Yep. Here's the second chapter. I was very excited to put this one out, just because I think there's some humor in it, even when time crawls. And by the way, the title of this story came from a David Bowie song, one of his lesser-known tunes, which I recommend you listen to.
Thank you to the three people who followed this story on day one, and here's to many more.
Current music: The Entertainer - Scott Joplin
FEBRUARY 4, 2024 - 3:00 PM (The Day Of)
"Mr. President, how are you feeling today?"
The President of the United States woke up to the sound of one of his Secret Service agents asking him the above question. He gingerly sat upright and massaged his temple.
"I, uh…I'm okay" the President replied weakly. "Did I…".
"Yep" the Secret Service agent, a bald, dark-skinned man wearing shades, responded curtly. "You were out cold for a good few minutes there. Must not have slept well last night."
The President yawned. "I guess…I guess I didn't. Your name's Leatherman, right?"
"That's my code name," the Secret Service agent replied. "But it's not my real name. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"I'm fine," the President insisted. In reality, this was far from the truth. A mild headache had made itself known right behind his skull, and this tended to be a precursor to something far worse.
"Well, I wouldn't blame you for having a bad migraine right now," Leatherman told his boss. "After all, there's a whole lot of shit going on in New Hampshire right now."
"Whuzzat?" the President responded groggily.
Leatherman did not laugh; rather, his eyelids fluttered upward and his pupils dilated.
"You don't remember what happened? Mr. President, it's all over the news!"
"Right" the President stated simply, though he found himself unable to recall precisely what Leatherman was referring to. Maybe it was the possible illness he felt coming on.
"Are you serious, Mr. President?" Leatherman enquired. "You know that there was a nuclear meltdown in Seabrook, New Hampshire, right?"
The President's 81-year-old heart skipped a beat. "A nuclear meltdown? Like Chernobyl or Fukushima?"
"That's right!" the Secret Service guy exclaimed. "Your job right now is to walk up to that podium and reassure the public that nothing's wrong."
"But if there was a nuke…nuclear meltdown, then something's wrong" the President mumbled.
"Well, you have to tell the American people that they're going to be fine. That there won't be anything to fear after a while, because if you give them reason to panic, it'll hurt your poll numbers."
"Oh" the President mouthed. "Well, I guess I don't want that."
"Correct," Leatherman replied. "It's an election year, so it's best if there are as few crises as possible. And you know how to deliver a speech - here's what we wrote for you."
Leatherman handed his boss a couple sheets of paper, on which a speech had been written in 12-point Times New Roman font. That was what he was supposed to say.
The President frowned. "What if none of this is true?"
"Well, truth is truth, Mr. President" Leatherman stated.
"No, it isn't true!" the President exclaimed. "Truth isn't truth! The President of the United States can't go before the press and tell lies!"
"Well, your predecessor did it all the time," Leatherman muttered.
"Whatever," the President replied. "Are we there yet?"
"Yes, we just arrived a few minutes ago. We've been waiting for you to wake up - and by we, I also mean the press. We're all eager to hear what you have to say."
Feeling very foggy-headed, the President climbed out of the limo and, flanked by Leatherman, staggered up to the podium. The podium was placed beneath a giant obelisk several hundred feet tall. What was it called, again?
Oh yeah, that's right. It's the Washington Monument.
As the President made his way to the microphone, he held out his arms like the wings of an airplane, praying that the press didn't capture the image of him struggling to stay upright. The last thing he wanted was a media circus over such an image - Fox News, Newsmax, and One America News (OAN) would never let him hear the end of it.
Fortunately, this time, he got lucky. But as he glanced out at the crowd, he noticed two things:
One, he didn't need his sunglasses. As though an eclipse had occurred and blocked out the sun, the natural light was almost non-existent. The President shivered, his overcoat proving insufficient to do its job.
Two, most of the media personnel on the National Mall were wearing N95 masks, if not full PPE including hazmat suits.
