Emitt Rhodes

  

The Promotion: A Cautionary Tale

Jan. 11, 2021 3:37 a.m..
At an undisclosed location somewhere in Washington D.C.

The iPhone on the nightstand next to the queen size bed vibrated with an incoming call.

Then, again.

“Oh, fuck…”, he muttered.

Another vibration. This one, somehow, seemed more sinister.

“Oh, fuck…”, he muttered again.

A female voice says, “Answer it, Mikhail.”

“I don’t know if I should”, Mikhail responded.

“Vell, who is it? It’s very late”, she said.

“It’s your husband. I don’t think I should. He’s been out of control.”

“Answer it, goddamn it.” she demanded.

He grabs his older iPhone that doesn’t have a SIM card. He uses it as a voice recorder whenever Melania’s husband calls. At last glance, there were over 1100  recordings of calls that emanated from this particular phone number.

With reticence, he hits the green answer button and quickly hits the speakerphone button. He puts the phone on the nightstand next to his voice recorder phone. He hits the record button.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Vice President?”, a voice responded.

“Yes. This is him.”
His stomach churned with butterflies, like it was the Mexican winter home of the Monarchs.

“The President wants you to be in the Oval at 8 a.m.”, the voice said.

“Why? What did I do?” answered Mikhail, his voice shaking and his trepidation exploding.

“I’m not sure, sir. I was only instructed to call you and relay this instruction”, he replied. “Can I tell him that you will comply?”

“Who is this?” asked Mikhail. “How do I know this is really what he wants?”

“That doesn’t matter,” replied the voice. “Shall I tell him you will comply…or not?”.

Mikhail knew then that this was a legit call.

“Can’t I just talk to him on the phone? I’m busy this morning. My calendar is absolutely packed. Can’t I just call him back? Do I really need to go to his office?”, the desperation in his voice was almost palpable.

“No, sir. He has instructed me to tell you to be there at 8 o’clock”, he said, sternly. “Again, sir…will you comply?”

Melania jabs her elbow into his ribs covered by his ever-present wife-beater. He never takes it off. Even during sex. It didn’t bother Melania. Nothing bothered Melania. She’s doing her job with the precision of someone born and raised in the U.S.S.R.. She’s shaking her head, affirmatively. “Tell heem you will comply,” she whispers directly into his ear, as if the person on the other end does not already know she is there.

Under his breath, he utters, “Fuck”, once again.

“Yes. Tell the President I will comply and I will be there at 8”.

The line goes dead. Mikhail watches the call disappear from his 2016 16G iPhone SE. He  touches the pause button on the recording iPhone, his trusty blue 5c.  He hates getting rid of old tech. He repurposes it. Just for occasions such as this.

“You did right thing”, Melania says in a manner Mikhail thought sounded like Natasha from the Bullwinkle cartoons he watched as a kid, but didn’t quite understand.

“Did I? He was trying to have me killed last Wednesday. Is this a trap?”

“No”, she replied…as her left hand slowly moved over his tidy whities, softly rubbing the small, shriveled lump that once represented his genitals. “He needs your help. Don’t you want to be President?” she whispered.

“That would be very swell. I have always wanted that. I deserve that. Right?” he said.

“Oh yes, dah-link…you deserve all good things”, she responded right before her tongue darted into his left ear and her hot breath raised goosebumps all over his pale white body.

“Yes. I do”, he meekly replied.

When he arrived at the White House, he was early. It was 7 a.m. and he was instructed to take a seat.
The Secret Service agent said “The President will be with you shortly. He is trying to remember the password to his MySpace account”.

Mikhail wondered what he was in for. The worse-case scenarios with this guy were never as bad as they eventually turned out to be. Mikhail’s mind raced as fast as his as his innate dullness would allow. He ran every possibility through to its logical conclusion. “He’s gonna kill me”, he thought. “Why did I come here? I’m such a fucking idiot”.

His armpits dripped with sweat. He forgot to put on his anti-perspirant. Dammit. He could smell his own fear. It was not something that he was unused to. Particularly when he was within a quarter mile of Trump or his wife, Karen.
Mikhail was always afraid that Karen would smell Melania’s Chanel #5 on him. He combatted that by eschewing his deodorant before he went home from his “long nights at the office”. 

Right now, it was in overdrive. “I’m sweating bullets” he thought…and it was much worse than last Wednesday at the Capitol. He had no idea that what happened was even a possibility. He couldn’t hear the chants of “Hang Mike Pence”. He was busy doing the business of government for the Government of Business…until the Capitol police yanked him off of his chair and dragged him to an undisclosed, secure location, (which we found out later was the Capitol janitorial staff’s broom closet. It locks from the inside.) and it was only when the door closed did the officer that was protecting him consider pushing Pence back into the hallway.

Mikhail Pence looked at his watch as the Secret Service agent ushered him in. It was 9:15. “At least it wasn’t a long wait”, he thought.

Trump was leaning back in his chair, behind the recently gold-plated Resolute Desk.
“How’s it hanging, Mikey?” Trump chuckled. “It was pretty wild the other day. Wasn’t it?”
Pence shuddered at Trump’s joke. “Yessir”, he replied. “I didn’t expect it.”
“You weren’t supposed to, kid. I had to keep it on the down-low. It was a secret.” Trump smiled.
“Are you going to kill me?” Mikhail asked, his voice breaking.
“Nah…not anymore. You dodged that bullet. Didn’t you?”, Trump said as his eyelids narrowed into slits. “Today, I need your help. Wanna be President?” Trump asked. “You always have and now’s your chance. Want it?”
Pence’s eyed widened at the thought of the possibility of him, the Albino Hoosier, as POTUS.

“Oh, FUCK YEAH I do, sire!” he blurted.
Trump nodded knowingly and said “Good. Here’s the deal. I put together my pardon list. Right now there are about 11,452 names of people who have been poorly treated and need to be forgiven. They didn’t do anything wrong. It was a hoax. A witch hunt. Manson is still alive, right?”
“Anyway…So, I pardon them and when that’s done. I resign and YOU, Mike Pence become PRESIDENT Mike Pence. Number 46. Sleepy Joe thinks he’ll be number 46, but we’ll show him. Won’t we?”

“Yessir. Thank you, Mr. President. I can do that. I won’t let you down. But, let me be clear, you won’t tell your fine people to hurt me or kill me or something worse, will you?” Mikhail asked.
“Nah. That’s water under the…you know. Showers. How you turn them on and it’s like nothing…just dripping. No pressure at all! What’s up with that?” Trump explained as if they were both at one of his campaign rallies.
“Thank you, Mr. President. I appreciate that. I really, really do.” Pence said as he slowly walked backwards, bowing every other step until he reached the Oval’s door.
The Secret Service agent on the other side of the door, opened it.
“Get out of here, Mikey. I will call you when we’re ready to get this done. It will be the like of which nobody in the world has ever seen. Right?”
“Yessir. Revolutionary, sir.” Mikhail replied. “Like no-one has ever seen.”, as Pence was nearly through the doorway.
Trump squinted at him, lips pursed.
"Oh, one more thing”, he yelled, "Say hello to Melania for me.”

Pence was already down the hall as that last word arrived at his ears.