January 18, 2013. The Wynn Resort and Casino. Las Vegas, Nevada. Headquarters for the Transition Office of President-Elect Tim Woodson.
Tim Woodson, the Republican Governor from Nevada, had done the unthinkable—he had beaten Barak Obama in the race for President. And to think that in July, Obama had a 12-point lead.
It was now shortly before Inauguration Day. Woodson was meeting with his advisors to continue his meetings to pick the next Cabinet. Attending the meeting was Woodson’s new Chief of Staff Chance Bixby, a short, slight man with a big smile, thinning brown hair combed in a preppy cut, who wore an expensive blue Polo suit, red and blue striped tie, and shiny brown loafers. His campaign manager, Bobbie MacDougall, was here, but was not planning on adding much. Her job here was largely done, and she was spending most of her days here in Las Vegas fielding calls from lobbying firms across the country. After her big win with Woodson, she had her pick of the litter and could not wait to start making serious money.
Due to the terrorist attack in September, Woodson felt that responding to that threat was going to be Number One on his agenda, so appointing the Director of Homeland Security, the Director of the FBI, the National Security Advisor, and the Director of the CIA were going to be his first picks as the new President. Bobbie would handle press inquiries for now until the President-Elect had decided on a Press Secretary. Also present were some of top lieutenants from the campaign, including Bill Dominic, who handled foreign affairs questions, T.J. Donovan, who handled domestic and economic issues, and Roger Tippins, Woodson’s attorney, who handled legal issues. Also present were the Vice President-Elect, her Chief of Staff Matt Suba, and one of their advisors, Tommy Mitchell.
They were staying at the lush Wynn Resort and Casino in Las Vegas, the only hotel in the world to receive the Mobil Five Star Rating, the AAA Five Diamond Award, and the Michelin Five Red Pavilion Award. The huge suite in the Tower Suites had tangerine walls, cream sofas and chairs, over a dozen flat screen TVs, shiny marble floors, several cream-colored Jacuzzis, gigantic glass-walled showers, and dozens of vases of fresh flowers. The suite looked out onto Wynn’s breathtaking and manicured golf courses, complete with waterfalls, pine trees, and stone-rimmed lakes. Three dozen villas bordered the golf course, each with its own outdoor pool and massage tables. Well wishers and patrons seeking favor had flooded the President-Elect’s suite room with gift baskets of caviar and brie, fresh mangos, and bottles of expensive wine. Woodson had his own Secret Service security detail now, and over a dozen agents covered the inside and outside of the suite to make sure no one else crashed the party.
One of the expansive suites had a large granite conference table, and the interested parties had gathered with their briefing books and notes to discuss the selection of the next Administration. Woodson folded his tan arms onto the table, and addressed the team.
“We have already selected the DHS, the NSA, and the head of the CIA. Now we need to pick the Director of the FBI. Frankly, anybody we pick will be better than the clown we have in there now. You have my three possibilities, but I want to know if you guys have come up with anybody better.”
“Mr. President… Wow, it feels really great to say that,” Bixby cooed.
“It feels great for me too,” joked Woodson, as the yes-men in the room all giggled.
“Of course, all three of your selections are excellent, Mr. President. The only other one we came up with was Tony Delano from Missouri. As you recall, he narrowly lost his Senate run against Claire McCaskill, so he needs something to do. He is an up-and-comer in the Party, very smart, some say he is a real egghead. He is a former Missouri Highway Patrol Officer and he served as a JAG in the Gulf, so he has law enforcement experience. He is a total straight arrow, goes to Catholic Church every week with his doting, ugly Italian wife and a couple brainy kids. He has no skeletons. All in all, I think he would be a safe pick. Here’s his photo.” Bixby slid the 8x10 over the table to the President. “Other than Delano, we have your three picks, Mr. President. That’s all I have.”
None of the other members of the group had any other suggestions. Then Anna Scall’s Chief of Staff, Matt Suba, spoke up. Suba had been golfing earlier in the day, and so was wearing a yellow short-sleeved golf shirt. His biceps were bulging from the sides of the shirt. He always tried to wear tight short-sleeved shirts whenever he could. He had a brown buzz-cut, tight abs and one of those chiseled faces that women loved. He obviously was not afraid to speak out, even across the table from the President-Elect of the United States.
