One Afternoon 

at the

Power Center of the World

By Bryan Zepp Jamieson

2/10/01

SCENE: The Oval Office at the White House. Dubious George Putsch, leader of the free world or at least some of Florida’s more questionable ballots, is sitting at the President’s desk, working on a puzzle in a brightly-colored crossword puzzle book. Behind him, Vice President Dick Cheney is standing, hands clasped behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels as he gazes out on the White House lawn.

George: Dick? What’s a three-letter word that means "feline"?

Dick: [Sighs audibly] Cat, George. The word you want is cat.

G: [Frowns at puzzle, licking lips in concentration. There is a pause of about ten seconds.] It doesn’t work, Dick. The down word is "cow".

D: [Slumps slightly]. Cat is spelled with a "C" George. See Eh Tee. Cat.

G: [Scribbles with pencil. Regards result critically, tilts head] I dunno Dick. That kinda takes the fun out of it.

D: [Glances over shoulder, revealing face to audience for first time] How’s that?

G: Well, it’s not right when you change the spelling of a word to make it fit.

D: [Turns and stares at the back of George’s head. Lifts finger in air, starts to say something, pauses, mouth snaps shut]

G: I mean, it’s like cheating.

D: [Inaudible mutter]

G: Did you say something?

D: Nope.

[Offstage: three gun shots ring out in quick succession. Dick, who has resumed rocking slightly with hands behind back, is unfazed. George looks puzzled, sniffs at air. Suddenly assumes a look of comic surprise, looking for all the world like a chimpanzee who just unexpectedly got a banana rammed up his ass]

G: Dick! That’s gunfire!

D: Really? Gunfire in downtown DC. Tch, tch. Who would have guessed?

G: It -was- gunfire! I’ve heard it a lot of times on TV! And it sounded -close-.

D: [Cocks head slightly, adjusts glasses to peer out window]. Well, It’s fairly close. Call it 150 yards, maybe.

G: You can tell that?

D: Well, yeah. I mean, I can see the guy. He’s right there, outside the fence on Pennsylvania Avenue.

[At sound of commotion, turns to stare down at President, who has just crawled under desk]

D: George, what do you think you’re doing?

[Hand reaches out frantically from under desk, clutches at Cheney’s pant leg, trying ineffectually to pull him under desk]

G: Dick, get under here! That guy’s shooting at us!

D: Oh, yeah, I know. It was in this morning’s briefing. Now come out from under there. Don’t you know that’s where Clinton parked his cock?

[George makes sound of revulsion, scrambles out from under desk, dashes to plaster wall between windows, flattens himself spread eagled against wall. With quick, bird like motion, he sneaks a peek outside, jerks head back.]

G: He is shooting at us! [Voice becomes peevish] Dick, will you move back from the window? I can’t run the country alone, you know!

D: I know you can’t, George. Don’t worry. We’re perfectly safe. [He gives George a faintly puzzled look]. You really don’t remember us talking about this during the morning session?

G: [Bites lip thoughtfully, nods slowly]. That guy is supposed to shoot at me and miss, right?

D: Well, shoot at the Oval Office. Doesn’t matter where he aims, though. He’s firing blanks. Harmless.

G: And he’s doing this because...?

D: We’re hoping people will figure it’s a liberal, and it will discredit the Democrats.

G: Darn those Democrats anyway. Why do they have to be so mean?

D: Just the nature of the beast. Anyway, you won’t want to watch what happens next.

G: What happens next?

D: Well, the Secret Service is going to shoot him.

G: [Looks mildly puzzled] Isn’t that wrong?

D: You can’t look at it in terms of right or wrong. He’s a liberal, and he’s threatening you. The Secret Service has a job to do.

G: [Moves to window, peers out] So that’s what a liberal looks like.

D: Well, actually, he’s just some libertarian nut with a hard on for the IRS.

G: Here come the Secret Police now.

D: Secret SERVICE, George. [Moves to window, looks impatient, mutters softly] Come on, you clowns. Waste him.

G: Wait, I remember now. We talked about him this morning.

D: [Another sigh]. That’s right.

G: What happened to the plan we had before the convention?

D: Nancy wouldn’t go for it. She said that it would be cruel–he wouldn’t even know why he was being shot, and besides, he already took a bullet for the polls back in 82 or something like that. So this is our plan B.

