Disclaimer: This is a political satire. If you believe that the President of the United States can do no wrong, spare yourself an ulcer and do not read it.
August 2002
Laura shook her head at the mess on the bathroom floor. Coarse, black hair everywhere, on the monogrammed towels, scattered on the tile floor, coating the porcelain sink. Well, it couldn't be helped. King Jr. was a hairy man. His mother, Barbara had warned her as much on the eve of their wedding.
"Be sure to keep a bottle of liquid plumber on hand," the bright eyed matron had advised her daughter-in-law to be. She fiddled with her signature pearls. "You might want to pour a bottle down the drain two or three times a week, just in case."
Sighing, Laura donned a pair of rubber gloves and set to work cleaning up the mess. You would think that the first lady would be above such menial labor. However, the president's hairiness was a secret, known only to close family members. King Jr. used to clean up after himself, but that was before he received the Call. Now his days were full with fund raisers and photo ops, and Laura has to attend to all the household chores.
Sighing, she opened a fresh bottle of drain cleaner. The White House was supposed to be a fine place to live. Almost a palace. But sometimes, it seemed to the former school marm turned First Lady that she lived in a zoo.
The bedroom door burst open. One of the President's handlers breezed into the room. It bothered Laura how they just waltzed on in, without bothering to knock. It made her feel as if she was on display. She had taken to wearing her makeup to bed, just in case some Pentagon official decided that Jr. had to sign an order form for a new jet fighter in the middle of the night.
"Mr. President," the trim, statuesque young political consultant cooed. "It's time for your photo shoot. You're signing the Revised Alien and Sedition Act, today." She opened the closet and peered at the row of ties. "Maroon, I think."
King Jr. grunted approvingly at her short skirt and tight sweater.
"Give me that!" Laura snapped as she snatched the red silk tie from the political consultant's hand. "I attend to the President's neck wear."
As usual, Junior put up a fuss, but Laura eventually cornered him and managed to tie a decent knot, before her husband slipped out of her grasp. He began swinging from the curtain.
"Junior!" she snapped, in her best If-you-don't-behave-I'm-sending-you-to-the-principle's-office voice.
The president dropped to the ground and hung his head, looking contrite. Moved by the expression of chagrin on his now baby smooth face, Laura threw her arms around him and hugged him to her breast.
"You'd better watch him," she told the young political consultant . "He's frisky, today."
King Jr. smirked over his wife's shoulder.
New Years Day, 1945
King George was getting married, today. He would rather have been shooting enemy fighters, but with the war over, that was no longer an option, so getting married seemed like the next best thing to do. His father, Monkhouse George had promised him a Very Special wedding present, which King took to mean that the Old Man was finally going to write him that check he had been promising him. King rubbed his hands in anticipation. He had big plans for that money.
"Kaiser!" the Old Man bellowed.
King winced. He hated it when his daddy called him by his real name. "It's King, now," he reminded his sire. "K-I-N-G. I changed it when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor."
The Old Man glared at him. "Show some backbone, boy! Do you think I've enjoyed being called 'Monkhouse'? They used to call me Outhouse when I was in grade school back in Ohio."
King grimaced. Was the Old Man about to launch into one of his endless stories about the Good Old Days, when Negroes were only admitted to the White House through the servants' entrance, and women kept their ankles covered. Did not the Old Man realize that times had changed?
Monkhouse's eyes narrowed. He had an uncanny ability to read his son's thoughts. "I've got something for you, boy."
A grin split King's face. He attempted, without much success, to conceal his glee. "Oh, dad, you shouldn't have. I told you that just having you here on the most important day of my life was gift enough."
"You sound like a carnival grifter, " his father commented sourly. "I told you, build on your strengths. You're a mean spirited, mercenary lying little bastard. Use what God gave you and don't try to be something you're not."
King seethed. It was all he could do to keep from throttling the Old Man.
Monkhouse nodded his head approvingly. "That's more like it. Chin up, shoulders back, vote Republican and never do business with Jews."
"Dad!" King gasped. He glanced around nervously to make sure that no one had overheard. "You can't talk like that anymore. At least, not out in public. Do you have any idea how close you came to winding up in jail?"
"Jail!" the Old Man thundered. "Jail! How dare they threaten me with jail! Why I---"
"You were going to give me a present," King reminded him.
