Post by Rick Warder on Dec 27, 2005 17:45:46 GMT -5
Rick Warder leaned back in his leather executive chair, his gaze focused intently on the Wall Street Journal, which he held in front of himself. The fading rays of a Washington, D.C. sunset were filtering in through the bay window of the Oval Office.
The intercom buzzed.
Folding the newspaper over his chest, the president reached out with his free hand to tap the 'talk' button. "Yeah?"
"Victor is here to see you, sir," said the secretary, her tinny voice vaguely reminiscent of an airport announcement.
"Okay."
Mr. Warder leaned back. A moment passed, then door clicked, and Victor swept into the room.
"Sir," said the butler in a hushed voice.
"Hey, Victor. What rhymes with 'honey' and is the biggest concern of bankers?"
"Money, sir, I believe," Victor answered, standing respectfully to the side of the door. The solemn face of the 61 year old Warder family butler gazed solicitously toward the President of the United States.
"Money!" Warder gasped the word as if he had just discovered the lightbulb. Then he threw the Wall Street Journal onto the presidential desk, reaching for the nearest pen and filling in the sought after word. "Thank goodness you're here, Victor. I never would've figured that out. Say, how is California? And sit down!"
"I prefer to stand, sir," Victor answered, smiling benevolently. Then he added, "As of my latest recollection, the family estate is in the best of condition." Victor paused, and then grimaced slightly, as if withholding some vital fact.
The president was swift on the uptake. He leaned forward tensely. "Victor? What is it? Tell me what's on your mind."
"The dobermans, sir," he said, taking a deep breath. "They miss you. They spend all day along the fence, looking at passers by, and if the poor person isn't you, they start barking and causing a ruckus."
The news struck Warder like a thunderbolt. His visage melted, and he clenched a white fist together. "Damn it, Victor. The dogs need me. But so do the American people. Why don't they understand that I have to stay in this hellhole? You don't know how I wish I had palm trees outside of my window, but all I've got are these crappy monuments." The president sighed. "Say, Victor, can you bring me a cognac?"
"With pleasure, sir," the butler intoned, moving gracefully toward the recently installed wet bar...
The intercom buzzed.
Folding the newspaper over his chest, the president reached out with his free hand to tap the 'talk' button. "Yeah?"
"Victor is here to see you, sir," said the secretary, her tinny voice vaguely reminiscent of an airport announcement.
"Okay."
Mr. Warder leaned back. A moment passed, then door clicked, and Victor swept into the room.
"Sir," said the butler in a hushed voice.
"Hey, Victor. What rhymes with 'honey' and is the biggest concern of bankers?"
"Money, sir, I believe," Victor answered, standing respectfully to the side of the door. The solemn face of the 61 year old Warder family butler gazed solicitously toward the President of the United States.
"Money!" Warder gasped the word as if he had just discovered the lightbulb. Then he threw the Wall Street Journal onto the presidential desk, reaching for the nearest pen and filling in the sought after word. "Thank goodness you're here, Victor. I never would've figured that out. Say, how is California? And sit down!"
"I prefer to stand, sir," Victor answered, smiling benevolently. Then he added, "As of my latest recollection, the family estate is in the best of condition." Victor paused, and then grimaced slightly, as if withholding some vital fact.
The president was swift on the uptake. He leaned forward tensely. "Victor? What is it? Tell me what's on your mind."
"The dobermans, sir," he said, taking a deep breath. "They miss you. They spend all day along the fence, looking at passers by, and if the poor person isn't you, they start barking and causing a ruckus."
The news struck Warder like a thunderbolt. His visage melted, and he clenched a white fist together. "Damn it, Victor. The dogs need me. But so do the American people. Why don't they understand that I have to stay in this hellhole? You don't know how I wish I had palm trees outside of my window, but all I've got are these crappy monuments." The president sighed. "Say, Victor, can you bring me a cognac?"
"With pleasure, sir," the butler intoned, moving gracefully toward the recently installed wet bar...