Beezzer Freemley stepped slowly from the limo parked under the port cochere at the rear entrance of the White House. He waited for his great grandson
to join him. For seventy years, countless elections, dramas, and assassinations he came. As did his father and his father before him. Since the
first president first governed this land, there was a Freemley waiting to speak with him after the election.
Beezzer’s son, Carl, did not follow in the family’s’ footsteps. He ran a deli in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and enjoyed his simple life along with
his son, Larry. But Beezzers great grandson, Skip Freemley was a chip off the old block. And thus, the family tradition continued.
After every election, a Freemley would visit the president elect, stay a few moments in private, and speak a few words then leave. The Freemleys’
paid no taxes. They enjoyed a carefree lifestyle of money and ease. The Fed would print money if the Freemleys needed pocket change. Wars would be
fought if a nation displeased the Freemleys. Domestic policy would shift on the whim of a Freemleys morals.
Today was to be no different. Only that Beezzer Freemley would be accompanied by his successor this time. And he wanted everyone to know it.
The old man and the boy bypassed all security. The secret Service men and women gave deference to them as they walked along history’s hallways.
Entering the Oval Office, the elder Freemley spoke, “I won’t take up too much of your time, Mr. Obama, but I just wanted to say a few words.”
Words were spoken.
The Freemleys left the same way they came. With a swagger and an authoritative step. When both were seated in the back of the limo and it was well
on its way back to the Freemley Estate (called The Bunny Ranch for some strange reason) the younger Freemley spoke.
“Okay, Gramps. Spill it. What’s the big secret to all of this? What do we have over all the presidents since the beginning of this
The elder Freemley smiled, poured himself a scotch and lit a Cuban cigar. He didn’t speak for a while. Just sat and enjoyed a little of life’s
simple vices. Finally he spoke.
“Since the first presidency, we have walked into the office winner’s office and told them how we have secured their election and have only asked
for a few perks from time to time.”
The younger man squirmed in his seat and nodded quickly, “I know all this Gramps. What I want to know is, how!”
The old man put out his cigar and poured a small dram into the glass. He smiled. “We don’t do a damned thing.”
“We don’t do a damned thing. Son, the people elect the president, not us. The people vote, the people are in power, and the Electoral College
comes into play and a president is chosen. We just wait for the results, and walk in like we own the place and tell them we did it.”
His great grandson sat with his jaw dropped.
“Yup, young man, politicians are
edit on 1-10-2012 by beezzer because: (no reason given)