this is something I am looking forward to in the year to come and I find on my fiftieth birthday I can't wait to see what the next half-century of my life will bring."
"And slimming down to get into that white wedding dress?" Donal teased.
"Only after the fire brigade puts out the blaze I'm about to make of your suit, Donal."
###
"There's common sense—and then there are common cenz." A sheaf of green had been folded into a bouquet of roses for each of the Altoid sisters two days before.
Their father was a practical man with bills to pay, He read over the script changes. He examined the costumes. They were within his concept of the bounds of decency. "It's all in good fun," he'd been assured. And, to his thinking, Mustang was soft on foreigners—too damn cozy with the Drachmans and the Cretans. He grunted in approval.
A two finger bag of contraband smokeable herbs was delivered to Duke Brubeck. In lieu of rolling papers he found a folded bindle stuffed with green bills. Brubeck peered over the rims of his shades and shook his head. He wasn't going to get involved. He wasn't going to narc on the senders to those straight arrow military types. Fuck it. He'd show up, play some riffs and then cut out and light up some free weed.
The Maestro nodded at the new score, its pages book marked with crisp banknotes. The ballerinas giggled and agreed to dress up and sing along, especially when they found handfuls of bright coins in the toes of their dancing slippers. The youth symphony only knew they'd been asked to provide accompaniment to a comic patriotic salute to the president. The score was simple—the tune old and familiar.
Sherman Lehrer? "I'll pay you for the privilege. What about the blonde twat?"
"She doesn't need our help. She'll do it all on her own, believe me." Thus the Ice Cream Blonde's bouquet contained only hothouse greenery although arrangements had been made to make sure that several bottles of Miss Turlough's favorite brand of vintage bubbly would be iced to perfection in her dressing room.
A warehouse behind the Central Times office provided makeshift rehearsal space. "Girls, all you have to do is sing on queue and look pretty," Sherman instructed them cheerfully. " Meanwhile, Maestro Williams and the orchestra churned through the patriotic air and none of Breda's team was any wiser. "They sound great, don't they?" Falman was smiling now. The Maestro had stopped his whinging and nit-picking and the rehearsals went smoothly and without bloodshed.
"Y'know…we might just pull this off," Breda told him, slapping the taller man on the shoulder.
###
Kelley Winchell's nails gleamed in a shade that the beauty-shop girls had come to call 'cocksucker pink". It suited the wearer very well indeed. She spent the morning being coifed to perfection, lacquered and buffed and powdered and perfumed. Her smirk was now being lightly touched up with a matching lipstick and after her assistant had paid the bill for her overhaul she stepped into the November sunshine and drew a deep breath. "I'm ready for a bit of luncheon," she gushed enthusiastically. "Nothing too heavy. Don't want any extra pounds for the camera at the gala tonight."
"Il Gattina is right around the corner," the long suffering Matilda pointed out. It would have cheered her heart to see her loathsome employer snubbed at Miss Hughes' restaurant. She'd even risk getting hit by a flailing handbag if only to see Miss Winchell's sedan spattered with garbage again. Besides, the soups were the best in town and today was the chicken-with-barley with half a sandwich special—just the perfect thing for a blustery day.
"I'd rather starve," Kelley snapped. "That young woman is unbearable.' She stalked towards her car and then she paused. "I know just the thing. Take me to Barnes and Walden Books. I'll have a coffee there and you can run out and bring me a to-go salad from Mustang's. That way I won't have to see the old floozy and lose my appetite. I just bet she's got her fat ass over at the corset shop getting winched into a shaper so she won't look like a sack of potatoes when Roy-boy walks her to her seat at the gala." The image of the corset-maker yanking strings with her foot in the middle of Chris Mustang's backside brightened her mood considerably.
