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Jim Boner chose some Navy blue cargo pants, thinking the conservative Naval color would appeal to the P.O.T.U.S. (President of the United States, George W. Bush), but also likened the cargo parts to Bush’s esteemed pragmatism. Jim opened his front door, letting in the P.O.T.U.S., followed by several Secret Service men and a few aids. After asking for one of Jim’s last Cokes, Bush got down to business.
“We’re not sure who, but either an alien or someone claiming to be a prophet of God has threatened to end our world as we know it, unless you help us out.” Bush said. He looked worried, but not as wincey as on TV.
Jim studied his dinner plate from the previous evening. A Chinese spare rib had been gnawed almost totally clean.
“How do you know he’s for real?” Jim asked.
“Oh he’s real. He took us on a light speed trip to where he’s from.”
“What did he look like?”
“He kept changing his features – look, Jim, he wants, I don’t know why, probably some sick whim of theirs, he wants you to type your credit card number into this laptop here.” One of the P.O.T.U.S.’s aids opened a Titanium briefcase and took out the laptop. It was the latest model.
“My credit card number?” Jim asked.
“I know, it’s …stupid.” Said Bush, looking down. This must have been humiliating for the man.
“Am I allowed to look?”
Bush was unsure for a second, then got Jim’s meaning.
“Yes, yes, of course. The other thing is, this will be broadcast to the world on T.V., right now. You think you can do it?”
“I have to do it on the first try?”
Bush looked to the head of his aids.
“I believe that’s their intent, Mr. President.
“We think so”, said Bush.
As the three video cameras recorded him, Jim’s shaky fingers typed in digit after digit from his Visa Platinum Plus card, all the while him monitoring if the number he pressed came up on the monitor. The lights were getting to him. He hadn’t showered and his nose would look greasy to the six billion plus people watching this around the world, and probably on the other world too. Shit. He fucked up. Fuck. He had pressed 4227 when it should have been 4272. God damn it! A small error message came up on the screen. Incorrect number. Incorrect number. Fuck. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Nobody in the room made a sound. Incorrect number. Incorrect number.
Date Written: August 27, 2003
Author: Benny Maniacs
Average Vote: 4.5