Hilary Clinton sits on Barack Obama’s lap in the Fox news camper van. The van is dimly lit and smells like bacon. Strapped into the bed at the back of the van is Bill Cosby, convulsing. Bill’s breaths sounds like boots on wet gravel. Electrodes are pinned to his forehead.
Beside the bed is a jug of blood.
‘So, it’s the big day, huh?’ Fox’s political correspondent, Shirley Zuul says.
‘I…um,’ Obama says, peering at the jug of blood.
Zuul clicks her fingers until Obama meets her gaze. ‘Hey, Obs. You a fan?’ She aims a finger at Cosby, who stirs slightly.
‘Shirley,’ Obama says, biting his thumbnail, ‘That man seems very nice, and he smells delicious. But I think I should go-I’m not sure what’s going on in here.’
Shirley mimes jacking off. Hilary snorts on her fizzy lemonade.
‘How long d’you think you can last in a country like this, Barack?’
Barack thinks carefully, as if all the puzzles and mysteries of the silent black universe confront him. Suddenly, he stands, swivels on a dime, yanks open the van door and rushes into the crowd that has been waiting for him since dawn.
Supporters have seized the streets below the inauguration podium. Mel Gibson faces Barack Obama, ready to swear him in on an Amway catologue. Obama blinks.
Mel reaches out and wipes a finger across Obama’s cheek. He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, and then pushes out his bottom lip.
‘It doesn’t come off,’ Gibson says. ‘You know,’ he continues, ‘I thought you’d be less ...’
‘Lithe?…I get that a lot,’ says Barack.
‘No, less African American. Is there any chance you’ll get whiter with age? That would suit me.’
‘I like to think I can accomplish anything,’ Obama says decisively.
‘Well,’ Mel says, ‘that’s it. You’re in. You’re president.’
Obama frowns. The thousands gathered erupt. Gunfire cracks. Housewives climax. Klansmen wash their sheets on high. Fundamentalists check their flight schedules…
‘Is that it?’ Obama asks.
‘Yep,’ says Mel, ‘now listen to me you fuck. If you nationalize ANYTHING I will roll deep and get all up in yo’ ass.’
‘I have no idea what you’ve just said, but I’m sure it was nice, so thank you,’
Obama says, raising his hands to the sky as if he’s just hit a 3 pointer.
Obama glides to the front of the podium, high fiving, pounding, spinning, whooping and winking.
‘People of America!’ he begins, promisingly.
A silent bullet hits his forehead. Splits his skull. Crack. Blood gurgles. He collapses. Two long seconds later he jumps to his feet and waves stiffly. The shocked crowd screams like never before, as if he’s passed his first test.
‘People!’ he stutters… ‘Pe, peee, peopppple, of The, ug,ug, America!! Obey me…obey..ME. And you will not get hurt!!’
Barack’s eyes are too alive, he has jowls and graying temples, electricity crackles around his body as if he’s being molested by Arnold Swarchenegger. An observant observer prods his friend.
‘That looks like Bill fucking Cosby, man,’ he says.
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