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Nine Eleven.

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posted on Oct, 3 2012 @ 10:09 AM
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Nine Eleven
by Ghostx

Bush sits back in his large chair, puffing on his Cuban cigar. Smoke fills his office, and his legs rest on his large, ancient desk. Aids come and go, security remain, and his mind wanders. He takes a sip of his favorite whisky, then continues his emotionless stare at a picture of his family.

Downstairs his wife is sitting, crying as she watches the re-runs of the attacks on just a few days past. She observes the planes crashing, the explosions, and the look on her husband when he heard the news in a classroom of a small school.
"Are you okay?" asks the aid, casually.
"I'm fine. I just wish my husband did not have to deal with something like this. It's just...not what we..." says the first lady, attempting and failing to hide her internal desperation.
The aid answers, "You. George. You or nobody else planned this. This is terrorism Laura. Terrorism."
Laura Bush, the first lady, stops, thinks and realizes that the attacks were not her fault.

"Good morning. It has been six days since the violent attacks on our nation. It is a day we shall never forget, and an event that will always represent the evil that wishes to destroy this country. On nine eleven...", and other statements like it can be heard all over the news broadcasts.
Laura continues watching this downstairs, but George is set in a complicated wave of emotions, as he finishes his cigar and pours himself another drink.
His aids tell him to stop drinking, but bring him a different glass when he runs out of his favorite whisky. He pours himself a mix of orange juice and vodka, realizing that it's time to calm down. He chugs his less alcoholically potent mixture.

Laura leaves her comfortable couch, and heads towards the Oval Office with her uncomfortable feelings.
"What are you going to do?" asks the aid.
"What any wife should do. Comfort him," Laura replies, wiping away her tears with her sleeve.
The aid nods, not knowing what to say at this moment. She, the black woman, is normally there for Laura. Yet, she feels as if she cannot say a statement that can make this right, while still focusing on the fact that something must be done to fight against these terrorists.
They finally get to the room.

"Mr. President. Mr. President," the stern Secret Service agent starts.
"What. What do you want?" George drunkenly gets out of his mouth.
"Mr. President. Your wife is outside."
"You should have just let her in." George's normal familiarity with this certain agent, Grant, was gone in his display of manners. That was no injustice though.
The door is opened, and Laura comes in slowly, followed by her aid and a parade of Secret Service who attempt to make it as noninvasive as the situation allows.
"Laura," starts George.
"You're drunk. It is not even lunch yet."
"This country has suffered Laura. I am incapable of fixing this." What he said was true, but Laura's expression clearly said otherwise.
George continues, "These terrorists. These rats. These goddamn animals! These towel head, bearded cave dwellers!", raising his voice.
"Must be dealt with."
The Secret Service's presence returns to their normal standard of not listening to George's drunken statements. There would be no problem today anyways.
"Muslims."
All the Muslim, and foreign looking Secret Service had been reassigned the day after the attacks.
George pours another drink, but is stopped before he can down it. "Enough George. Enough."
"Okay," he unwillingly agrees.
"This is not my fault. It is not your fault. It is not the fault of the airlines, or anyone in this country George! This is an act of terrorism."
"Of course it is! But who am I? Who am I to fix this country?" George asks his loyal wife, and himself.
"You are George W. Bush. You are the leader of this country. You do not have to fix this nation. You will put every ounce of your effort into fighting against this act and every other act like it! And if you do, you may die trying. But if you don't, you'll die crying, sitting and drunk."
"I am George W. Bush."
He kisses his wife. She finds the circumstances unique enough to allow for a kiss back even though she hates his drunken smell and stupor. She leaves.
"Get out of here. Stand in front of the door for all I care. But get out!" George yells towards any Secret Service agent who pays attention to him. All of them.
With reluctance, protest, and protocol refreshers via the radio, they finally find it okay to leave the room. They will not lose their jobs over this.

George picks up the phone, and dials a number, but soon puts down the phone. He slides his hand into his inner jacket and takes out a cell phone. He dials the same number, and presses 'Call'.
"Tutis," answers the person on the other end of the phone.
"Tutis roger," says George, with struggle.
"Are things okay?" they ask.
"All is...Good. Laura," starts George.
"Does she know?"
"No."
"The country will not know George. They can't know. But you must know that you have done the greatest thing a president of the United States has ever done."
"Yes."
Click. George looks at the picture of his family on his desk. He smokes a new cigar, toasts to the new world, and sips another concoction of alcohol and juice.




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