It had always been easy to distract Monkhouse. The Old Man reached into his pocket. "Here." He thrust a small glass vial into his son's outstretched hand.
"What's this!" King asked, as he examined the amber colored liquid contained within the bottle. Was it oil? Gasoline? Maybe a new, improved synthetic fuel? King had made no secret of the fact that he intended to follow in the footsteps of his maternal grandfather, Big Tex Kaiser, who had made a fortune from oil. He opened the bottle and sniffed. The liquid has a vaguely fruity aroma, a little bit like bananas but not so sweet.
"Careful with that!" Monkhouse exclaimed. "That's the future of the Aryan race you're about to spill."
King grimaced. There the Old Man went again. Did not he realize that words like Aryan and Jew were no longer fit for polite conversation? "What is it?" he asked to distract his father.
"It's a miracle," the Old Man said. "A miracle that will erase the results of ten thousand years of adulteration of the Aryan gene pool. One of our scientists in Germany developed it. He was just about to start testing it, when the Russians rolled in. Luckily, one of our couriers managed to smuggle it out."
King listened, rapt. In addition to his love of money, he was also fascinated by anything that had to do with spying. Indeed, if fate had not decreed that he would become a businessman, he would have liked to have been a secret agent. "How did he smuggle it out?"
"You don't want to know," the Old Man told him.
Meaning he carried it in one of his bodily orifices. Most men would have been disgusted. King made a mental note to remember this technique in case he ever needed to foil a search. "Tell me again what it is supposed to do?"
"It eliminates inferior genes. You know. African ones." He shook his head sadly. "Too late for you and me, unfortunately, but your sons and daughters will benefit from it." He patted his son on the back. "There is a new dawn on the horizon. A white dawn. And the George family will lead the way."
"Exactly how does this stuff work?"
"You drink it."
King choked. "What did you just say?"
"I said 'You drink it.' It works on your seed. Swallow what's in that bottle and I can guarantee that you and Barbara will have a one hundred percent Aryan son or daughter."
"You've got to be kidding!" King replaced the stopper and handed the glass vial back to his father. "I'm not drinking any witches brew cooked up by a mad Nazi scientist."
The Old Man's jaw jutted forward. "You will!"
"Won't!"
Monkhouse's eyes began to gleam. "Yes, you will. Because you want this." With his free hand, he took an envelop from his pocket.
King snatched at the envelope. "Give me that!"
The Old Man held the envelope over his head, beyond the reach of his son, who was much shorter than he. "Drink the formula, and I'll give it to you. All of it. Every cent I've got."
King only deliberated for a moment. He wanted that money. "It's a deal," he replied.
"I want to see you drink it," the Old Man said.
"Fine." King would drink toilet water if it would get him the million dollars he needed to become a Very Powerful man. He snatched the glass vial from his father's hand and downed the sickly sweet liquid. "There, I did it. Now give me my money!"
July 4, 1946
It was a surprisingly easy labor, considering that Barbara was a first time mother and the baby was almost a month overdo. King hoped that this was not a sign that his first born was going to be a runt. It had always galled him that his father was so much taller than he. He wanted to be a Big Man, and Big Men had Big Sons.
The nurse stuck her head out of the delivery room door. "Almost here!" she called to the young father.
"Can you tell if it's a boy or a girl?" King asked. If the baby was a small girl, that wouldn't be so bad. Nature intended for women to be petite, except around the hips.
"Not yet. They come out head first."
"Nurse!" the doctor bellowed from within the delivery room.
The red haired young woman pulled a face. "Gotta go!" She disappeared back into the delivery room.
King had always had an eye for the women, and he was able to distract himself from his worries by imagining the nurse and himself playing doctor. However, an ear splitting scream interrupted his fantasy. His wife had finally given birth.
There was absolute silence from the delivery room. King began to gnaw his fingernails. This was not good. Babies were supposed to cry. Was something wrong with his first born?
Guiltily, he recalled the secret formula his father had forced him to consume. Once he the check for a million in his hand, he had rushed to the restroom, where he had purged himself. Was it possible that all that vomiting had not completely eliminated the poisonous substance from his system?
The door to the delivery room opened. The red haired nurse emerged, carrying a squirming bundle wrapped in a white baby blanket. King breathed a small sigh of relief.
"It's a boy!" the red haired nurse said brightly.
"Let me see." King pulled back the blanket. "He's so hairy!"
"Lanugo," the nurse explained. "All babies are born with it."
