The Pecsident

Dalton leaned forward at the hips in the expensive red office chair, using his fingertips to push the tiny folds of his skin down from his hips and into the waistband of his bright blue pants. This helped the channels between his abs, sharpened by several days without water, reveal themselves in even deeper relief against the glare of the television lights.

A bit of bronzer rubbed off on the ridge of the waist; almost unconsciously, he removed it with two clean knuckles. This prevented any from getting on his Stars and Stripes tie as he adjusted its length and drew in a deep breath, arcing his back so that both nipples stayed safely behind the lapels of the blue blazer.

“Mr. President,” came a voice from beyond the shield of white light, near where he could almost make out a blinking red dot. “You’re on in four, three, two...”

He put one hand on a bare hip, just behind the blazer, and leaned in with a raking gaze.

“Ah-Mehrrrrica!” shouted the disembodied voice-over. “You’ve voted, and the Elec-Score-al College is pleased to give you our 51st President, Mr. Tom Thunder!”

“Hey,” Dalton nearly growled, and the pumped-in screaming-middle-aged women sounds were loud enough to nearly make him cringe. Instead, he sat straight up and smirked at the camera; if he were flexing any harder, he might cut the fabric of his gaudy tie. “I’m honored to be your choice as Pec-sident—” he bounced his mountainous pectorals around inside his blazer, like two buoyant beach balls— “and head of the Sexecutive Branch!” One massive pec had a pig tattooed on it, which appeared to leap for joy until he bade it stop.

He stood, combing his blond hair from his eyes and flexing his quads, which were visible through his bright blue pants, if you were looking. And right now, most of America was. This was the easy part—his body contracted and stretched on its own, an intersection of hundreds of now-subconscious ways to show off his physique.

“We’re gonna have a blast, America, in the next day and a half. And that can’t happen if you’re all busting your fiiiiine rear ends. So my first sexecutive order is to give every page and intern working on Capitol Hill the rest of the day off!”

The feed switched to a “live” shot of a mass of pages, the oldest of whom appeared to be about 22, in a random marble-and-mahagony hallway in DC. As Dalton’s voiceover completed, they screamed in joy. Several tore off the shirts, while others procured beach balls and beer cozies, seemingly from nowhere.

“Put these men and girls to work in the halls of Beer Bongress, right?” Dalton flashed the full smile at the blast of canned cheers and shouts from the speakers, and upped his flexing another step, to where he thought he saw the glare off the top of his abs in the bottom of his field of vision.

“America, I got a long list of legislatory goals,” he growled again, grabbing his crotch in case the point was lost. “I’m going to start pounding the pavement—” he hip thrusted and hit the expensive chair with the First Pelvis, “but I’ll be back to respond to your comments and questions before you can sing ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. Pecsident!’”

He held the pose for a beat, and the lights went down. The mass of muscle that was his midsection slumped in exhaustion. A young woman in hip, huge purple glasses with hip, curly NPR hair appeared with a bottle of water.

“Thank you,” he said with a genuine smile—so different than the fake high-wattage smirk of "Tom Thunder”.

“Of course, Mr. Pryzowski,” she said. “Anything else I can get you? This is one of your longer breaks—about 35 minutes in all, with a few promos to record in the interim, too.”

He paused before unscrewing the water bottle. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Nevaeh,” she said, almost turning it into a question.

He finished a swallow, and looked at her with his eyebrows slightly up. “Nevaeh, I’d like a meeting with Senator Murtry before the day’s over. Maybe 10 or so hours from now.”

Nevaeh looked at her clipboard, and then at him, her cheeks blown out in a slow exhale. She tapped her clipboard with a fat purple pen.

Finally, she let out a “Why, exactly?”

“To do my job,” he said locking eyes with her.

“Ohhh....kay,” she finally said. Thankfully, she didn't ask if he was joking.

"Fantastic," he said, resisting the urge to clap his hands together. "Nevaeh, can you actually get me that meeting with Murtry?" Now, he resisted the urge to sit up straight, to smile, to let his body get him what he wanted. That wasn't how he was going to do it, though.

"With the head of Ways and Means commitee? With the senior Senator from Louisiana?" She said "Louisiana" with a fantastic upper-Midwestern accent. "With the third most powerful person in DC?"

"Yes."

"On a day you just sent all the pages home to party?"

"Yes."

"Hey," she said. "You're the President."

