President
for Life,
in the Age of Immortality
Woe-wow
It was a beautiful day outside, and
here Melker was, stuck inside for yet another boring day, primarily
to answer the phone—since the pandemic closed almost everything,
there had been no walk-in business in the award & trophy shop,
and almost no phone or internet orders either—when businesses
worked from home, or were simply closed, there was little call for
awards to be presented.
Whenever Melker thought about it, he became worried and stressed—he’d inherited the business only three months ago, and now it seemed likely he would have close it from lack of sales.
It would be a shame, his great grandfather and name-sake had begun the business shortly after he emigrated to America from Sweden, his grandfather and father had continued to build the business into a thriving and profitable enterprise, making trophies and awards for clients throughout Minnesota and the Midwest. Tens of thousands had been uplifted by their products.
His father had died, one of the earlier victims of the new plague—although that was only determined weeks later.
Melker missed his father, they had both been devastated only three years ago when his mother had died—being shot by a police officer while she dug through her purse for her license after being stopped for a broken tail light. The officer had escaped any real punishment—police seemed immune to legal violations, and both Melker and his father had been grief-stricken and stunned by the miscarriage of justice. Melker had mostly recovered, but his father withdrew and seemed to shrink into himself, losing all interest in his depression. By the time the disease killed him, the 6’6” blond viking was nearly skin and bones.
Melker looked up as he heard a loud BANG of a backfire, to see an ancient Chevy Suburban, which may once have been white, but was now mostly rust, turn into the old strip-mall—build by his father using land they owned on either side of original building, he watched as the truck headed toward the liquor store—the only other business still open in the mall.
He shook off the depressing thoughts, and his eyes rested for a bit on the framed picture of his parents, taken only a year before mom died—they made an interesting couple, the giant blond viking and the petite dark black African. Melker himself was “only” 6’ and with only a few nods to his mother in his black curly hair, full lips and wide nose of his mother. They had met when his father had gone to Africa after college to help with economic development—and come home with a new bride
He went back to playing his game on his phone.
The Suburban had parked just to the side of the store, in a spot invisible from the counter where Melker sat. No one saw as the occupant sat and looked at his phone while occasionally spitting out the window, after a few minutes he shoved the phone into his plaid shirt under the yellow-green with reflective stripes vest, and opened the door to exit.
He was large, well over six foot, with bright orange hair. His face was bearded, with a long unkempt beard with the brown nicotine stains of a tobacco chewer, set into the beard was a huge glowing red bulbous nose, with a large yellow area protruding from the right side, his eyes were hidden behind bright green reflective sunglasses. The beard rested on huge man-tits above a large beer-belly, which overhung his ancient baggy florescent orange parachute pants—a good ten inches shorter than he needed, his socks were the red & white stripes of the witch killed by Dorthy on her arrival in Oz, and his boots looked like he’d walked through colored glitter with florescent lime-green laces. The chukka boots were ancient, with a gaping hole in the toes and soles separating from the toe. On his hands were a pair of aged, worn and dirty bright pink dress gloves. His hands were tiny for his size.
He stood up and stretched, yawning before reaching back into the vehicle to return holding a tall top hat, a bit dirty and bent out of shape, the top partially separated from the body of the hat. Under the dirt it was shiny black, and a small, woe-be-gone red bow decorated the thin hat band.
He carefully put the hat upon his head, and removed his phone to examine himself, making a slight adjustment to his hat, and combing the beard with his right hand. Satisfied, he again pocketed the phone and began walking toward the award store, on his right foot, a good portion of the red & white sock showed through the toe, on the left foot the sock appeared and disappeared in the gap between sole and boot with every step.
His right knee seemed stiff, and he winced every time his left foot touched the ground, his movement was erratic, as he swung the right foot out with knee straight limped on his left. His progress was slow and painful in the one hundred degree sweltering heat of midsummer, visible waves of heat shimmering over the asphalt. He spit, and the spit sizzled and dried almost on contact with the parking lot surface.
Melker, noticing the change in light, glanced up to see the profile backlit as the man crossed in front of the window filled with awards and trophies, and stood up as the man entered the store and the little brass bell announced his entrance.
Melker called out, “Good noon to you sir. Could I see your most recent plague test?”