That buoyant mood crashed with an audible thud as soon as Kelley Winchell entered the bookstore. Her purse—well stuffed with grimy lipstick tubes and leaking powder compacts and a half-dozen notebooks—bombed to the floor, eliciting an angry chorus of "shhhssshhhhh!" from the customers engrossed in the café area. They were gathered around the wireless set that ordinarily played Radio Capital's programming but instead was tuned to "Mother's Day", which featured special programming aimed at women and their children. Many Centralians would switch over to ABC Blue during the news on "Midday Amestris" to hear the "Barnes and Walden Storytime" segment. It featured famous film and radio celebrities and popular newsmakers of the day reading from children's books. Alphonse Elric had even appeared as a guest reading a charming book his niece Nina had collaborated on called "Fly, Ed, Fly!" It was adapted from an original story Elycia Hughes had written for Maes and Nina when they were much younger.
The deep, sensual voice that purred out of the wireless made her helmet of teased blond hair stand up in shock.
"….and Buckety-Buckety told Wibbles the Wolf 'when you are sad, I am sad. I am sad-sad-sad, right down to my little-bitty bear toes. Come and have tea with me, Wibbles, and I will make you a cake with pretty pink sugar flowers and I will sing silly bear songs and we will do silly bear dances, and then you will-'"
A dictionary flew off the shelves overhand with great accuracy from much practice. The wireless set was knocked off it's stand and the silky baritone of President Roy Mustang went silent.
A dozen heads swiveled in her direction. There was a rumble of protest but Kelley was too furious to hear it. Before she could shriek out her fury the bookstore manager hurried to her side. "Miss Winchell? I'm so delighted you stopped by! Your new children's book is just flying off the shelves! President Mustang was going to read The Alchemist and The Emperor's Pearl this morning—he loved that book as a boy, I understand-" Kelley Winchell's mascara'ed eyes began to glaze over "-but since your storybook came out this morning we offered him a choice and he told us he'd be delighted to debut Buckety-Buckety on "Storytime".
Small flecks of foam appeared in the corners of her lipsticked mouth. "Wh—wh….where…d-did-?"
"We had no idea this book was in the works or Barnes and Walden certainly would have set up a book signing and promotional tour for you, Miss-"
"WHERE… ARE… THOSE… BOOKS?" The manager pointed to a prominent display where dozens of copies of "Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf" were prominently displayed. Kelley Winchell paled—and then she broke three fingernails snatching them off the shelf, clutching them to her overstuffed bosom as if she feared they might escape. She raced frantically back and forth to the check out counter until she had emptied the display. Slamming her handbag on the counter she fished for her checkbook.
"May I see a picture ID-oh…that's alright." The manager held up one of the slim volumes and pointed to a hideous picture of a spotty, plump teen with thick glasses and a disastrous hairstyle meant to make the would-be author look sophisticated—a picture that had once been paper clipped to a manuscript that, as years passed, she was grateful had never seen the light of day. "Why, you've hardly changed a hair, have you, Miss Winchell?"
###
Backstage, Breda opened the note sent from the President, along with a case of scotch. "When this is over you have my permission to have a nervous breakdown. You've worked hard for it, you owe it to yourself, and no-one has the right to take it away from you. Do us all a favor and open the case AFTER the festivities are over." He grinned to himself. It wasn't smart to get boiled in the middle of the crisis, but as soon as it was over he and his crew would go someplace discreet and tie one on. It was just a shame that the President couldn't do the same.
No, Mustang had to sit up there in the Presidential Box, trussed up in evening dress like some north Drachman penguin. At least he had Gracia and Elycia and Maria Ross and even old lady Mustang up there for company. He was caught up in a maelstrom of half-dressed ballerinas doing leg stretches on the ladders, squabbling musicians, Altoid Sisters doing warm up vocals—
-and Gladys Turlough was nowhere to be found.
Damn.
Sherman Lehrer tapped him on the shoulder. "She's in her dressing room. Says she has to talk to you before she goes out there. Damn broad is crying her eyes out."
Breda hurried down the steps, cursing under his breath. The door was ajar. "Uh…Miss Turlough? Miss Turlough?" He rapped gently and there was no answer. Nervously, Breda stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him and locked. He could hear something being jammed against the door from the other side….
###
They were midway through the performance and Mustang was greatly relieved that things were going as smoothly as he had hoped. During intermission Hawkeye had joined them for refreshments but refused a glass of champagne. "Any word from Breda?"