"Pecsident," he said. An excitement spread through his gleaming chest.

"Anything else, Mr. Pecsident?"

"Yes, Nevaeh. I could really go for a few cups of black coffee, a pack of Marlboros, and—" Thirty-six hours, he thought to himself. And about 32 minutes until the next video shoot. "And a tin of Copenhagen."

"Wow. Okay."

She turned and walked off, leaving him in that familiar feeling of isolation that comes from having a crew hustling around you while you—well, for him, it'd been a few jobs dancing. Stripping, really. Then playing strippers in awful movies. And then a gig as a fake candidate for President in an online voting contest that promised to pay $200 plus a day of meals on set. Sure.

Now, he could change the world.

Neveah returned, already with a coffee and a tin.

"Oh, you're good," he said. "Thanks."

"Of course. Cigs are on their way. You're on again in 25."

He took out his cell phone and handed it to her. "Can you start putting in the numbers of representatives from the House who could talk sometime in the next 35 and a half hours?"

She raised an eyebrow above a purple frame. "Like, put them into your phone so you can—what, schmooze?"

He gave her genuine smile—the giant arc of white. "I'm looking for opportunists. Like myself."

Nine hours later, Dalton leaned back in front of the bright lights again, and howled, revealing a topography formed by lots of heavy lifting and few carbohydrates. The pumped-in applause was mixed with catcalls.

"Hey," he purred at the camera. "Keep sending in those comments and questions, I can't get enough of you, my con-spit-uents." He let a globule of saliva drop slowly down to his exposed left nipple, then pursed his lips at the camera. The fake audience howled.

"Last question, from Tammy in Bethesda. She wants to know about my legislative a-men-da for my term as your Pecsident." He bounced his chest, and the pig leapt with joy.

"Well, Tammy, my love," he began, putting one leg up on the chair, "my list of legislative goals is long." He pulled the expensive chair towards him with his heel, putting the back rest squarely against the front of his pants. "Squeezing these bills through the legislative body might cause some screaming in the Lower House, Tammy." He now thrust his groin against the chair with each crass entendre. "And Lord knows my filla is about to buster, but I'll ram this legislation down Congress' throat to see the climax of my sexecutive vision!" The last hip-pound sent the chair flying, and the shocked-yet-titillated screams from the fake audience filled the room.

He brushed his sweaty hair off his forehead, and reached just off-camera to grab his phone and the tin of tobacco. His hands shook with exhaustion, and before he could put both objects to good use, Nevaeh was holding out a cup of coffee.

"Mr. Thunder—"

"Just Dalton, Nevaeh," he said, packing the chaw in his upper lip where the cameras would never catch the residue even as he reached for the coffee. He then held up a finger in a wait gesture as he snapped out a text.

"Nevaeh, I got Rep. Holden to agree. If I can get Senator Murtry, the rest of the Southern Caucus will line up." He was still panting from the last performance.

"Sir—"

"Yes?" He looked up from his phone.

"The Senator's on his way." Now it was her turn to flash a smile. "Si—I mean, Dalton. I've only been in this town a few years, but I have to be honest. I've never seen anyone work like you over the last day. I mean, to do your little on-camera thing and still—still make these meetings happen?"

He grinned and nodded. "I get one shot, Nevaeh. I've got to make some kind of move. Now, I have a few requests for our meeting with the Senator."

One more hypersexualized piece of television trash later, Senator Latraim Murtry of Louisiana strode through the studio with three aides and a security detail. Dalton sat alone in the middle of the filming area. The low lights were on, and Dalton rose to greet Murtry. Murtry's hand, like everything else about him but his cutthroat intellect, was soft and pudgy. His smile was wide and permanent.

"Well, well, Mr. Pecsident. What an honor!" Murtry's accent made well into weah and honor into annah. But the timbre of his fake laugh hinted at simple amusement and a chance at a look-at-how-I-don't-take-myself-too-seriously photo op.

"The honor's mine, Senator. Have a seat. I don't have much time, so before we get to the TV ops, I was wondering if I could have a bit of time to talk. Just one-on-one."

Dalton looked up at the bland aides, who were, of course, looking at Murtry. Who, of course, would never deign to look back at them.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Pecsident. My people tell me you've been quite busy today makin' phone calls. But I don't have time for some sideshow prez-for-a-day, so let's take a photo and leave, shall we?"

