Potus, introductions part VI

Meanwhile, back in the Presidential bedroom, Potus approached the maid turning down the covers for the evening.  "Excuse me, Miss..."  Potus stopped abruptly when he recognised Shaniqua.  He backed up instinctively.
She smiled broadly.  "Well look what we have here.  Mr. Powerful Overlord Tough Undeserving Shithead."  Potus winced, then frowned, counting on his fingers.  Shaniqua continued, "You thought you could get rid of me with that racist shit?  Well that won't work in this free country you're in charge of.  You're just a sorry weak-ass white boy with your broke-ass databases."
Potus recovered somewhat so he could speak.  "Let me first say, Ms. uh, Shaniqua, that I apologise for any misunderstanding between our, you know, cultures..."  He raised his hands and hurried to continue speaking over her obvious objections.  "I can assure you I had nothing to do with your, uh, your staffing rearrangements due to the, uh, well..."
Shaniqua interrupted.  "Oh yes you did.  I know all about the 'undesirables' and how uncomfortable you are with people of my culTURE."  Her voice raised on the last syllable and she wagged her finger at Potus who took another step backward.  "But I told my boss that if he fires me or even cuts one hour from my paycheck, I'm going to sue him and your ass and the whole United States government until you don't even exist.  I'll send your white ass back to Wichita."
Potus tried comedy.  "Wichita is nice, but I like Lansing.  You should try London, it's nice."
Shaniqua advanced.  "If I breathe one word of this, there will be riots in the streets.  Don't think I won't."
Potus stood his ground recovering again.  "This is America, anyone can protest and riot.  It's boring.  Listen, the poor classes have a sense of injustice which drives their lack of respect for the laws and rights that protect them in the first place.  The laws are designed to protect a bunch of obnoxious idiots who whine about their rights and make us miserable with their unbearable attitudes."
Shaniqua interrupted, "Who said anything about 'poor classes'?  Some day you may find yourself in the position of being an obnoxious idiot like the rest of us."
"That's true," allowed Potus.
Shaniqua continued.  "I'm talking about every single person in this country shouting 'No More Years.  No More Years.'"  She raised her hands holding an imaginary placard and walked in a semi-circle as if protesting on a street corner.
Potus guffawed.  "That's not clever!"
"It's a little bit clever," Shaniqua said.
"Maybe you should tweet that."
"Oh, I'll tweet the shit out of it asshole," Shaniqua said, putting her hands on her hips and thrusting them forward.
Potus laughed.  "Ok, ok.  Let's shake on it.  We're at an uneasy truce.  We'll be cool about it."
Shaniqua stared without moving.  "Cool?" she asked.
"Isn't that what your people, I mean, the, uh, you know, community, I mean, culturally," he stammered.
Shaniqua was livid.  "My PEOPLE?" she yelled.
Potus tried to make amends.  "Whatever the politically correct term is...  I don't know how you say it, just substitute the correct words for whatever I'm supposed to say.  I can't learn your fucking language when you change all the words around every time you get upset about something."
Shaniqua seethed.  Potus extended his hand.  "Truce," he begged.
She stared for a long time, then shook his hand.  "For now," she said cautiously.
Potus smiled broadly and clapped her on the shoulder.  "You see," he said, "the races are united once again with my statesmanship!  I'm like the white Doctor Martin Luther King Junior!"
Shaniqua slapped his hand away.  "Watch it," she warned.
"Hey, ok, ok.  How about that presidential 'man of power' thing you said earlier?"  Potus winked and cocked his head inquisitively.
Shaniqua stared, shocked.
Potus raised his hands and said, "Ok, ok.  Too soon after the truce.  I get it, I get it.  Maybe next time.  Maybe next time.  No?"
Potus retreated back to where the others were waiting.

Potus, Introductions Part V

The head waiter appeared from a hidden door.  "Soup is being served," he announced.

As the soup was being laid before the officials, Potus asked the Chief of Staff, “Do you usually eat alone then, or mostly with someone else?”

