Term Limit

[hwrnmnbsol]

Bolton stood atop the truncated pyramid that looked over the National Mall. His suit was expensive and Italian; his crisp white shirtfront and face was stained with blood and gore. Bolton staggered towards the front of the tier, drunk on glory. He raised both arms and flashed V-signs, V for victory, to the millions-strong crowd gathered below. They erupted in cheering.

A band struck up "Hail to the Chief". The new President clasped both hands and shook them jubilantly over his head. The crowd went wild – the people, his people now. His subjects.

Five bulky men wearing identical black coats and ear-pieces positioned themselves around Bolton. "Mister President," said their leader respectfully, "we'll be your security detail for the next four years. Any one of us will sacrifice our lives for yours." Bolton nodded solemnly. With his secret servicemen surrounding him, he began to descend the steps of the ziggurat to the limousine waiting at the street level.

I am President, Bolton told himself. I really did it. For the next four years, he thought, I am the most powerful person in the world.

And then, he reminded himself, almost as an afterthought, I'll have to die.


Bolton's first stop was Capitol Hill. He strode confidently into the House Chamber. All the members of Congress were in attendance. This was not a day to play hooky. Senators and Representatives all clapped politely as their new President walked to the podium. He had been able to clean the worst of the gore off his face with towelettes in the car, but his shirt was still stained and ruined – a mark for all to see, a reminder.

"Greetings, former colleagues," Bolton began. He had been the senior senator from Tennessee prior to the election. "I want you to know that I plan on continuing the policies of my predecessors," he continued. "While the documents establishing the national legislature have been abolished, I continue to feel that you serve an important task in representing the people of your home states. You may therefore continue on with your tasks as you have been doing all along."

Bolton raised a stern finger. "But I must warn you," he said, "not to forget who rules this country. I do, with absolute power, and I will permit no challenge to my authority. Oppose my dictates at your own peril. Remember that you are here for one purpose, and that is to effect those laws and policies that I stipulate. Those who forget that, or who fail to observe proper respect to me and my office, will never be heard from again."

Bolton stepped back from the podium. "That's all," he said. "I have spoken."

And like that, the President and his retinue filed back out of the Capitol Building. The members of the Legislature were left to talk amongst themselves, wondering what they would be required to do next. None of them spoke treasonously. There had been a number of instances of treason in the history of the United States. The heads of the traitors adorned pikes atop the Capitol roof.

Bolton moved his family into the White House. His children were overjoyed with the new mansion, but his wife did not approve of many of the design decisions the previous occupants had made. The last First Lady was still living there; by tradition, the First Widows moved into the East Wing and lived there for the rest of their days. But she had no say in how the house would be arranged. Bolton asked his wife to pull together some redecorating options and then consult with him for the final decision.

And then it was off to work. A President had many duties and tasks to perform; there was no time for resting on one's laurels. There was a serious budget crisis at hand, with a massive budget shortfall threatening the nation's economy. Bolton called for his advisors, and he invited members of Congress to come and make their arguments. Some insisted that it would be wrong to raise taxes. Others pleaded that vital social support programs not be cut. Bolton listened to it all. Finally he spoke.

"We shall raise taxes," he said. "And we shall slash social programs. I choose not to choose between these things. We will do all of it, as painfully as possible, and even if nobody likes it, at least we will end this debt nonsense sooner rather than later."

The leader of the Senate nodded, resigned. "We shall do as our President commands, right or wrong," she said heavily.

Bolton frowned. "What do you mean, 'or wrong'?" he demanded. And like that, the Senate had to choose a new leader.

Then later, a question arose regarding a woman's right to have an abortion. Bolton thought long and hard over that one. Finally he held a press conference.

"I am troubled over this issue," he said. "I have heard the arguments from all sides, and I have decided that abortion shall be illegal, always, for any reason." And that was that. Nevertheless, later on, Bolton's teenage daughter tearfully visited him in the Oval Office.

"Daddy," she sobbed, "I can't believe you've done this. It's wrong, wrong!"

"I have always known how you feel about this," said Bolton tenderly. "And I'm sorry. But a President must decide boldly and not worry about any sort of consequence. That's why we've set up the system of government that we have. Would you prefer that we have weak rulers who can't decide anything?"

"No," sniffed Bolton's daughter.

"Then don't worry," he said, stroking her hair. "In four years there will be a new President, and perhaps what he or she decides will be more to your liking."

But then it was the next year. A series of natural disasters kept Bolton busy – an earthquake on the west coast, a massive blizzard on the east, and any number of storms and deluges in the middle. For each of these, Bolton visited the devastation personally and talked with local leaders. He vowed to rebuild an old and beautiful public building, and he promised that thousands left homeless would be given decent shelter by the federal government. But for several communities that had been flooded out owing to their proximity to a major river, Bolton was less kind. "The location of your villages was not well chosen," he said. "You shall not rebuild here. Go forth, with whatever goods you can carry, and start a new life somewhere else." The devastated areas were left deserted, and soon the river reclaimed those towns entirely.

One night Bolton was awakened by an urgent phone call. There was a major situation abroad. Rioting extremists had stormed an American embassy and taken it over. Two hundred American citizens were dead, and the foreigners had taken to the streets of their nation to shout anti-American slogans.