Dalton had one shot at this, so he leaned forward, abs unflexed in supplication to the Great and Powerful Senatah. Tears didn't quite well up in his eyes, but he squinted in helpless resignation.

"Senator," he said, "you're the only one who can help me. This contest I won gives me full presidential power for a day and a half. But I just want to ask you a few things. One-on-one." He raised his eyebrows pleadingly. "I need your help."

The senator's flab shook with a guffaw, and he smiled a can-you-believe-this-crap smile at one of his aides. But he didn't answer. Dalton's heart stopped.

"Oh, why the hell not," said Murtry. He waved, and the aides disappeared.

Dalton said a silent thank you to whomever was listening above, but he didn't crack. Instead, once the aides had left, he offered Murtry a cigarette.

"Any cameras on, Mr. Pecs-i-dent?" Again, the mocking.

"No sir," said Dalton. "Just you and I. Crew gets a break after this ten-hour stretch." He held the cigarette between his fingers, and when Murtry took it from him, their skin brushed slightly.

Dalton lit Murtry's cigarette for him, and the two men leaned back. "Don't tell my wife," said Murtry, the cunning smile still on his face.

"Don't tell mine," said Dalton.

"Okay, fake President. What on this side of Galilee do you want my help with? And—" he took another drag— "why in'a hell you send my pages home?"

Now, it was Dalton's turn to pause. He blew a cloud of blue-and-gray smoke around his head.

"These pages," Dalton said. "These boys."

"Yes, what about them?" asked Murtry. The smile was waning, replaced by a suspicious stare. But there was something else in that stare, too. Something behind the hazel eyes.

"It must be hard getting by without their...accompaniment." He slid his left foot forward, tightening his pants around his thigh and waist. "I know I feel that same helplessness now that my camera crew's not here."

Murtry swallowed, and his cigarette burned between his fingers, unheeded. He said nothing.

"So I thought I'd invite you down to meet me in person. Maybe what you'd seen on TV looked a bit better...close up."

Murtry's mouth was now partially open. Dalton could barely supress a grin. Had this man no self-control? Was it this easy?

"You're sure these cameras are off, sonny boy?" Murtry's jowels quavered.

Yes, it was this easy.

Fourteen hours later, Dalton lay in repose on a fake Oval Office desk. He loosened his tie and sighed at the camera.

Just to his right, a prominent adult film star wore a journalist's fedora and chunky black glasses with no lenses, as well as a skin-tight pantsuit. She held a microphone about an inch from her own mouth. Of course, they were mic'ed almost everywhere in here. But it was still a good prop.

"Mr. Pecsident," she began, "your term is about over." A chorus of boos filled the room.

"Yeah, News Chick," he said. "What a long and hard term, right? I'll need to ice my...um, ankles after this one." Canned laughter erupted as the two of them mugged for the camera.

"Maybe I'll ice them for you, Mr. Thunder," she returned. "But sir, let's talk about your accomplishments in the last 36 hours." She read from her phone. "It says here that you actually managed to sponsor some serious legislation that your successor has promised to sign into law."

His smile faltered a bit. He wasn't expecting this from Naughty Nicole, aka Nicole Fitzgerald, the woman playing the journalist. She went forward.

"The legislation allows migrant farm workers to begin a path to citizenship, and in a huge surprise to many, has the support of Senator Latraim Murphy, a known anti-immigration legislator." She read the words off her phone, probably from a news site—but he wasn't prepared for this. He looked over at Nevaeh. His smile was completely gone now.

Off-camera, she just shrugged, but in her hand were two phones. One, he knew, was his own. The other was Nevaeh's, and it had been used to film one short clip of otherwise private news today.

The porno journalist was still reading off her phone. "I'm sorry, what?" he said, the facade slipping completely. He wanted a chew.

"CNN is commenting on the impact this will have on undocumented workers on hog farms across the country. They've mentioned that in the little background they've found on you, it appears that you spent your late teens and twenties working with these migrant families in commerical porcine farms across Oklahoma and Arkansas. Is there a personal connection there?"

He pulled his lapel over his chest defensively. He breathed through his lips, stopping any tears from coming to his eyes. Instead, he thrust his pelvis across the table, shooting a BUCK STOPS HERE replica off the desk. He then grabbed a miniature flag from its stand on the corner of the desk, and shoved the pole down the front of his pants.

"'Merica," he growled into the camera, "my only personal connection is with each and every one of you!"