The man grunted assent and reached into his breast pocket to remove a folded piece of paper which he placed on the counter before stepping back. Melker’s own test from this morning was posted above the counter in an old vinyl three-ring-binder document sheet. As Melker quickly scanned the presented paper without touching it—it was only an hour old, he continued to pretend to read while he examined the man on his phone below the counter which was linked to the security camera above him. A somewhat bizarre creature, but the door security system had spotted no weapons, and money was money—whatever the source.
He shoved the paper back across the counter and said, “Thank you very much sir. Beastly hot day out, isn’t it?
Whenever Melker thought about it, he became worried and stressed—he’d inherited the business only three months ago, and now it seemed likely he would have close it from lack of sales.
It would be a shame, his great grandfather and name-sake had begun the business shortly after he emigrated to America from Sweden, his grandfather and father had continued to build the business into a thriving and profitable enterprise, making trophies and awards for clients throughout Minnesota and the Midwest. Tens of thousands had been uplifted by their products.
His father had died, one of the earlier victims of the new plague—although that was only determined weeks later.
Melker missed his father, they had both been devastated only three years ago when his mother had died—being shot by a police officer while she dug through her purse for her license after being stopped for a broken tail light. The officer had escaped any real punishment—police seemed immune to legal violations, and both Melker and his father had been grief-stricken and stunned by the miscarriage of justice. Melker had mostly recovered, but his father withdrew and seemed to shrink into himself, losing all interest in his depression. By the time the disease killed him, the 6’6” blond viking was nearly skin and bones.
Melker looked up as he heard a loud BANG of a backfire, to see an ancient Chevy Suburban, which may once have been white, but was now mostly rust, turn into the old strip-mall—build by his father using land they owned on either side of original building, he watched as the truck headed toward the liquor store—the only other business still open in the mall.
He shook off the depressing thoughts, and his eyes rested for a bit on the framed picture of his parents, taken only a year before mom died—they made an interesting couple, the giant blond viking and the petite dark black African. Melker himself was “only” 6’ and with only a few nods to his mother in his black curly hair, full lips and wide nose of his mother. They had met when his father had gone to Africa after college to help with economic development—and come home with a new bride
He went back to playing his game on his phone.
The Suburban had parked just to the side of the store, in a spot invisible from the counter where Melker sat. No one saw as the occupant sat and looked at his phone while occasionally spitting out the window, after a few minutes he shoved the phone into his plaid shirt under the yellow-green with reflective stripes vest, and opened the door to exit.
He was large, well over six foot, with bright orange hair. His face was bearded, with a long unkempt beard with the brown nicotine stains of a tobacco chewer, set into the beard was a huge glowing red bulbous nose, with a large yellow area protruding from the right side, his eyes were hidden behind bright green reflective sunglasses. The beard rested on huge man-tits above a large beer-belly, which overhung his ancient baggy florescent orange parachute pants—a good ten inches shorter than he needed, his socks were the red & white stripes of the witch killed by Dorthy on her arrival in Oz, and his boots looked like he’d walked through colored glitter with florescent lime-green laces. The chukka boots were ancient, with a gaping hole in the toes and soles separating from the toe. On his hands were a pair of aged, worn and dirty bright pink dress gloves. His hands were tiny for his size.
He stood up and stretched, yawning before reaching back into the vehicle to return holding a tall top hat, a bit dirty and bent out of shape, the top partially separated from the body of the hat. Under the dirt it was shiny black, and a small, woe-be-gone red bow decorated the thin hat band.
He carefully put the hat upon his head, and removed his phone to examine himself, making a slight adjustment to his hat, and combing the beard with his right hand. Satisfied, he again pocketed the phone and began walking toward the award store, on his right foot, a good portion of the red & white sock showed through the toe, on the left foot the sock appeared and disappeared in the gap between sole and boot with every step.
His right knee seemed stiff, and he winced every time his left foot touched the ground, his movement was erratic, as he swung the right foot out with knee straight limped on his left. His progress was slow and painful in the one hundred degree sweltering heat of midsummer, visible waves of heat shimmering over the asphalt. He spit, and the spit sizzled and dried almost on contact with the parking lot surface.
Melker, noticing the change in light, glanced up to see the profile backlit as the man crossed in front of the window filled with awards and trophies, and stood up as the man entered the store and the little brass bell announced his entrance.