CoS, still not following properly answered, “I sometimes eat alone.  But I find that the meal is not as fulfilling and enjoyable.  One always prefers to eat with others.”

Madame Secretary of State looked fondly at CoS and covered his hand with her own.  CoS looked uncomfortable and tried to pull his hand away but could not.  Secretary of State held her placid features in a frozen smile that eventually turned into a grimace of effort.  They arm wrestled silently until CoS was finally able to twist his arm and get out of the death grip.  Secretary of State wiped the corner of her mouth primly with her napkin.

Potus made a “not now” waving motion to the Secretary of State.  He pursued the topic between noisy slurps of soup.  “How many would you say is the proper amount of people to have present for your meal?  I mean, in terms of overall enjoyment by all parties?”

CoS slurped his soup, then adjusted his glasses.  “I would say that three to five is about optimal for a nice meal.  As long as there aren’t too many people of a certain attitude who can ruin the whole mood of the event.”

Potus made a face.  “Oh, you’re one of those people.”

“Which kind of people?”

“The kind that judges people and puts them in categories.”  Potus slurped his soup for added emphasis.

“I didn’t do that,” CoS said.  He slurped just as noisily as Potus had.

“Yes you did,” Potus grumped.

“No I didn’t.  You just did by categorising me.”

“Nuh uh,” said Potus, slurping.

“Yeah huh.”

“No uh way.”

“Yes uh way,” cried CoS.

The First Lady intervened.  “Boys, let’s stop arguing.  Let’s agree that a meal is more pleasant with others and eating alone is unrewarding, but not necessarily worse than any other option.”

Potus made an exasperated sound.  “It’s just that I object to the people who put restraints on the free trade of ideas.  They limit options by saying, ‘Oh, someone is messing up my environment, man.  My _jaw de fever_ or whatever the fuck is totally ruined, man.’”

Potus was cut short when the First Lady twacked him on the side of the neck with the back of her soup spoon.  He grabbed his neck and made a surprised noise.

“Ow.  Why did you do that?” he whined.

“Watch your mouth,” fumed the First Lady.  “You’re the great communicator of the free world and you’re overstepping your bounds with your intolerant rant belittling the common person.”

Potus winced, grabbing the side of his neck.  He put a pinkie in his ear and wiggled it.

“You got cream of celery in my ear,” he complained.