“Mr. President-Elect, there is one other gentleman we might consider for Director,” said Suba. “His name is Rick Thomas. He is currently the Sheriff of McCormick County, South Carolina. Now I know what you are going to say, too small town. But this is the officer who cracked the case of that young lady who killed her whole family with rat poison. I know Rick very well, and he is a straight law-and-order guy. He also has no skeletons. I cannot think of anyone better to be the Director of the FBI.”
T.J. Donovan, one of the young, slick-haired, East Coast political science junkies who was on Woodson’s staff, almost laughed at the suggestion.
“Look, Matt, no offense, we love South Carolina and everything, but this is the most important post in perhaps the entire country. This is the guy who is going to find the terrorists from Cincinnati. We just had perhaps the worst terrorist attack on our nation. And you want to entrust the nation’s safety to some hillbilly sheriff from the backwoods? That’s crazy. Once they see his beer gut and hear his twang, he will get eaten alive on MSNBC. We will never get him through.”
“Well, T.J….” Suba spit the word “T.J.” with as much contempt as he could muster. “I know you don’t like Southern accents, but America seemed to have no problem electing a South Carolina beauty queen with a Southern accent as their next Vice President. And while you were making a fool of yourself on Hardball with Chris Matthews, our Governor from the South was administering CPR and saving a little boy’s life. And contrary to what you may have learned in your vast three years of experience in Washington, T.J., not all of us in the South look like Boss Hog, drink moonshine from a jug, and sport beer guts. So why not open your mind at least give the guy a chance?”
“Look,” said Donovan, clearly miffed at the experience comment, “I have been around Washington D.C. a lot longer…”
“Gentleman, gentleman,” Bixby smiled patronizingly. “This is getting us nowhere. Look, whoever gets this appointment needs to be a sure thing, someone no one will argue about. If we cannot even get agreement around our own table on a candidate, he is obviously not the one for us. We already have four great candidates, so let’s just stick with those four for now, but Matt, we appreciate your input and keep the ideas coming. OK, let’s go pro’s and con’s for each one of these guys. Roger, what are your thoughts?”
Suba smiled and said nothing, but inside he was thinking about the best way to smash Donovan’s face in. Suba took out his cell phone and text messaged Anna Scall next to him.
“If you become President someday, and I smash that little punk’s face in, will you give me a pardon?”
The Cabinet Selection meeting went on for another two hours. When it was finished, Anna Scall went back to her hotel room and took a shower. The soaps and shampoos at this hotel were amazing. They all smelled like fresh fruit. After she got out of the shower, she popped a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne (another expense for the Transition Committee) and drank down a few glasses of the golden liquid. That felt good. She went over to the luxurious marble bathroom, and bent over to one side, drying her long brown hair with the dryer. She stood up straight and teased her hair with a brush so that it was big and full, and then applied her false eyelashes. She applied a full coating of deep black mascara and coral lipstick to her full lips. She looked at herself front ways and sideways in the mirror. She still had it. Her abs looked awesome. She turned her fist out and backwards, so that she could see her tricep in the mirror. God, she looked good. She went to the drawers of her bedroom and pulled out a yellow, French brassiere and matching lace thong. She put on her four inch black heels and pranced around the room for a minute or two, drinking another glass of the Champagne. She went to her closet and pulled out a rather drab chocolate brown dress. She wished she could wear some sexier dresses, but the voters would never approve of a Governor of South Carolina (or a Vice President! She still could not believe how far she had come!) who was too overtly sexual. There would be another late meeting tonight, but she had a few hours to kill.
Just then, there was a knock on her door. She walked from the bedroom into the living room of the suite, across the orange and cream carpet and onto the cream marble floor near the door to the suite. She asked who it was. It was Matt, her Chief of Staff. He was still in the golf shirt from this afternoon. He must not have changed after the meeting. He was carrying a large gray briefing book.
“Madame Vice President-Elect,” he said, crossing the room and putting the briefing book down on the glass table in the living room. “I have some things here to go over before the meeting tonight.” Anna Scall crossed over into the living room.
“And take off that ridiculous dress!”
Anna Scall complied, taking off her dress and sauntering over to Matt Suba. He admired her yellow undergarments and said, “That’s better.” He kissed her deeply for a minute and then with his strong hands, spun her around so she was facing away from him, and forcefully pushed her back down so she was bent over the end table. Looking into the huge suite wall mirror, he took off his pants and shirt and entered her from behind. She looked back at him in the mirror, lusting over his huge chest and standing ready to obey any command which he had to give.