"Why's his face so wrinkled?"
"All babies are born wrinkled. You'd be, too, if you had just spent the last nine months swimming in a bath of amniotic fluid."
The baby kicked free of its blankets. It was an active little thing, King admitted grudgingly. Ugly as sin, but full of life. "Why are his feet so big?"
The nurse shrugged. "Big feet mean a big...you know."
King grinned. He liked the idea of having a son with a big "you know." He took the squirming baby from the nurse's arms. "I'll call you King," he told the baby. "King George the Second."
July 4, 1972
King Sr. tried to keep his thoughts on the minister's words of praise for the deceased, but he had a lot on his mind. Just last month, some of his Boys at the Agency had gotten into a jam. Their little brush with the law was unlikely to affect the fall's election, but King sensed that trouble was brewing. America was no longer the simple place it once was. You could no longer call a man "Red" and expect him to shut up. Too damn many reporters snooping around. Too damn much television air time to fill.
If only the war in Southeast Antarctica wasn't so hard to sell. There was no sense of urgency on the part of Americans. No fear. That's what the country needed, a good shock to the system. Something to shake people up, make them grateful for the largess of their masters. Now, a war with the Bahamas, that would have been something to get the home fires burning. People would stand up and take notice of something happening just a hop, skip and a jump from Miami---
The eulogy was over. People were starting to migrate towards the graveyard. King took his place beside his father's casket and helped carry it to the grave where it was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt. After all these years, he was finally going to bury the Old Man. A tear trickled from the corner of his right eye, surprising him. He and Monkhouse had never seen eye to eye, but in their hearts, they were both Georges, and that was what counted.
King Sr. cast a fond eye over his five children. For the most part, they had turned out fine. King Jr. had been a disappointment, being smaller than his siblings and not quite as bright. On the other hand, he looked impressive in his Park Ranger uniform, so shiny and well pressed that it might have been brand new. King Sr. was glad to know that King Jr. was keeping the nation's forests safe from the scourge of godless communism. His supervisors were full of praise for the young man, who climbed trees as if he was born in one.
King Sr. frowned as he remembered how hard it used to be to get his namesake down from the big elm outside their home. Sometimes, the little devil would swing by his feet. Barbara said it was a sign that the boy was ambidextrous, but then, she was always making excuses for her first born. When he started shaving at the ripe old age of four, she attributed it to "hormones." When he was slow to speak, she said "He is waiting until he has something worth saying."
Twenty six years after his birth, King Jr. was still waiting.
"Did you talk to Murcheson about that oil lease?" King Sr. asked his first born.
King Jr. grunted something unintelligible.
"He said 'I'm going to call him on Monday' ." This from the George family's second son, Jethro. Like his mother, Barbara and his three younger sibling, Jethro knew how to interpret the mutterings of his older brother. It was a trick King Sr. still had not learned.
"You'd better get on it." Rather than waiting for his eldest son's reply, King Sr. turned to Jethro. "How were your grades last semester?"
The boy seemed surprised by the question. "Straight A's. What else?"
King Jr. made a mournful sound.
Jethro patted his older brother on the back. "We can't all be grinds," he said brightly. "Some of us have to develop our personalities."
This cheered his big brother up immensely. King Jr. started doing tricks, leaping from headstone to headstone, playing hide and seek with his youngest sister.
King Sr. sighed and looked away.
"I've been wondering...." Jethro began.
His father gave him a sharp look. Jethro's only fault was his curiosity. It lead him into trouble sometimes.
"....about Grandaddy. I looked him up in Who's Who. It talked about his business in the 20's and his political career in the 50's, but there was nothing about what he did in the decades in between." When King Sr. did not reply, Jethro said, lightly "He must have been ahead of his time, a liberated man who put his career on hold so he could raise his kids."
They exchanged knowing smiles. Both men knew what Monkhouse would have said had anyone accused him of being a "liberated man"
December 2000
"Honey!" Laura called. "It's the phone. You've got a call."
King Jr. reluctantly stopped wrestling the dog for the slipper and took the receiver. "Whoisit?" he grunted. Thanks to Laura, he had managed to overcome his speech impediment.
"It's Diego."
"Diego?" he repeated aloud. He looked to Laura for help. She held up a copy of a magazine and pointed to a picture of nine men and women dressed in black robes. "Oh, Judge Diego. How'sitgoin', Diggy Boy?"