G: HE got shot? When?

D: You were drunk at the time. Never mind.

G: And we’re doing this because...?

D: Because it worked so well for Clinton. His approval ratings were in the toilet, and then some fool dittohead flew his plane into the White House in a harebrained assassination attempt, and then another clown opened up with an automatic out where that guy is. Clinton’s ratings jumped. Getting shot at always helps Presidents. Hell, if it weren’t for the fact that I know better, I would say that Clinton staged the Oklahoma City bombing. [Snaps fingers, looks delighted]. Say! Why didn’t we think of that. We’ll say Clinton was behind OKC. [Looks around on President’s desk]. George, give me that crayon. No, the red one. AND that piece of paper. [Scribbles frantically] Heh. OK, that one will be on Rush Limbaugh’s fax machine first thing Monday morning. [Chuckles]. I’m a genius.

G: Wasn’t I supposed to call someone about this?

D: [Back perceptibly stiffens, and he turns to stare openly at George]. O’Neill. You were supposed to call Paul O’Neill. The Secret Service has to know what’s going on. If those are REAL Secret Service agents out there...oh, damn.

G: What’s wrong? It looks like they’re just standing around talking.

D: That’s what’s wrong! They aren’t supposed to be standing around talking! The guy is supposed to go down in a hail of bullets, a dramatic end to a liberal assassination attempt! O’Neill was supposed to arrange for our own people to be there instead of the real Secret Service, so there wouldn’t be any chance that the guy would go blabbing.

G: Does he know he was going to get killed?

D: [Exasperated sigh]. No, of course not. He was told he might be injured slightly, and would be able to tell the world his grievances from a hospital bed. With the real Secret Service, that’s probably what’s going to happen. They don’t like to kill people if they can avoid it. Damn, damn, damn!

G: [Looking petulent] Well, how was I supposed to call O’Neill? I don’t have a phone in here.

D: [Stabs finger violently at phone, prominent on George’s desk]. THERE, you moron! That . . . is . . . a . . . TELEPHONE!

G: [Openly scowling now]. It doesn’t work.

D: [Voice goes up an octave] Doesn’t work? You push THIS button, HERE! [Punches button: Speaker phone makes dial tone noise]

G: Well, I didn’t know. Geesh. It’s not like being President is an easy job.

D: [Calmer, now] Tell me about it. [Looks out window]. Look at those assholes. They’re just standing around, talking to the guy. They’ll be bringing him coffee next.

G: [Playing with phone] What happens if I push this button?

D: Oh-oh! George, you just launched a nuclear attack on Russia!

G: [Looks dismayed]. Oh, gosh, I didn’t mean to! [Starts stabbing at buttons frantically]. How do I call them back?

D: Just kidding, George.

G: Darn. You do that to me all the time. Darn it, I can never tell if you’re kidding or not.

D: [Moves behind George, to window, lifts head to ceiling and laughs mordantly]

OFFSTAGE: A rifle shot is heard. Just one.

D: Ah. They shot him.

G: Is he hurt?

D: I would think so, George. The Secret Service usually doesn’t miss from five yards away. Anyways, he went down.

G: [Leaps up from desk, moves to window]. Move over! I want to see!

D: [Gives George a quizzical look] You really enjoy executions, don’t you?

[George suddenly looks more resolute and intelligent than at any point during the act. He gives Cheney a direct look, speaks in a tone that is nearly authoritative]

G: It’s payback time, Dick. Every time one of those fuckers gets greased, I’m getting back at someone who make my childhood a living hell.

D: [Jaw drops open, looks disturbed. Then, in a kaleidoscopic change, he smiles, gives a Gallic shrug of whimsey]. Well, just so long as you have a hobby, George, that’s all that matters.

G: I can see him moving. Come on, guys, shoot him again. [Moves to desk, punches at telephone buttons]. How did you say this worked?

D: Oh, hell. A CNN truck just pulled up. They can’t shoot him now. It would look bad.

G: Well, no problem. We can try again tomorrow.

D: Say what?

G: Sure. Do you have any IDEA how many people are on death row in Texas? We could get a volunteer for every day I’m in the White House! Boy, wouldn’t that thrill people!

D: [Starts to berate George for a stupid idea, then stops to consider how George got to be President. Suddenly smiles]. You know, George, you just might have something there...