"None, sir—but the show is going smoothly. I can go backstage and—"
Roy shook his head. "That's not necessary, Colonel Hawkeye. Return to your post, please." The chimes overhead indicated that the second half of the program was about to begin. This was opening with Professor Sherman Lehrer's comical songs, followed by Duke Brubeck returning to accompany the Altoid sisters—and then Gladys Turlough would NOT be jumping out of a birthday cake. That had been a dead certainty, as was the firm promise that she would keep her breasts covered and her skirt down.
The spotlight at center stage captured Donnel Samuelson who waved to the cheering crowd. "And now, Ladies and Gentlemen—Professor Sherman Lehrer-" he paused to allow the wild applause to subside a little, "—in a salute to our Commander in Chief!"
The curtains parted and the Professor appeared in a black wig and a the uniform of an Amestrian colonel, snoozing behind a desk. The phone onstage began to ring loudly until an Altoid sister, dressed like Lieutenant Hawkeye, strode across the stage and tapped the Professor on the shoulder. "Sir…Sir? SIR!" The "Colonel" awoke with a start. "Sorry to disturb your nap but Bunny is on line two, Vanessa is on line three, Jeanette is on line four, and Elizabeth is on line five."
"Who's on line one?"
"The VD clinic, sir!"
"Is it important? I don't have the clap, do I?"
The "lieutenant" turned to the audience. "With all those women calling,sir? I'd say you've got APPLAUSE!"
"WOMEN!?" A loud angry voice was heard offstage and moments later an Altoid Sister dressed in black with a long red coat stomped across the stage, a large metal garbage pail under his arm. The garbage can was tossed to the actress playing Hawkeye. "Take care of my brother, willya? The Bastard n' me gotta talk." The girl playing Ed stomped up Leher. "MUSTANG! I'm getting really damn sick of you and your fooling around on me!"
"Why Edward….just think of it as equivalent exchange! All those lovely ladies are well connected to powerful men. I give them candy. I give them flowers. I buy them lobster dinners—"
"And come home with the crabs!"
"Ed…Ed….now, don't be jealous…it's not like I can help it. I'm irressitable—"
"-AND contagious!"
Lehrer stepped out from behind the desk and burst into song:
I have to admit it's annoying—when other men call me a prick—
My good looks may intimidate them—but mostly they envy my-
"-dictation, sir?"
"NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!"
"Ed" shook his head and began to sing:
That uniform's butch and it suits you-At home you sport satin and lace
You trowel on cosmetics like plaster—to hide all those lines on your face!
The curtains rolled back to reveal two dozen ballerinas in uniform joining in as Lehrer launched into the chorus:
Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!
Sling back, sling back—tuck that big-EGO!—out of sight
"Mustang" continued:
-Men shun me when hitting the nightspots-around me the ladies all flock
If my friends get jealous, well, screw 'em! I can't help the size of my-
"-Cocktail, sir?"
"NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!"
"Ed" strutted to the edge of the stage and sang towards the Presidential Box:
You think he's a real ladykiller—pursuer of skirts, you'd suppose!
The truth is, he's raiding their wardrobes. He only likes girls for their CLOTHES!
Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!
Sling back, sling back—tuck that big-
"EGO!", yelled the crowd
—out of sight
"Roy" looked indignant and appealed to the audience.
I'll find me some better companions -who won't let silly things come between...us
Like politics, sport—and especially—the phenomenal size of my-
"NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!" the audience roared on cue.
"Ed" was now swaggering around the stage as he launched into his final verse.
Roy keeps all his clothes in the closet-in spite of his ranking and class-
And the reason you won't get rebuttal—he's too busy waxing his-
"NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!" The actress playing the blonde lieutenant threw up her hands in disgust and marched off stage as they launched into the final chorus
Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!
Sling back, sling back—tuck that big-
"EGO!"
—out of sight
The applause was deafening.
…TO BE CONTINUED….
Author's Note:
Special thanks to my very talented friend Nochick_Fics for allowing me to take her original poem about Roy and rework it as lyrics, adding my own Edwardian "rebuttals" . She is as generous as she is a wonderful storyteller-and whenever her Roy!Muse faces off in a poetry slam against my Ed!Muse it's always a blast. Cheers, Chickie!-Aunty B.