"Guys, the pandemic is over!" the President proclaimed. "And never forget that I did that! I made it so that you don't need to wear that stuff anymore!"
Leatherman gave the President a nudge in the rib, and that's when the commander in chief remembered: They're worried about something else.
And I have to reassure them.
Indeed, many of the reporters in the crowd below could be heard audibly expressing their disapproval. A few of them were even booing the President.
"Andreas Fiddlesticks," one of the OAN reporters yelled, "you are a disgrace!"
President Fiddlesticks stiffened up like a board. "Hey, you! Yeah, you! You know who you are!"
"You know what you're supposed to say, right?"
Leatherman gestured for the President to look down at his lectern, and sure enough, a piece of white computer paper with copious text printed on it had been set down in front of him. The sky was dark, but not dark enough so that the President couldn't read the words.
President Fiddlesticks cleared his throat and began to read.
"My fellow Americans, at approximately 12:29 PM today, clouds of radioactive material were spotted rising from the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant in New Hampshire."
The President looked up from his notes, his heart nearly hammering out of his ribcage. "Well, that can't be good," he said blankly. Over the protests of the reporters, he continued to read.
"The Rockingham County fire department were called to the scene, as were several ambulances and police vehicles. Soon, however, it became clear that all the Water Pokémon in the world could not put out the blaze; indeed, this was a different type of blaze than what they were trained for."
"As all of you know," President Fiddlesticks continued, "we stand here on the National Mall, less than five hundred miles from the epicenter of the nuclear incident. This incident appears, as of right now, to be a meltdown."
At that, the President glanced upward again, to find that the dark clouds were moving; the sun was shining again, so he donned his sunglasses once more. None of the reporters, human or Pokémon, seemed to mind this. President Fiddlesticks returned to his notes.
"The cloud of ash and radioactive material is thickest over eastern New England," he announced. "As of this time, it does not show any sign of dissipating. This is likely to cause a major disruption to air travel in the northeastern part of the country - you know, back in my day, we actually invested in rail, and maybe that's a silver lining to this incident."
That last line about investing in rail hadn't been written on the script - something in President Fiddlesticks' brain had decided it was a good idea to say it.
But the reporters didn't seem to think so. Quite the opposite. One of them, a Dragonite who held a notepad and pen (somehow), actually breathed a spit of fire before being restrained by a Washington DC police officer.
"Violence will be condone- I mean, condemned here!" the President bellowed. "If you disagree with me, please use your words!"
That barely did anything to calm down the audience, though, and President Fiddlesticks found his stomach dropping as though he were on one of those roller coasters his grandchildren loved passionately. Except that this was not a "drop of pleasure."
Four U.S. Presidents have been assassinated while in office, he recalled grimly. I forget their names, though - there's the one that mountain was named after, the one who ended the Civil War, the one with all the conspiracy theories…and shit, I forgot the fourth.
It doesn't matter. Soon, if Leatherman doesn't put a stop to this, nothing will matter for me anymore!
"I'll take questions!" the President exclaimed in a desperate attempt to pacify the reporters. "Anything you want to ask me, ask me!"
"Mr. President," shouted a reporter from MSNBC, "how much rest is there to the general public in New Hampshire?"
"How much…what now?" the President responded, holding a hand up to his temples yet again. He thought the woman had yelled rest, but that didn't make any sense in context.
"Risk!" the MSNBC lady shrieked. "How dangerous is the situation to the people of New Hampshire?"
"Right, sorry" President Fiddlesticks told the woman. "Sorry, my hearing isn't what it used to be."
But I'm pretty sure I could hear just fine yesterday when everyone was clapping for me, the President thought longingly. I wish it were yesterday again.
"There is…not much danger to the general public!" the President insisted. "They should be okay if they evacuate as quickly as possible!"
"But they have nowhere to go!" a man from CNN shouted. "That's the problem, Mr. President! We don't have enough evacuation shelters set up for this purpose!"
