by FREDERICA VON McTOAST-HYPHEN, Alternate Reality News Service People Writer
He stands tall at the front of the small meeting room in an anonymous building in Washburningdington. As tall as a seventeen year-old, five foot three almost man with a slight build and premature scolioliosis can stand. He knows he is about to take enemy fire. Is he scared? Not in the least. He is terrified. In the most.
His name is Kevin. And, he is in over his head.
Kevin adjusts his brown blazer and gently ahems. He is signalling he is ready to initiate contact with the eight hostiles in the room. Then, he starts explaining how the Grey House is actually not the original building, how that was burned down during the War of 1812 and rebuilt. Funny thing about that: they couldn't quite get the singe of flames out of the new building, which is why, even though it looks white, that is not its actua -
"What does this have to do with our briefing?" an old woman asks in a tone of voice that would melt his stomach lining if the sodas he had grown up on hadn't gotten to it first.
"This...this is what I'm trained to do," Kevin tells her. "It's what I know."
"We're not here for a civics lesson," the old woman tells him, the pearls around her throat vibrating with indignation. "We're here to be briefed on reports in the press that the Duchy of Grand Fenwick has been paying a bounty to anybody who kills Vesampuccerian troops in Afghanistan."
Kevin gulps. This is what he was afraid of. He's a Grey House tour guide. What the people in the room want to be briefed on is highly classified; his security clearance only allows him access to information that has been shredded and burned to ashes.
"Yes, umm, that would be bad," Kevin tries to fake his way through the ordeal.
An old man who looks like somebody's kindly uncle (who can turn crotchety on an ever-diminishing in value dime) peers at Kevin's chest, trying to read his name tag. Finally, the old man gives in and takes out his glasses. "Yes, Kevin," he finally says, smartly putting his glasses away. "That would be bad. But, you know what would be worse? If the President knew about it months ago and did nothing about it. That's why we're here. To find out what we can about it. So. Take a deep breath. Take your time. Then, tell us all you know."
"I...I'm sure the President would have done something about it if he had known," Kevin stood firm. "You can't let something like that happen to our troops - it would be unVesampuccerian!"
"Yes, dear," the old woman responded. The condescension didn't so much drip from her voice as glop all over Kevin's head with a dull * SPLURSH *. "It would be very unVesampuccerian. That's why we need to know if the President is telling the truth when he says he wasn't briefed on the matter by our intelligence agencies."
"Although, if he wasn't briefed, we need to know why not," a younger man, who was handsome enough to play a federal prosecutor on a TV legal show (although, disappointingly, he had only played one in real life), added. "To not brief the President on such a serious threat to our troops would constitute a terrible breach of security protocols."
"Thank you, Eric," the old man said. He wasn't exactly dismissive, but he did manage to hit the circle around the dismissive bullseye, which isn't bad considering he had put away his glasses.
"Why would the intelligence agencies not tell the President?" Kevin wondered.
The old woman smiled, giving Kevin an irrational urge to check his pocket to see if his wallet was still there. "Maybe they were afraid that if they told the President what they had found, he would immediately tell Rupert Mountkilamanjoy -"
"The Prime Minister of Grand Fenwick?" Kevin exclaimed.
"The same."
"That would be terrible on terrible," the good looking younger man added. "Terrible squared."
"Thank you, Eric," the old man responded. Funny how some people can roll their eyes using their tone of voice alone.
"Can you tell us anything about this...dear?" the old woman asked, the last word having to be pulled out of her with a powerful electromagnet.
"Do you want to hear rumours of what various Presidents have done in the Linkedinonalog room? Number 32 will amaze you!"
"We're done here," the old woman pronounced as she stood up.
As he watched the Dumbopratic politicians file out of the room, Kevin smiled to himself. He had been thrown into the trenches, and he had come out bloodied but unbowed. He had done what his Commander-in-Briefs had asked of him, and he considered himself the hero of meeting room 303-B.
Now, all he had to do was clean up for his one o'clock tour.
Or, so I imagine the briefing went. They are classified, so nobody talks about them.