Melker called out, “Good noon to you sir. Could I see your most recent plague test?”
The man grunted assent and reached into his breast pocket to remove a folded piece of paper which he placed on the counter before stepping back. Melker’s own test from this morning was posted above the counter in an old vinyl three-ring-binder document sheet. As Melker quickly scanned the presented paper without touching it—it was only an hour old, he continued to pretend to read while he examined the man on his phone below the counter which was linked to the security camera above him. A somewhat bizarre creature, but the door security system had spotted no weapons, and money was money—whatever the source.
He shoved the paper back across the counter and said, “Thank you very much sir. Beastly hot day out, isn’t it?
“My name is Melker, what can I do
you for?”
The man moved closer to the counter, putting the paper from the counter back into his pocket and removing a couple of pages folded from the other shirt pocket, behind his phone. He carefully unfolded them and put them on the counter before Melker, then removing a small plastic water bottle from his left pants pocket, he spit into the bottle, recapped and put it back while Melker looked at the papers.
The top page was a specification for an award plaque, which was far more complex than any usual plaque. It was to be 13” by 11” by 2” thick—the usual plaque was more like ½” to ¾” thick—but far more unusual were the instructions for routing the middle of the plaque—a 7” x 10” x 1 ¾” deep cavity underneath an 8 ½” x 11” metal engraved plaque, specified for ¼” aluminum plate to be beveled ¼” in from the edges and coated with gold titanium nitrite before engraving. The wood was to be left uncoated. The quantity needed was 50,000.
At the bottom it said, “All notes and information about this project are to be returned with the product, and no one can be told about this under pain of death or imprisonment.”
The biggest surprise was on the second sheet, which was a ready to engrave 8 ½” x 11” page—at the top was the Presidential Seal and the signature was the distinct signature of the President.
Melker looked up with a quizzical expression, at the man across the counter—his eyes trying to avoid staring at the huge bulbous red and white object that was the nose.
The man pulled out his bottle, spit into it, recapped it and replaced it in his pocket, then reached into his right pocket and pulled out a leather badge holder, flipping it open as he showed it to Melker.
Melker stared at the badge before his eyes, it read “Treasury Agent.” He looked up at the man’s face and said, “You certainly don’t look like secret service…”
The man grunted and said softly, with a voice that sounded like gravel, “Undercover.
“How soon. Cost.”
The man moved closer to the counter, putting the paper from the counter back into his pocket and removing a couple of pages folded from the other shirt pocket, behind his phone. He carefully unfolded them and put them on the counter before Melker, then removing a small plastic water bottle from his left pants pocket, he spit into the bottle, recapped and put it back while Melker looked at the papers.
The top page was a specification for an award plaque, which was far more complex than any usual plaque. It was to be 13” by 11” by 2” thick—the usual plaque was more like ½” to ¾” thick—but far more unusual were the instructions for routing the middle of the plaque—a 7” x 10” x 1 ¾” deep cavity underneath an 8 ½” x 11” metal engraved plaque, specified for ¼” aluminum plate to be beveled ¼” in from the edges and coated with gold titanium nitrite before engraving. The wood was to be left uncoated. The quantity needed was 50,000.
At the bottom it said, “All notes and information about this project are to be returned with the product, and no one can be told about this under pain of death or imprisonment.”
The biggest surprise was on the second sheet, which was a ready to engrave 8 ½” x 11” page—at the top was the Presidential Seal and the signature was the distinct signature of the President.
Melker looked up with a quizzical expression, at the man across the counter—his eyes trying to avoid staring at the huge bulbous red and white object that was the nose.
The man pulled out his bottle, spit into it, recapped it and replaced it in his pocket, then reached into his right pocket and pulled out a leather badge holder, flipping it open as he showed it to Melker.
Melker stared at the badge before his eyes, it read “Treasury Agent.” He looked up at the man’s face and said, “You certainly don’t look like secret service…”
The man grunted and said softly, with a voice that sounded like gravel, “Undercover.
“How soon. Cost.”
Melker twiddled with his phone and
responded, “One and one-half million, about four weeks. I’ll need
half up front, the rest on delivery.” He smiled broadly, this
single order would allow him to retire!