Potus, Introductions part IV

Lunch.  Chief of Staff, Secretary of State, Secretary of Defense, First Lady, Vice President, UN Ambassador.
Potus greeted the chef in a rather surly manner. "I don't suppose you can make cheese sandwiches, not 'oh fromage' or whatever."
The chef looked a little worried. "What kind of cheese would you prefer?"
Potus made a shape with his hand like a square. "You know. In the box, with the tin foil?"  He waved his hands ineffectively.
The chef wrinkled his nose and asked, "Velveeta?"
Prius snapped his fingers jubilantly. "That's the one."
"And I suppose you won't take the salmon au gratin?" the chef asked politely.
"Thank you, I will.  Can you under-cook it a bit? I like it rare."
The chef nosed curtly. "I'll try my best. I'll see what I can do. Now if you'll excuse me..."
Potus stared. The chef waited politely, bowing his head slightly.
Potus continued to stare. The First Lady slapped his shoulder exciting a hurt "What?" from Potus.
The First Lady acknowledged the chef as politely as she could.  "Thank you chef, that will be all."
Potus rubbed his shoulder, grumbling.  He shifted focus by saying, "OK everyone, have some bread."
Everyone agreed and nodded pleasantly.  Potus grabbed the bread tray and passed it to his wife first.  She broke one piece of a roll and passed to the UN Ambassador, who took a piece of roll and passed it to her left, to the Secretary of Defense.
SoD was about to break it and pass it to the Vice President when Potus remarked, "Ha, I notice that the Secretary of Defense took the bread after the First Lady and the UN ambassador had already shared it.  Is that normal for you, SoD?"
"How so?" asked the Secretary.  He had passed it to the Vice President, who broke a piece and passed the tray across to the Secretary of State.
"Meaning, would you share your bread with two women after they had both shared it already?"
"Oh, Potus, stop," said the First Lady, giggling.
The Secretary of Defense looked confused.  The UN ambassador was confused as well.  The UN Ambassador said primly, "It is customary for the ladies to be served first as a courtesy, don't you think?"
"Well sure," allowed Potus.  "But supposing that he had gone first, would you share the bread after him?"  He winked at the First Lady.
The First Lady giggled into her napkin.  "I think my husband is enquiring whether you would always insist on the bread first, or let some other men go first."  Potus nodded gleefully.  Confused looks went around the table.
The Secretary of State spoke up firmly, passing the bread tray to the Chief of Staff.  "I'm of a certain age where I'd like to share my bread with a younger man, myself, not after several others had theirs first."  She batted her long fake lashes at the Chief of Staff.
Chief of Staff coughed politely into his fist and put the tray down without taking any bread.  "None for me," he said a bit shyly.
"Oh come on," Potus chided.  "See, I think he'd rather share with the Secretary of Defense."
The SoD, catching on, added, "Well, it's up to the individual how they'll share, and with whom.  There are no judgments either way.  And certainly there is no undue pressure."
"Aha," said Potus.  "That's it.  But should one prefer to share with the women, if any present first, and in what order, as Mrs. Ambassador has stated?"
The UN Ambassador offered, "The order is not st in stone, but it is a recommendation.  Our society had become more relaxed in terms of formality and rules, don't you think?"
"As it pertains to food and eating?" asked the First Lady.
"I think so.  It's not the food, but the conversation, the atmosphere, the _joie de vivre_, if you will," she answered nervously.
"Precisely," said Potus hitting the table lightly, rattling his plate.  "It's not the delivery of the bread, or the putting in the mouth, but the sharing, the communal partaking."
The Secretary of Defense chimed in, "Sometimes, it is the anticipation of the bread, and the sharing, that is more pleasant than the actual eating."
"Speak for yourself," said the Chief of Staff somewhat shortly.  He tried to soften the curt reply with, "I like a little anticipation, but when I'm hungry, I want the food quickly."
"You don't savour it?" asked the Secretary of Defense slyly.
"I am polite, if that's what you mean," the Chief of Staff offered meekly.
"Especially with a lady present, or do you eat alone, mostly?" asked the First Lady.  "Ladies prefer a leisurely meal at our own pace, even when we're hungry."
"That's true," offered a too eager Potus.  "If you're hungry and rush it, you're likely to spill your food and it can ruin your clothes, or you could spill it on your eating partner."
The Chief of Staff allowed that was a possibility by nodding, slightly confused.
The head waiter appeared from a hidden door.  "Soup is being served," he announced.

Potus, Introductions part IV

With obvious relief, Potus asked the room, “So, what’s next?”

“Lunch,” said Johnson, then lifted his arm and spoke into his wrist.  “eight forty four, platypus in the cave.”

Potus frowned.  “What kind of lunch?” he asked plaintively.

“I’m not sure,” Johnson replied stoically.  “Three seventy seven, requesting five nine niner.”

The First Lady grabbed Potus’ arm excitedly.  “Oh, this is fun.  We’ll meet the chef and we can tell him what kind of food you like.”

Potus was in a grumpy mood.  “Oh, sure, he’ll probably be making all kinds of fancy food.  Le pâté du la froo fraa fraa.”  He dodged the swinging should slap the First Lady threw at him.  Two agents moved forward apprehensively.  Johnson held them back.

The First Lady chided him, “You can’t say that.  These are very nice people and they keep the Office of the President of the United States well fed.”

Potus was still grumpy.  “That’s not the Office.  The Office is not a man.  An Office can’t eat.  The man who fills the Office eats and he wants a cheese sandwich.  American cheese, too.  Not that yellow stuff in huge blocks.  Who has time to cut the cheese?  The people demand convenience.”

