How a President Made Decisions
Another brief story. Without giving too much away, this piece portrays the decision-making process of our "beloved", ex President George Bush.
Intro to Fiction
The cell phones went off at the same time, vibrating slowly across the table. Their eyes locked for a second, then darted nervously back to the buzzing plastic.
“It’s time already?” asked Landon. He was dressed extravagantly from head to toe: Bright blue track shoes, striped knee-high tube socks with green basketball shorts. A crimson long sleeve shirt clung tightly to his chest. Piercing blue eyes hid behind the orange lenses of his sunglasses, all positioned neatly beneath short, spiky blonde hair. “I was just starting to have fun!”
The other man, Jack, was more conservatively dressed than his counterpart: Black sneakers, dark blue jeans, and a light-gray tee shirt. His neat, cropped brown haircut complemented his dark, soft eyes. He closed his book and checked the message on his phone. “It’s either you or him. Get to the rooftop of the Executive Tower first, and you win.”
Landon downed the last half of his pint in three short gulps and hopped out of his chair, “Fuck it. You ready, man?”
“Yep. I hate this part more than anything, though, I swear.”
“Oh come on!” yelled Landon as he sprinted off towards the center of the city, “When will you learn to live a little?”
So the race began. They navigated through the sprawling metropolis, slipping down back alleys and across traffic-filled streets. Horns blared and bystanders hollered, but this race had deeper implications than anyone could imagine. Landon acted purely on instinct, adapting to every scenario as he grew closer to the heart of the city. Jack, on the other hand, had been navigating the busy streets while at the same time, plotting the easiest route of travel. It was a battle between impulse and logical thought, with the Executive Tower looming overhead.
An hour later, they reunited at the base of the skyscraper, frozen in place, eyes locked, and panting heavily. Landon made the first move, dashing for the front door with Jack right on his heels. “I’m not losing to you again!” screamed Landon, “Last time, you won, and nearly cost the boss the election. We both know he needs MY guidance. Not yours! You don’t have the guts to make the tough decisions.”
“You’ll never understand!” Jack shouted back as they began their ascent up the winding, endless stairs, “You’re a slave to desire. Just doing what you want until you obtain it. You never stop and think, or even consider the consequences of your actions. You only ‘do,’ and never look back! You did that with Vietnam, you did that with Iraq, and you’re gonna do it again!”
They were nearly to the top. Exhausted, angry, and desperate, Landon and Jack fought for every step. Elbowing, shoving, grappling, and kicking, they clawed their way up the last few flights and tumbled out onto the rooftop in a sweaty, flailing heap. Jack sprung to his feet, driving his heel into Landon’s chest. “It’s over,” he announced, pulling out his phone and dialing a number, “I won.”
Jack faced out towards the endless city, admiring the orange setting sun in the distance. Tired, but triumphant, he waited as the phone rang. “Is it decided?” a voice crackled through the other end. “Yes,” he tried to answer. But no words came out, just a muffled cough, and an echo like the crack of a whip rang out. Jack dropped the phone, staggered backwards, and looked down at the shiny red pool forming on his gray shirt. He lifted his head and placed his glassy eyes up at Landon, standing there, pistol in hand, as a small column of smoke disappeared over his head.
“I couldn’t let you win. Not this time. Not ever,” Landon muttered, reaching for the phone, “I’m sorry, brother,” and he gently pushed him in the chest, over the edge of the tower to the ground thousands of feet below.
“Hello? Are you there? I need an answer. Who is this? Jack or Landon?” the voice repeated through the speaker.
“Sir, it’s Landon.”
“You’ve made a decision?”
“Yes sir. Do it.”
Landon, the tower, and the city suddenly vanished from sight as a dreary, solemn man rose from his desk in the White House. He rubbed his eyes, yawning, and punched in a call on his phone “I’ve made my decision,” said the President, gravely, after being connected, “Arm the missiles. We attack China at sunrise.”