there is silence in the oval office. you can hear your heart thumping in your chest. an icy tendril of horror carresses your back and wraps around your throat as the beast slowly emerges from what was once the President of the United States of America, and is now a fleshy ruin of bone and gore.
she looks at you innocently, licking the still-warm blood of the most powerful man in the world off her paws.
the joint chiefs of staff slowly turn to face you.
"ma'am," says general winston pearce of the air force, slowly and deliberately, "your cat just killed the president.
"yes, i can see that, general," you respond levelly. "i mean, really, it's no great feat of observation."
"who the hell do you think you are to talk to the chief of the air force that way?" general pearce demands angrily. the other joint chiefs nod, muttering to each other.
"but that's not my cat!" you protest.
"you brought her into the room cooing about what a cute kitty you'd just adopted," points out general thomas barclay of the army.
"well, yes, i did," you admit.
"who the hell are you, anyway?" asks the general.
"i'm a russian spy here to sow strife and discord!" you lie, in your best fake russian accent.
"we'll just see about that!" bellows general barclay. "time to invade russia, boys!"
"i'll just see myself out, then," you say. "clearly there's no fooling you."
"damn straight!" agrees admiral milton hughes of the navy.
you stroll from the white house, and find yourself a nice café to relax and watch the invasion on the news in.
"all according to plan!" you cry with a diabolical laugh.
"that doesn't make you President, ma'am," says admiral milton hughes of the navy, in the voice of a man who has had to explain this all far too many times.
"whaat!?" you exclaim. "then what does make me president, my good man?"
"the will of the voters of the united states of america, ma'am," says the admiral levelly, fixing you with a steely gaze.
"fine," you grouse, "it wasn't really according to plan anyway."
"what was the plan?" asks the admiral, raising a bushy eyebrow.
"the plan," you respond petulantly, "was to bring the president a delightful kitten to soften his mind so i could manipulate him into invading russia!"
the joint chiefs of staff look at each other, and shrug.
"eh," says the admiral, "sounds good to me."
"i mean it probably would have worked anyway," points out general thomas barclay of the army. the other service chiefs nod in agreement.
"i'm glad we could get that straightened out," you say. "i'll just show myself out."
the admiral nods politely. "have a nice day, miss," he says.
"well then!" you retort, flustered, "i'll just have to get elected president then, won't i?"
"good luck with that," says admiral hughes, motioning to the secret service to remove you from the building.
four years later, after a whirlwind campaign and an overwhelming victory as an independent candidate, you sit smugly behind the desk in the oval office.
"told you so," you tell admiral hughes, pointing a finger at him.
"yes, ma'am," the admiral admits, shaking his head. "you certainly did."
"now," you say, "let's get back to this business of invading russia."