“Roger.  Salmon,” Johnson said abruptly.

“How’s that?” Potus asked.

“They’re serving salmon, Sir.  Au gratin.”

“You’re welcome.  I like salmon, but usually it’s overcooked.  It’s not baked is it?”

Johnson whispered into his sleeve.  He put his finger to his ear and listened intently.  “No, Sir, it’ll be half-baked.”

Potus rubbed his hands with glee, his mood lifting.  “What are we waiting for, let’s go to lunch!”

Meanwhile upstairs in the Presidential bedroom, Potus was removing his tie.

The First Lady approached from behind and hugged him from behind.  She purred, “So, Mr. Newly Elected President in the White House, how would you like to have a little intern fun?”

They occasionally liked to role-play as strangers, and Potus played along.  “How about instead of an intern, you could be a defenceless maid who is changing the sheets?”

The First Lady walked over to the bed and draped herself on it, resting a limp wrist to her forehead.  “Oh, woe is me, Mr. President.  I have been cleaning this whole house all day I am just positively tired from the effort.”

“Perhaps you need to unwind,” said Potus, a glint in his eye as he turned and undid his pants belt.

“You’ve been awfully bad, Mr. President,” said the First Lady slipping back into her more dominant role.  “You might need a firm spanking for making a mess for me to clean up.”  She grabbed the belt from Potus.

Outside the door to the Presidential bedroom, Johnson and one other agent were about to go off shift.  They could hear some muffled laughter.  Johnson spoke into his cuff and turned to say goodbye to his fellow agent.  Just then both agents heard a distinct shout from inside.

“What was that?” asked the younger agent.

“I don’t know.  Let’s listen,” suggested Johnson.

“Are you sure we can do that?” asked the agent.

“I think if there is imminent…”

Johnson was cut short by the sounds of slapping and a few hoots.

“What the…” Johnson said.

The younger agent drew his weapon.

Johnson raised his hand to stand down the agent and leaned against the door to the suite, listening.

He heard some fragments, “You bad…  traitor…  break it…”

He looked back at the other agent.  The other agent was turning pale.

Suddenly, they both were jolted into action by a loud distinct gurgling scream of pain from inside.

Johnson kicked the door in and drew his weapon.  The younger agent rushed in first.

Potus was on all his knees on the ground, wearing nothing but a few straps of leather around his legs, chest and wrists.  He was wearing some kind of strange bar or shower curtain attached to cuffs on his wrists, which kept his arms apart like some kind of cross.  The First Lady had one foot in 12” heels planted firmly on his naked backside, wearing nothing but a body netting with a cigarette dangling from her lips  and a leather cat-o-nine tails dangling from her right hand.

Potus was screaming in pain.  “Donuts!  Donuts!  Donuts!”

Johnson pointed the gun at the First Lady and shouted, “Drop it!”

The First Lady dropped the whip, straightened up and raised her hands.

Johnson yelled, “Potus, are you OK, Sir?”

Potus said, “Calm down.  Calm down. It’s my ass muscles.  I have a cramp.  Donuts!  God damn it.  Donuts!”

Johnson looked confused at the First Lady, still reaching for the sky.  “What’s he saying?”

The First Lady was exasperated.  “It’s our safe word.  I need to unlock him so he can massage his cramp.  I usually do it for him.”

Johnson and the agent lowered their weapons.  The First Lady asked, “Can I lower my arms?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Johnson said, holstering his weapon and motioning for the other agent to do so as well.

She lowered her arms and got a ring of keys off the bed.  She unlocked Potus’ cuffs and he dropped his arms in relief.  “My ass, my ass,” he complained grabbing his bare right buttock.  The First Lady kneeled and started massaging it with both hands.

“It’s your fault,” she said glumly.  “You always strain too hard and I told you to eat more potassium.  Bananas and avocados!  But you don’t listen to me.  Now we’ll have to change our safe word because they know it.”

Johnson and the agent avert their eyes and back out of the suite, making excuses for having to leave to attend to important Secret Service business