“Kyle,” the President says, “Here is my own personal map to the White House, all the ins and outs, the secret passages, the bottomless pits where damned souls howl in agony for all eternity, stuff like that. And a flashlight. Great flashlight. Kim Jong-Un gave me that flashlight. Just tremendous light.”

You take the stained map from the President and look it over. It is mostly drawn in crayon and dried ketchup. You fold the map carefully and tuck it into your shirt pocket. The flashlight goes in your jeans pocket.

“And you should also take this,” the President says, handing you a gold Desert Eagle .50 caliber. You hold it awkwardly. “It was a gift. He said it was the classiest gun ever. Super-classy. I’ve never fired it. The bullets are gold too. In case there are werewolves in the tunnels.”

“Silver for werewolves, sir,” you say confidently.

“See? Getting you out of prison is already paying off. I don’t have any silver bullets, though. You’ll just have to make do with stabbing them in the heart with a wooden stake.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” you say, not bothering to correct him.

“I don’t have any wooden stakes, either.”

“That’s fine, sir.”

“And you should take this,” he says and holds out the MAGA hat from his desk.

“Sir, that’s your personal hat.”

“He knows his way around the tunnels. He’s been down there loads of time.”

“That hat belongs in a museum, sir. I’d be too worried I would lose it.”

“You’ll go with him if I tell you to go with him,” the President says to his hat.

You check that the safety is on, and then slip the giant handgun down the back of your pants. It is incredibly uncomfortable. You think about powder burns on your asshole. You shift the gun to hang down between your underwear and jeans. You wonder if your underwear would catch on fire if anything happened.

“I’ll let Hope take you home for the night,” the President says to his hat in a wheedling whine.

“I had better get going, sir,” you say.

“OK, fine,” he says to the hat. He takes off his toupee and shoves it into the hat and then jams the hat and the hair down on your head.

“He just wouldn’t go without his friend,” the now bald President says to you.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“There’s a trapdoor in the Presidential Shitter,” he says, pointing to the wreckage of the door. “Under the bathroom rug, the one with my face on it. Yuge fan sent it to me. People love me, Kyle. They just love me, coming up and kissing me. Some with tongue. I’ve had that China virus a dozen times. I always get better. It’s weird to get out of the Presidential hot tub and drip all over my own face. Totally weird. Try not to think about it, Kyle. It keeps me up at night. Those tunnels go all over the city. But a couple of them come up in a different part of the residence. Find the ballots, Kyle. Save me.”

The President buries you in a bear hug and you hear him kiss the hat he put on you.

“Secret passages!” the President says. “Exciting! Find the ballots! Anyone tries to stop you, then BLAM BLAM BLAM!”

“Yes, sir,” you say.

“And don’t worry about the mutated Kennedy abominations. I had those wiped out a while back. Can’t have cannibal incest rape mutants down in the tunnels, no matter who was their great-grandpappy. Pappy. That’s a funny word.”

“Cannibal incest rape mutants, sir?”

“You want a Diet Coke for the road? There’s no Diet Coke down there, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Maybe it would be for the best, sir.”

The President slaps the button on his desk and a Diet Coke rises. He takes it and hands it to you.

“Trapdoor. You can’t miss it,” he says. “I have to get on the Twitter. Our people need me, Kyle. Need me!”

You find the trapdoor and open it with the pull ring. A foul odor rises: sweat, bleach, old smoke, vegetal rot. You shine the flashlight down the rungs set in the wall of the vertical access tube. Gray, just grey, gray walls, gray floor below. You secure the gun and flashlight, leave the Diet Coke on the back of the giant gold toilet and climb down.

At the bottom of the ladder, dim lights in the ceiling come on and you can see a map etched into metal bolted to the wall. To the right is the Presidential Emergency bunker, to the left are junctions that branch out, many of them unlabeled, but some point to exits into the White House living area.

 

DO YOU investigate the Presidential Emergency Shelter for the ballots? TURN TO PAGE 75

DO YOU go left to the tunnels that are marked as leading to the White House Residence area? TURN TO PAGE 80