3

It was February 2009. Rain beat down on the windows of the Oval Office. The new President was standing behind his desk, looking out through the blurr at the garden.

He was a tall, slim man in his early fifties with a dark skin, liquid brown eyes and short, cropped black hair. In a shirt and tie, Benn Mugaba stood, hands in his trouser pockets, observing two men who belonged to his special security detail who walked past outside in silence. He recognised one of the burly looking guys wearing heavy coats over their suits and ties. His son played tackle for the Dallas Cowboys. Must be pretty good, Benn thought as e glanced at his watch. It was 12:30, time for his lunch.

That afternoon, he was having lunch with his Chief of Staff Malachi Liebermann, his top advisor, Jakob Feinstein, his Treasury Secretary Timothy Blankfein, his Economics Secretary Larry Abrahams as well as the head of intelligence in Israel and America, Dinah Blumenstein.

They came in looking jubilant, obviously pleased about the fact they’d manage to push through the banking “bailout”, which had just handed another trillion dollars to their friends on Wall Street and Israel.

“Shalom,” said Malachi. “What’s up?”

“I just heard Mississipi has passed a bill to protect the state’s residents right to keep arms during martial law,” he said in a sharp tone.

“So?” said Malachi, running his fingers through his short, grey hair, his brown eyes sparkling. “The Goys are waking up too late. We’re in the Oval Office, not them. And we have all the levers of power. We can run Mississipi flat over.”

“We have to keep up the appearance of a democracy, right?” said Mugaba.

“Why worry! You’re the great leader, the Messiah, the one all Americans consider their saviour,” said Malachi. “I ring up Ollermann and Stepanopholos every morning to make sure you’re on everyone’s TV screens, featured on every front newspaper page, proclaiming news of happiness. The masses worship you. You’re the best actor I ever came across!”

Mugaba laughed.

He put his hands into his trouser pockets and whistled a tune:

Our God reigns! Our God reigns!Our God reigns! Our God reigns!

Then, he looked sharply at Malachi.

“America really is lucky that I’m here to take the helm and steer the ship,” he said.

Jakob stepped forward, irritated.

“Let's not overdo the self praise. Benn, the sheeple are going blah, blah and complain that you haven’t closed down Gitmo."

“They’ll soon be in Gitmo and in the FEMA camps when they run out of space at Gitmo,” said Benn, joking.

“The bloggers and a few human rights orgs are banging the drum for a fair trial for the detainees.”

“Fair trial? We’d have our hands full if we had to put everyone on trial,” said Mugaba wearily. “It’s much more practical to arrest the guys without having to go to the trouble and expense of a legal trial. I want Gitmo to serve as a warning. I want people to understand they can’t mess with me any more than with George. I’m in charge now. I’m the boss in America. I can do whatever I want as President. I make the law. I issue the executive orders. How’s it going with the FEMA camps, by the way?”

“We’re pushing legislation through the Congress right now to make it all legal. The dumb sheep just go blah, blah and sign up for their own slaughter,” said Malachi.

“The contract with Blackwater is signed,” added Dinah.

“Those psychos are going to have fun with the sheep,” said Malachi, grinning.

“You sadist.”

“What? They’re so stupid. Meek as lambs. They even pay for their own FEMA camps and guards out of their own tax money.”

“Speaking of tax money,” said Timothy, loosening his tie. “We got to get this sorted out. The Redshields are broke.”

“I know, I know.”

“How can they be broke with 300 trillion?” asked Jakob.

“What’s 300 trillion they can’t make liquid in this meltdown? The Chinks and the Arabs aren’t buying the dollar and pound and now fresh capital is going into the system. They need as much cash as they can get to buy up the assets while they’re cheap. That’s why we need more money from the goys.”

“We need another approach. The Fed needs to just print the cash. We got to call it something else, not a “bailout.” Folks aren’t buying it.”

“So what?” said Malachi. “We got the money. Legal. Let them sound off. They’re not getting it back.”

“Benn’s right, Malachi,” said Dinah, folding her arms. “We gotta tread carefully. Till martial law is declared, we’ve got to keep the masses at arm’s length. We don’t want an open rebellion.”

“Yeah, we gotta watch our step. Like I said, Aaron at the Fed should just print more money for the Redshills. Hell, there’s no disclosure. Let’s go eat?” said Mugaba. “I asked the staff to serve us in the dining room. The best wine from the cellar.”

“Look, Benn, I got a lot to do and I want to get this sorted out,” said

Timonthy, looking nervous.

“We can talk about it over lunch…”

“Yeah, but I got to get to New York this evening.”

“You’re going to get an ulcer,” joked Benn.

“How can you stay so cool?”

“Hey, just call me commander-in-chief.”

Malachi laughed.

“It’s so funny that you who hate the goys more than anyone, are portrayed as this selfless angel.”

“That’s our media!”

“Tell me, why do hate the goys so much?” asked Abrahams.

Mugaba rolled his eyes.

“Was it your mother? Was it cos she left you to do her missionary work in South America?”

Mugaba walked on.

"There's a great chardonnay in a bucket of ice waiting for us," he said. "Let's enjoy!"