Most of his interviews took place in the Oval Office these days. There were people – leftist journalists and other losers, a lot of them online – who complained that there were too many “meaningless” interviews conducted there lately. Flanery didn’t pay much attention to liberal journalists, and paid even less attention to people on the Internet – apart from those who insulted him or challenged him or displeased him in some way – but his staff had convinced him to do this one interview live on air and in the studio. They had this wonderful plan to prep him for the questions ahead of time so that he could appear relaxed and confident. Flanery had sat still for a half-hour of prep before getting bored and telling everyone he was going to wing it. He was a smart person, after all. He could handle a few questions from a friendly interviewer.

While he waited in the green room, a hot blonde delivered him his sandwich. “You’re exactly how I like my women,” Flanery told her. “Beautiful, slinky and carrying food.”

She seemed to freeze for a moment, eyes as big as a deer’s, then she smiled at him and walked away.

“Is it my imagination,” he said, watching her go, “or is she giving those hips an extra wiggle?”

Bradley Anderson chortled. “That’s for you, Mr President!” he said, almost choking on his own spittle. “I don’t know how you do it!”

Flanery shrugged. “You either have it or you don’t. I have it. Always have. They can’t resist me, I can’t resist them. Being president just makes it easier. Women are drawn to power, Bradley. Like moths.”

Bradley nodded. “Like moths to a flame.”

Flanery took a bite. The sandwich was disappointingly dry. The hot blonde was suddenly losing her hotness. After his first bite, he’d rate her a six. “You either have it or you don’t,” he repeated. “And you, and I don’t want to be cruel to you here, Bradley, you don’t have it.”

Bradley howled with laughter. “That’s for sure! That’s for damn sure, Mr President! Not like you! I see them flocking around you!”

Flanery shrugged again. Bradley may have been a sub-par anchor on a sub-par show, but, when he was right, he was right. “What’s her name?” Flanery asked, chewing on another mouthful.

Bradley looked confused for a moment, then he brightened. “Oh!” he said. “The, uh, the—”

“The blonde, Bradley. What’s her name?”

“Gabriela, I think.”

“What is that? Latino?”

“I, uh, I think it’s Latina if it’s a woman.”

“Whatever,” said Flanery. “I don’t mind a bit of exotic. I’m not racist. The Mexicans are a wonderful people. I know lots of Mexicans. They love me. I’m very good to the Mexican people. Make sure you mention that later when the cameras are on.”