Fauntleroy and Flossy – Red Menace
Fauntleroy stood looking out the window at the White House lawn. He turned and walked to his newly placed Louis the XIV desk and pressed an intercom button. “Send in Agent M.”
The door immediately opened. “Come here. Look out the window. Is that a Secret Service Agent mowing the White House lawn.”
The embarrassed agent said, “Yes, Mr. President. We are looking for a Norwegian Lawn service now, sir.”
Fauntleroy frowned, “Was that a new man on the gate this morning?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Lester found work elsewhere sir. He had been with the White House for eight years, sir.”
The phone with the camouflage case in the President’s sock rang. “Putt-baby, how are you? It must be late.” Fauntleroy listened for several minutes. Then he said, “Look, why go through all that trouble; transporting tanks and troops around is so old school. Here, let me tell you how to go about doing it. If you want to run that country, first, you buy all the key television stations, the big networks, you know. Then get yourself a candidate, one you control, for their top office. Then spend, spend, spend. Pretty soon you get the keys to the country. It’s beautiful thing Putt-baby.”
The blue phone in his left pocket rang. Fauntleroy looked at it with annoyance. “Yeah,” speak, he barked. “Yeah, I was just talking about you. You want that, well you should have won. I won. I am a winner. Why are you having so much trouble understanding that? You lost. ” Fauntleroy danced in a circle. “You lost, you lost, now I’m the boss, the boss.”
Fauntleroy turned to the door. Connie, one of his many, tall blond, advisors walked in, walked to the wall where three photos of former Miss Teen America contestants hung and took them off the wall. “Sir, photographers from the press are often invited to this room. You will have to enjoy these photos elsewhere.” She reached into a pocket and produced some snapshots. “Look at these; they are the approved photos, of paintings for this office. She spread out the photos; one was an American bison on the Plains, one a Rough Rider and one Yosemite Falls. These are ‘outside things’ they are what the American people expect when they see the Oval Office. If you want a Civil War theme, I suggested, this,” she pointed at a picture of the battle between the Monitor and Merrimack.” She stood waiting for a response.
“Tell those Sailors guarding the door, not to let the press anywhere near this office.”
“Sir, they are Marines, not Sailors. You have to be careful with that kind of error.”
“Tell me again why I have to salute them. They should be saluting me. Ask Model T to pick a picture.”
A phone rang. “Sir, your sock is ringing.” She turned and marched out.
“Wait, why hasn’t the phone on the desk rang all morning?
“Sir, there is a problem with the staff for the switchboard. Sir, we are working on it.”
He reached for his sock. He listened a moment, then said, “I’ll call you back.” Fauntleroy walked over to the desk and ran his fingertips across it.
The phone rang, “Sir, we have Kim Jung-un on the phone. Should I put him through?”
“No, I don’t feel like Chinese food. Too close to our Thanksgiving meal. Find me Model T.” he sat the phone down. He glanced at a stack of daily briefs that were sitting there. He flipped through them. In bold letters throughout his saw the Director of National Intelligence, Central Intelligence Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, National Security Agency, F.B.I., U.S. Intelligence Community. His face winced. The words popped off the pages, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Georgia. Georgia, I won Georgia, why are they mad? He thought.
He pressed an intercom button. “Get me, my driver; I am going over to The Tower.”
“Yes, sir,” echoed back over the line.
At The Tower, the family had gathered. Small gold nameplates around the table read, Model T and Flossy and Symmetry they were sitting at his left. Red B, and Mini T, Errdick sat on Fauntleroy’s right.
Fauntleroy looked out over his family. His dynasty. “I like to win. That has always been our family motto. Boys remember that we are winners. We always win. We have won the big prize of the planet.” He looked out over the table. In a moment of mirth, he had instructed the entire staff at The Towers to bring gravy boats, which covered the table completely. When done, Fauntleroy, said, “It is all gravy now.”
After removing the gravy boats, a thirty pound Golden Turkey was placed at the center of the table. Each server brought a dish fit for a king. When the meal was on the table, Mini T pulled the platter with the turkey towards him. He began to carve, and the family raised their glasses of wine. The son carving up the bounty was a family tradition.
A slender, long legged Norwegian woman entered the room from a side door, walked over to Fauntleroy and placed a delicate gold crown on his head. Flossy leaned over and took Fauntleroy’s hand and kissed a ring he wore for the occasion.
The family began to eat. Just as Fauntleroy took a mouth full of turkey the phone in his sock began to ring. He let it ring.
All characters and other entities appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, brain dead or alive, or for that matter dead, or other real-life entities, past or present, is precisely coincidental. The events, character assassinations and firms depicted are fictitious. When the right to protect a reputation conflicts with a more important right, the allegedly defamed person may be denied a recovery for the harm suffered. No gravy was injured during the writing of this fictitious story, by this fictitious writer, in this fictitious country. If you are allergic to Fauntleroy and Flossy or any of the ingredients found in Fauntleroy and Flossy, stop reading and consult your primary physician, psychic-healer, chakra life coach, trataka trainer, or tea reader immediately.
The First Amendment also allows journalists to write about others without their consent.
Word for today. Yakisoba (fried buckwheat)
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Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.