"Then they should, I dunno, ask for Canada to let them in," President Fiddlesticks exclaimed. New Hampshire was near Canada, wasn't it?
"Mr. President," the CNN guy continued, "this might be funny to you, but it's not funny to me. Consider that several thousand people within the power plant's radius were vaporized instantly, and the death toll among Pokémon is similarly horrific. And you're suggesting that Canada should let them seek shelter within its borders?"
"Well, what choice do I have?"
One of the Fox News reporters bellowed the following line: "You have a lot of choices! You're the President of the United States, the leader of the free world!"
President Fiddlesticks frowned. "Wait, leader of what now?"
"It's a saying, President Fiddlesticks!" the Fox News reporter screamed. "Though it's debatable how much freedom we still have in this country, what with your vaccine mandates and whatnot!"
"Get over it!" President Fiddlesticks exclaimed.
Another reporter stepped to the front of the crowd, a rather burly man of sixty or so with hair that stood straight up. He looked as though he enjoyed sticking his fingers in electric sockets, and he wore a look that was a cross between a Cheshire grin and one of absolute fury.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the reporter began, "my name is Cameron Buckley! I'm gonna buck you!"
"What the hell is your deal, cornpop?" the President wondered aloud in the loudest tone he could muster.
"I'm telling you guys!" Buckley exclaimed. "President Fiddlesticks is a senile old man who has four things! The four D's, if you will, and those are: Dementia, Diapers, Doodles, and Delays!"
As he said the name of each thing the President supposedly possessed, Buckley's grin widened even more. (Most people would find such a facial expression wholly inappropriate when alleging that the President was in the advanced stages of dementia. This guy, apparently, did not.)
Leatherman stepped in front of the podium, wagging a finger at Buckley. "Now, now!" the Secret Service agent exclaimed. "It is fine to disagree with the President's position, but try not to resort to ad hominem attacks on his character!"
"But what character is there to tarnish here?" Buckley bellowed. "President Fiddlesticks will do anything to steal the coming election! He's a criminal mastermind who's letting millions of Fire-types cross the southern border and invade our country!"
"I'm going to have you arrested if you're not careful!" Leatherman exclaimed, motioning for President Fiddlesticks to step away from the stage.
On the way downhill from the Washington Monument, the President slipped again. This time, he ate it on the grass surrounding the obelisk.
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" the President exclaimed. "Wait, isn't that my name?"
"You'll have to excuse us," Leatherman stated. "The President will field more questions later!"
Leatherman helped President Fiddlesticks back to his feet, then held his hand on the way to the presidential motorcade. As he was about to climb into the backseat, the President asked one question:
"That was great, wasn't it?"
The Secret Service agent glared at his boss. "No, Mr. President, that was not great. In fact, it was about as disastrous as any press conference on a nuclear meltdown could possibly become. Not only did you not answer the questions, not only did you not reassure the American people that they'd be okay, but you damaged your reputation to no small degree."
"It's not my fault" the President mumbled as he buckled his seat belt.
Leatherman frowned. "Why wouldn't it be, Mr. President?"
"You see, I…" President Fiddlesticks began.
Perhaps it was due to the "brain fog" he'd been experiencing all day, but he found that he couldn't explain the, well, brain fog. When he'd first risen from bed that morning, every movement had taken more effort than swimming through molasses. (At least, what he figured swimming through molasses would be like. He'd never done it.)
"You might have to head to Walter Reed," Leatherman stated frankly. "I don't love the optics of that - the President has to be seen as capable, or else he'll lose."
"Too late for that" President Fiddlesticks muttered glumly.
Leatherman sighed, readjusting his dark sunglasses as the vehicle's engine roared into life. When he replied, he sounded a lot older than even his boss.
"Honestly, Mr. President, you might be right about that. Maybe it is too late."
Little did either of them know, however, that it wasn't over until it was over. And there was no such thing as over.