God Save the Republic - A Mike Pence Fan Fiction - Chapter 2
- Charlie Biscotto
- Feb 19, 2017
- 3 min read
He moved to the study, fumbling around in his desk for a pen and paper. But once he took the pen to hand, he did not know quite how to begin.
"To Whom It May Concern:"
Too generic. Was he a... bank president or something?
"Dear Mr. President,"
The sad truth was that, even for him, calling Donald "Mr. President" aroused a unique mix of nausea and terror.
"To the Republic I've long held dear:"
Yes. That was the one.
Just then, Karen rapped at the door, poking her head in.
"Honey. It's almost midnight. Are you feeling okay?"
He looked at the clock, and then at his wife. She wore a nightgown he'd bought for her the first time they'd moved to Washington, back in 2001, when he'd finally been elected to Congress after two bitter defeats. It was his gift, he said, for allowing him to stick their collective necks out time and again. It still looked just as beautiful - rather, she looked just as beautiful, as she did back then.
"Yeah. I can finish this in the morning." He smiled. "I'll be better off coming to it with fresh eyes anyway." And off to bed he went.
But his sleep did little to freshen him up. As he drifted in a state somewhere between consciousness and dreaming, he saw himself walking down Pennsylvania Avenue, approaching 15th St. near the end of the inaugural parade route. The barriers were up as though it were inauguration day, but there were no people behind them. There were no people anywhere, save for him.
And still he walked, half-aware of his unease. Suddenly, a man in a dark jacket appeared out of the corner of his eye. The man's features were angular, sharp, clean. The man wore a hat and carried an umbrella. Mike did not trust this man, but he could not say why. Perhaps it was simply because this appeared to be the only other man on earth.
That's when he noticed that the man had reached into a pocket and produced a syringe. Before he knew what had happened, he felt the sting of the syringe in his side and dropped to the ground. The man leaned over him, and whispered in a thick yet familiar Russian accent, "This is propofol. It will make you sleep. And then it will make you die."
Without warning, the man's face morphed into Reince Priebus, who was now screaming, "Help! Someone help the president! The president is dying! HELP!"
He shot up in bed, sweating, breathing hard, on the verge of hyperventilation. It was just a dream. But he was called president. Why? All of his thoughts from the night before circled through his brain. This was an expression of his subconscious- of the desire to use the power of the presidency to advance his values and the fear that all would come crashing down before he could make so much as a dent.
Karen rolled over. "Mm. Honey, are you okay?"
He looked at the clock. 3:00. Roughly an hour until the president's first tweets of the day, he surmised grimly.
"I need to get to work. Too much... too much to do today."
"It's 3 a.m."
"No rest for the wicked," he laughed. Karen did not.