Term Limit

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.

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