His Time is Running Out

The senator from Vermont had long ago come to see himself as a new Brutus, and the President as the new Caesar. The first Brutus had toppled a king and put an end to kingship in Rome, bringing about the republic, he had been proven a success; the second Brutus had tried to topple a tyrant and bring about a restoration of the republic. He had succeeded at the first, but failed miserably at the second, and killed himself after all his turmoil and angst in first killing Caesar. The senator knew he had to be like the first Brutus. He knew he had to succeed in the act of assassination, and in the convincing the public that it were morally right, and that the political structures to come after would be better, being more rigid than those that had come before. He knew that murder was wrong in and of itself, but what did that mean? Isn't everything of itself. Can murder be separated from murder. It is a killing, legally defined as the wrongful taking of life. It was a fundamental moral and legal principle, as old as the Bible, no, older. He would hardly have sanctioned as justified the same argument for the killing of a senator by the President, but this was different; and if he were to be called a hypocrite, then so be it. He would find it easier to justify his status as murderer than hypocrite; but as there was nothing he could do about the label he would gladly receive it. As he felt justified committing murder, it would be less jarring than being called a hypocrite, a title he didn't feel he deserved, and that he couldn't justify or deny.

The plan was simple, and, like many simple plans, had been necessitated by the difficulty in gaining access to the President since his security detail had been beefed up. But the Senator had found a chink in the defence. The President, being vainly concerned with his appearance, had been taking a regimen of peptides and injections of botox in order to maximum his looks. The only person other than family that he allowed anywhere near his person was his doctor; and, being not only vain but, contrastingly, extremely self-conscious, he had not made it known to even family that he had been in the regular habit of maintaining his looks and body shape. In short, nobody knew that the President would be at the Dr. Fulton Shields Health Centre between the hours of 12 and 2 pm, not even his security detail, which he had been told he was obligated to have with him at all time; he had talked them into allowing him just two guards, who must wait outside the clinic in the President's car. The Senator had used a combination of bribery and blackmail in order to get Shields to co-operate.

He had made the doctor think that he was assisting in the arrest of the President on charges of electoral fraud. Why should the doctor question the Senator on his evidence, especially when the Senator had, at the same time as announcing his intent, handed over a giant wad of hundred dollar bills. The doctor's job was to hold the President for an hour beyond his allotted two hours, by which time the Senator would have voted in the crucial debate over a new law to allow... The exact law is not necessary to mention here, but suffice to say it was dear to the heart of the liberal minded Senator.

At exactly 2pm the President finished his appointment with the doctor and went home where he watched the Frog News channel, the right wing media channel with by far the largest audience, and ate his favourite MacDingles meal, a Big Mack with an orange soda. Under no circumstances would the President stand to be held up by the doctor for more than two hours.

The race was on.

In the senate the speaker read the proposed law and voting began. The Senator knew the law would be defeated, and he was fine with that for the moment. He would try to put it through when his party were in power. For now his mind was on one thing, killing the President. The vote done, the Senator now had to get across town. He summoned his driver, informing him that he wanted to be taken to the clinic. The driver had looked at him confusedly, well aware of who the doctor was, but not that the president would be there, and of the Senator's plan. They both got in the car and, at the Senator's instruction, drove towards the highway to the clinic.

- Don't worry about the speed, Jim.

They raced through the downtown traffic, getting every green light. A mile before they came towards the onramp to the highway they saw it, a line of cars at least five miles long. Was there an accident up ahead?

- Is there another way we can go, Jim?

- Sorry, sir. There are roadworks that way.

- Shit. We'll just have to wait.

It was half past one. They had been twenty minutes drive from the clinic before the hold up. They had no idea how long they would be here.

At the clinic, the doctor began to think of ways to keep the President entertained until the Senator got there, however long that would be. If the Senator was not at the clinic by two on the dot, the doctor had been ordered to say and do whatever possible and reasonable to get the President to remain. It was now twenty minutes to two.

Back at the highway, the two men, Senator and driver were still stuck in traffic. The clock was ticking. They were running out of time.

At the clinic the President's work was finished. He got up out of his seat and went to work out. Shields thought on his feet.

-You know, Mr. President, sir, the new trend is for highlights.

- Highlights? You mean of the hair? I don't have any hair. Can't you see I don't have hair. I'm bald. As bald as a babies ass. Are you making fun of me doctor? Are you laughing at me?

- No, Mr. President, not at all. I mean a new kind of highlight of the eyes. We call it occular rejuvenation. It is a simple procedure whereby we use a laser to brighten the colour and vibrancy of the iris. It lasts three months and looks fantastic.

- How long will it take.

- Only ten minutes, sir.

- Well, ok, but try to make it five.

Back at the traffic jam, the Senator frantically checked his watch.

At the clinic, the President got back into the chair as the doctor prepared the laser.

The traffic hadn't picked up. They were dead still. It was five past two,

The doctor watched the clock as he made sure also to watch the laser that was now directed at the President's eyes. His hands shook. He steadied them. He breathed heavily. It was six past two.

The traffic began to move. It was slow going, but at least they were moving. There were three minutes left. Time was running out.

Back at the clinic the Presidents laser eye rejuvenation was over. The President got up to leave. He was just at the door, his coat in hand when...

- Mr. President. Wait. I want to. Read you something.

- Dr. I really need to get home. I'm the President of the United States. People will probably be wondering where I am. Remember, these visits are a secret. Only three people know that I'm here, well, four if you include that fox of a secretary of yours. Don't worry. I'll get her number later. Anywhere. What did you want to read.

- I want to read a book.

- A book. Dr. This is highly irregular.

- War and Peace. I have it here.

Back at the highway the traffic hadn't moved an inch.

Back at the clinic the doctor was halfway through the first sentence of War and Peace. The clock was ticking. Still no sign of the Senator. He hadn't signed up for this. He was a graduate of Johns Hopkins, and now here he was, trying to keep the President from leaving immediately post botox and peptides induced looksmaxxing procedure and laser eye enhancement, so that the Senator from Vermont could carry out an assassination that the doctor had been bribed into being an accessory to. The whole thing was absurd. But what really made absolutely no sense, doctor, said the judge at the trial six months later, was that the one thing that you didn't want being made public knowledge, was that you had once been on college tennis doubles circuit with the President. This was the one thing which being known you feared and, fearing, as you saw it, the humiliation, you decided to go along with the plan to murder the president, who, thanks to what can only be described as divine intervention, a circus train just happening to crash into a truck carrying twenty barrels of single malt, and causing the animals, and not to mention their handlers, trainers, and assorted clowns and acrobats, from becoming intoxicated and deciding to perform their routine in the middle of the highway for three hours straight. It was this and only this that saved the life of the President and consequently condemned the once great Senator of the still great state of Vermont to hard labour on the worst chain gang in the United States of America since their reintroduction by the current administration. I rest my case.

The Senator would soon find out the answer to the question that had been going through his mind ever since the judge gave his closing remarks: whether it was the convicts or the guards that made it the worst chain gang in America. At least he would have time. A lot of time.

*Authors note. This story is a satire of all of the people the reader thinks it represents. It aligns with the values the reader has created, and justifies whatever they decide it does. The author hopes the reader finds in it a reflection of himself for better or worse.