Posted on 05/04/2009 6:32:15 PM PDT by bloodmeridian
Three well-dressed men crowd into a darkened room. At first they are somewhat disoriented, the drapes blocking all incoming light from the windows. Slowly their eyes adjust to the glow of a small halogen lamp at the back of the room, casting shadows backwards against the drapes. The men make out the silhouettes of what appear to be flags mounted on floor-standing poles to the either side of a great wooden desk. Between the poles, behind the desk, a man sits, smoking a cigar. They cannot see his eyes, but they can feel his stare… and the accompanying waves of malevolence rolling their way.
They know where they are. They are in the Oval Office.
“Sit,” the man behind the desk says, his voice gravely and stern, the accent vintage Chicago, the tone resonant of someone widely used to having his way.
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