Bolton hastily prepared for a televised press conference. He addressed the citizens of the offending nation sternly.

"You have attacked Americans and American soil," he said. "You proclaim your hate for my country. Very well. You hate us. And we hate you back."

Bolton leaned towards the camera until his face filled the entire screen of every television in the world. "We will destroy your cities with fire," he said softly. "It does not matter that not all of you are guilty of these offenses against the American people and these insults directed at the American President. What matters is that you were all unlucky enough to share a nation with such miscreants, and that you lacked the sense and initiative to stop them before they wronged us. Now you shall feel our vengeance." The cameras shut off, and Bolton called for his generals. Within four months that nation was no more, lifeless and poisoned and reeking of chemical fumes.

But Bolton had no time to dwell on past achievements. He had no time, no time at all! His Presidency was already half over, and there was still so much to do! Bolton went on a whirlwind tour of America, shaking hands, kissing babies, listening to people in coffee shops. Sometimes he just listened. Other times he ordered action, solved problems. Twice he shot men like dogs in the street.

Once he visited a military hospital. An old veteran explained to him that he was dying of cancer and was in terrible pain. He didn't want to live anymore but the law did not permit his doctors to take his life. Bolton nodded, called for the fire axe from out in the hall, and promptly beheaded the patient. He performed the same service for sixty-one more patients that year, visiting them all personally and shaking their hands before doing the deed.

Bolton's thoughts turned to what his legacy would be. He wanted to accomplish something important, something big, before his time was up. What could that be? He sent his advisors out to review America's most stubborn problems and come up with possible solutions. After sorting through a number of ideas, he decided that America's most pressing problems stemmed from education, or the lack thereof, and solving that problem would therefore do the nation the most good.

Bolton went back to Capitol Hill and met with the Budget Committee. "Each category of funding," Bolton proclaimed, "shall shed 10% of its budget from last year and give it to education. We will subsidize teaching as an industry that is more vital to our national security than the Department of Defense. Our poorest students at home may live lives of squalor, because the universe isn't fair and we can't fix that, but when they go to school they will be kings and queens, given every opportunity to be taught by our best and brightest. They will have good food and clean spaces and safe lives at school. We will make this investment now so that we may be leaders in the world for generations to come." And like that, Bolton reshaped education entirely, from the ground up, and the American education system began to turn itself around. It was the only way such a thing could have happened.

He was in his last year of his presidency now. The next election campaign was warming up. Various people were campaigning for the position, promising a wide variety of things across a broad spectrum of political appeal. Bolton paid only slight attention. What happened with the next president wasn't really his business; he'd be dead by then. He wanted to concentrate on the business at hand. He did quietly execute the craziest-sounding candidates, but he made sure that at least a few of the front-runners were pro-abortion – he knew that would make his daughter happy.

And there was so much to do. He had to preside over the cleanup of the nation he had leveled earlier in his term; its neighbors had meekly proclaimed their eternal alliance to America, and Bolton had agreed to help them annex and utilize the wasteland next door. Then there was the problem of illegal immigration across America's southern borders, an issue Bolton solved by annexing Latin America, and the attendant headache of illegal drug trafficking, which Bolton couldn’t quite solve. Ah well, he thought philosophically, that'll be one for the next President to tackle.

And then the elections were held. The winner was Nelson, Governor of New Mexico. Bolton nodded. Nelson was a good choice. America could do a whole lot worse than that old girl.

Bolton spent much of the rest of his time planning out his Presidential Tomb and Library. He decided it should be small and unassuming, just outside Nashville, and should have his collections of bluegrass music as well as his various memoirs and book collections. He decided his mausoleum should be open to the public, but very Spartan and echoey – a place for quiet contemplation in the presence of the remains of an American President.

In the week leading up to the Inauguration, Bolton felt a great sense of calm wash over him. He knew in part that this was the drugs they were giving him, part euphorics and part psychotropics, to help smooth the way to his impending death. Goodness knew that some lame-duck Presidents had panicked and attempted to flee to preserve their lives, but that sort of thing hadn't happened since Burr. No, Bolton felt resigned and ready, he hoped, because he knew he had done his job. He had done what a President should do: to decide, and not to look back.

On the fateful day he rose early, had a nice breakfast, listened to a little bluegrass and then got in the limousine. En route to the National Mall his doctor administered a number of painkillers. Several presidents had tried to do this without drugs and it hadn't gone well. They stopped at the back end of the ziggurat, and Bolton earnestly thanked his security detail and advisors before climbing up to the top tier by himself.

He sat down on the stone throne as attendants busied themselves around him, tying him down and exposing his upper body. Nelson was already there, holding the ceremonial Knife of Office. Bolton nodded gravely to acknowledge her; she winked back. That was a little too informal, Bolton felt, but his head was swimming and he decided he really didn't care that much.

There was a tugging and a tearing somewhere out of Bolton's field of view – something happening to somebody else, surely. His eyes cleared just long enough to see Nelson standing in front of him. The Knife of Office had been dropped, and the next President of the United States held his still-beating heart in her hands. Nelson raised it towards her mouth.

Hail to the Chief, Bolton mouthed, and his eyes closed.