The Window Seat
The Window Seat
Sometime in November 2021
The receipt came in from Hubei. It was sticky and splotched with brown-dried blood, reeking of pangolin guts and fish innards: a multi-sensory specter of follies past. The text on the receipt was still legible, but the Old Man’s mind was not. Staffers with situational awareness knew the best way to gauge the President’s mood was through his wife; what they saw there did not augur well. She flashed them the usual correct smile, but her blue eyes were daggers potruding through a hilt of mascera as she guided her husband towards his seat. Most of the Cabinet nodded as she walked by and gave a salutory “Dr.” to her as she passed. Fauci was pleased that his seat was on the other side of the room. Adressing a glorified schoolteacher with his title was even more degrading than giving it to a veterinarian or general practitioner.
The door shut behind the First Lady and the President took his seat. The members of the Cabinet studied him intently. It was clear the Old Man wasn’t excited to the point of flatulence as he was when meeting high-status dignitaries like the Royals or the Pope. He was not enraged, as was custom when he heard the phrase “global democracy” from his earpiece. He just stared downward and squinted at the Bill of Sale through multiple levels of putrifaction.
“What does this mean?”
Ron Klein, his Chief of Staff, never missed a que. The stress of such attention to detail led him to a rollercoaster diet of binging and purging to the point that either his chin was too big for his face, or vice-versa. It was the former at the moment, but thankfully masking was mandatory in cabinet meetings so he felt svelte under his red and blue Unity! face covering under his N95.
“Well sir, I’m afraid that this document establishes a clear financial link between us and the Chinese..”
Biden suddenly clenched both fists and slammed them on the table.
“I thought I made it perfectly clear that MY SON WAS A TOPIC THAT WE DID NOT………”
Klain was an old hand at this now, he knew the difference between a temperamental nuke and an firecracker. He diffused the explosive with practiced care.
“I apologize, Mr. President. Please forgive me for not making myself clear,” Klain interjected with practiced faux nervousness, “this isn’t about Hunter, its in regard to the Coronavirus.” The Cabinet was relieved. They knew by watching Klain that the situation was under control. If it wasn’t, the Chief of Staff’s masks would be sopping from sweat from his meaty jowel.
The President unclenched his fists and placed his hands flat on the table. He inhaled deeply as if attempting to snort a 9-year old, hair first, at her father’s swearing in ceremony. Then he leaned back in his chair and slapped his knees.
“Coronavirus? That’s a uh uh public health rissue, Dr. Frauci yooof the floor.”
Fauci stood. Today he was wearing his purple Emperor Penguin mask (because he’s cool and he rules) under his standard surgical mask. The mask brightned his spirits and he needed every pick-me-up he could find lately. He had money, fame, and power beyond his wildest dreams. At this point, he was convinced that if god existed, he’d be an absentee landlord. Absolute power is so boring. He learned it was more fun to imagine Brad Pitt playing you while you hang out with Julia Roberts than it is when it actually happens. Fauci hypothisised the reason for this was his imagined version was a product of his superior mind, the reality of it paled in comparison.
“Mr. President, in a few rare instances when public health has compelled us, we have supported research in order to address health crises generic research with strict oversight and bio-safety measures. As you know, we do not nor have we ever funded gain-of-function research. ”
If there had been any thorn in Fauci’s side for the past two years, it was the fact that despite all the unbridled adulation, no one ever gave him credit for his lawyerly command of language. No one ever have his deft qualifiers or denotational legerdemain the praise he thought due and proper. But then again, it wasn’t nuance that named him the Guardian’s sexiest man alive. He smiled at the thought of plump middle-aged British marms thinking of him while micturating on a London sidewalk after a long night of drinking. Suddenly his joy evaporated.
“So there's a provable link to Wuhan Virology,” Klain interjected, “should we blame China, Mr. Secratary?”
Fauci flushed with anger. The floor had been given to Antony Blinken before he had the opportunity to remind everyone that this was still the first stage in a five-stage pandemic!
Blinken rose, wearing his black inverted Amercan flag/NATO logo mask over his N95.
“Will all due respect sir, I plan on issuing a strong verbal repremand to China about aggressive actions in Asia this December,” the Secretary of State said. “exercising any greater force would require a letter.”
Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin then stood up, wearing an N95 secured by 4 rolls of electric tape wrapped around his face under a visor. (Austin preferred to be enclosed in a hermetically-sealed plexiglass cube during meetings, but Klain forbade it on the grounds that the President would be compelled to lick the glass.
“Murff murff, fruuffur, tactical problem bruff bruff,” said Austin. The President nodded. Austin then gestured to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of staff.
General Mark Milley spoke in a solid black mask under a solid black mask as a declaration of solidarity with the #BLM movement and his undying commitment to dismantle institutions of White Supremacy such US nuclear Command and Control protocol and the Kabul embassy.
“It would be unfilial for me to not honor my commitment to to my most honorable counterpart in the People's Republic of any impending aggression. Duty would require me to notify the Chinese of the dispatch of any letter at once,” said Milley.
Fauci was now apoplectic. He had spent enough hours in the 80’s wading through bodily fluids in every bathouse and glory hole in New York City to know exactly the caliber of man Mark Milley was. He was a Spit Roast, Fauci was convinced. He imagined Milley’s moans being muffled by a frontal assault to his strategic chokepoint while his rear was aggressively flanked by a coalition of forces. He couldn’t believe that his opportunity to speak in defense of Science Himself was being interrupted by this fat doughy pincushion.
Then Blinken addressed the President again:
“Sir, if you'll allow me. I think I have a solution. I've been talking my best analyst and they/them have a very interesting proposal. We all know that your goal is to 'build back' better. When was America at it's best? Why during the Cold War! The Space Race, the rise of computers, all of these amazing technological innovations came from it… what if we, rekindle our little rivalry with the Evil Empire, Mr. President? Iron sharpening iron! I think it will really revitalize the American character and what's even better is that no one on the Joint Chiefs of Staff is currently a compromised agent of the Russian government. Just think sir, our friends in the Military-Industrial sector will enjoy a nice windfall once we decide to throw our weight around by arming every continent north of the tropic of cancer.”
The President fistbumped the table again, but this time his eyes twinkled.
“Send some Company boys out, and let’s see what they can do. Also I’m declaring war on Cancer.”
“Dr. Fauci, you can sit down.”