There was a moment of silence before the man at the other end of the line replied "I've got the votes."
"The votes? I thought they had the votes locked up in truck somewhere 'round Tuscaloosa. How'd you get 'em."
"Not those votes." The Justice struggled to contain his impatience. "You've been elected. Congratulations. I trust you'll remember who helped you. There are a few laws that need to be rewritten, and there is only so much that a jurist can do."
"I'll get right on it," King Jr. promised.Carefully , he set the receiver down. He turned to his wife. His eyes were round as two saucers. "I've been selected."
"Elected, not selected," Laura corrected automatically . "Oh, honey, that's wonderful. I guess." She rubbed her cheek against his and grimaced as his stubble irritated her peaches and cream skin. "Did you forget to shave, again? Now, Junior, you know you have to shave every eight hours, or you'll get as hairy as an ape."
"Yes'm," he mumbled. "Will you call Daddy and tell 'em the news? He won't believe me."
"Sure thing, sweety. "
While Junior was in the bathroom, shaving, Laura called her father-in-law. "Daddy George, is that you? It's me, Laura. Junior just got the Call. Yes, that's right. No, I don't think he's chosen anyone, yet. Yes, I'll be sure to tell him. What's that? Yes, I'm sure we can work something out..."
In his home down in Texas, King George the First was feeling strangely conflicted. On the one hand, his family dynasty was now secure. No one would ever belittle the George family again. However, he could not help wishing that it was one of his other children who had received the Call. Junior was sweet and all, but he wasn't the brightest bulb.
He recalled his own wedding day and the offer his father had made. Did he do the right thing when he drank that nasty tasting formula in exchange for a million dollars? Now that he was retired, he had done a little reading. Before modern man came out of Africa, Europe was home to the Neanderthals, a race which was strong, aggressive, hairy---all the things a real man was supposed to be. He had seen the fossil skulls with their big European noses, heavy brows and receding chins. He had read about how scientists now believed that Neanderthals did not became extinct, but instead, they bred with the immigrants from Africa, giving rise to modern Europeans.
After reading all that, King George Sr. had begun to wonder, were the mad scientists who had created the purifying formula onto something. Had they managed to get rid of all those pesky African genes and restore the Aryan race to its original purity? The thought would not have bothered him so much if not for the fact that there were human remains found in Neanderthal camp sites. Human leftovers, thigh bones sucked dry of marrow, skulls from the brains and tongues were extracted shortly after death. Though King Sr. believed that it was a dog eat dog world in which only the fittest survived, and though he preached that one should never trust strangers and he justified his family's fortune with the old motto "Might makes right", he drew the line at cannibalism. And the word "Neanderthal" had such bad connotations.
After lengthy consideration, King Sr. came to a decision. "Barbara," he called. "We're selling the library. I've been doing too much reading lately."
January 2005
As a second inauguration present, King George the First gave his son the medal of honor which he had earned during his tour of duty in the Good War. Junior, who loved medals, pinned it to his jacket and refused to remove it, even when Laura told him that it was time to get ready to go.
"I don't think you should wear it," she said. "Some people may take it the wrong way."
Junior stuck out his lower lip. However, after much cajoling, the First Lady managed to get the medal away from him, and he soon forgot it. They had a new kitten, and he chased it around the sofa, up the stairs and down the hall.
"King!" his wife called.
Junior appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked at the banister which had been polished until it gleamed and an idea popped into his head.
Laura watched in horror as her husband hopped up onto the bannister. "King! Don't!"
Too late. He was already sliding towards the ground floor, where he landed right on his butt on the marble floor. He sat there, looking angry. "Why did the ground hit me?" he demanded.
Laura knelt beside him. "The ground didn't hit you, honey. You hit the ground." Junior looked confused, so she explained "It's the Law of Gravity."
Junior's face brightened. "The Law of Gravity? Remind me to have that one eliminorated."
"Eliminated." Laura kissed him. "Oh, Junior, that's what I love about you. You have such a great sense of humor."
King George the Second enjoyed making his wife smile, so he did not tell her that he was entirely serious. He had broken so many laws, one more wouldn't make any difference.
Bio:McCamy is a long time contributor to Aphelion as well as Assistant Short Story Editor. You can find out all about her and herwork by following the link below to her new and improved (Post) Millennium Fiction website.
E-mail:mccamytaylor@earthlink.net
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