"Happy 2009," he said to a man who wasn't there. He scurried away from the terminal, his humorless cackle echoing through the dark room.
It had been an hour since his wife had gone to bed. An hour since the new year had begun. An hour since he'd embarked on "Operation: Oh No."
The mission was proceeding better than expected. The pockets of his robe were already full, and he had begun loading more pilfered booty into his pajamas. They made a pleasant plastic-y grinding sound as he exited the east wing, as if his bed clothes were lined with LEGO blocks.
He gripped a nail file in one sweaty fist. The handle read "Revlon," but it may as well have read "Mjolnir," as, verily, it infused him with the power of a Norse god on this glorious quest.
He silently entered the pitch-black Palm Room, and spied another nearby computer terminal. No sooner had he begun to jab at the keyboard, than a creepy, impossibly loud whisper emanated from the darkness.
"What are you doing, George?"
"Whozat?!" he cried, leaping away from the computer. His nail file was lodged vertically in the keyboard. "Oh, Dick, it's just you."
The newcomer's grin--a frightening smirk, really--materialized out of the darkness like that of a fucked-up Cheshire Cat. He spoke in a whisper, but his lips didn't move. "Are you doing what I think you are?"
George patted his robe, the plastic bulge crunching. He turned back to the keyboard. "I'm'a give 'em a taste of their own medicine."
"I know it bothered you at the time, George, but the liberals will just say you copied Clin--"
"I couldn't type my middle initial for days, Dick," George said, popping the "O" key off and sliding it into his elephant pajama bottoms. "This'll learn 'em. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to do in the Press Corps Office next door."
He felt a cold hand fall on his shoulder. It made him shiver. His balls tightened. "19 more days, George. You're jumping the gun."
"But-but we can do without that letter till then, Dick," he whined. "I wanna crawl in bed next to Laura tonight and tell her 'Mission accomplished.'"
"Prematurely?" asked the whisper.
"Aw, come on, Dick! I don't wanna put 'em all back!"
"I'm not saying you have to put them back...just leave the ones in the Oval Office."
George squinted, thinking. And thinking. And thinking some more. "Oh, right. I'll need it to pardon Scooter."
"And don't forget that 'surprise' involving bin Laden's 'capture' in two weeks."
George smiled at the horrible floating grin in the dark. "How could I forget?"
He went to the door, eager to continue his quest. When he turned to say good night, the floating grin was gone.
"Happy New Year," he said, this time to an empty room.
Rider wishes his readers a prosperous 2009. Here's hoping it's better than '08 and the previous eight.
What would it take to coax your ol' pal Rider out of blogging retirement? How about the sweet promise of a jaunty drive down to the local currency exchange where he'll convert billions and billions of yuan into a cool one hundred U.S. dollars?