The man reached down, and pulled up a briefcase which Melker was certain hadn’t been in the man’s hands when he entered, he placed it before Melker and opened it, inside were bundles of used five hundred Euro bills.
“Two million. Matched upon delivery. I’ll send five shipping containers to be loaded,” the man growled, pulled out the bottle and spit, a bit of brown saliva running down his beard. “Bonus for every day short of four weeks, penalty of 1% per day over four weeks. Remember, tell no one, no electronic or paper records.” He crossed his throat with his left hand.
Melker swallowed, “of course. Discretion.”
The man turned to leave, Melker called after, “how do I contact you to tell you where to send the containers and when I will deliver?”
The man turned and tossed a phone on the counter. “Text me, the number is in there.” He turned around and proceeded to limp/spin his way out the door, the little brass bell tinkled as the door opened and closed behind him. Melker sat as if paralyzed while the shadow crossed the window back to the Suburban, then started counting bundles.
He yelled and whooped for nearly a minute, his world had gone from doom to wealth in—he glanced at the clock above the door—only five minutes had passed.
Suddenly Melker realized that he needed to get started immediately to have any chance of getting the bonus, and began calling his suppliers. He pushed the remote starter for his car, then he went back into the office, pulled a random bundle of bills and hid the briefcase under the floor under his desk—great grandfather had not trusted banks, the space was well-hidden.
Then Melker, pocketed the bundle and proceeded to the front door, put the “closed” sign up and locked the door, then back through the office where he grabbed his straw boater—his grandfathers hat, and left through the rear door, getting into his Ford escape, already running and just above comfortable temperature.
“Carl, mama ti’s.” Mama ti’s African Kitchen, one of the cities best African restaurants, could almost match his mom’s cooking, and when times were less weird it had become one of Melker’s favorite places when he didn’t feel like cooking himself—and the shop was still profitable.
Somehow Mama ti’s was still thriving despite the plague, though only take out these days. Melker sent off one of his “usual” orders and noted the estimated ETA on the dash. “Carl, music.” The sound system began playing his mix of favorites. “Carl, softer, recline seat full, darken windows, announce five minutes from destination.” “Yes, Melker,” the car responded.
Melker lay there, not hearing the music. Min Gud! What a strange and wonderful day, his salvation at a single stroke! He pulled out the bundle of cash. ”Carl, seat up, reading light.” The seat rose to driving position as the lights came on. Melker carefully examined a bill pulled from the middle of the stack, he pulled out his phone to magnify it—it certainly looked legitimate, after he took his lunch in the park, he’d stop at a bank and verify that was true. He put the bundle into the center console. ”Carl, recline seat full, light off.” Laying down, his mind raced with ideas and speculations, but none stuck, and in a couple minutes he was just listening to the music.
One of the big benifits of the plague was that there was little traffic, so before long Carl announced, ”Five minutes to Mama ti’s. Seat up?”
Melker replied, ”Yes, and lighten windows 25.”
”Yes sir.” Responded the AI.
The man reached down, and pulled up a briefcase which Melker was certain hadn’t been in the man’s hands when he entered, he placed it before Melker and opened it, inside were bundles of used five hundred Euro bills.
“Two million. Matched upon delivery. I’ll send five shipping containers to be loaded,” the man growled, pulled out the bottle and spit, a bit of brown saliva running down his beard. “Bonus for every day short of four weeks, penalty of 1% per day over four weeks. Remember, tell no one, no electronic or paper records.” He crossed his throat with his left hand.
Melker swallowed, “of course. Discretion.”
The man turned to leave, Melker called after, “how do I contact you to tell you where to send the containers and when I will deliver?”
The man turned and tossed a phone on the counter. “Text me, the number is in there.” He turned around and proceeded to limp/spin his way out the door, the little brass bell tinkled as the door opened and closed behind him. Melker sat as if paralyzed while the shadow crossed the window back to the Suburban, then started counting bundles.
He yelled and whooped for nearly a minute, his world had gone from doom to wealth in—he glanced at the clock above the door—only five minutes had passed.
Suddenly Melker realized that he needed to get started immediately to have any chance of getting the bonus, and began calling his suppliers. He pushed the remote starter for his car, then he went back into the office, pulled a random bundle of bills and hid the briefcase under the floor under his desk—great grandfather had not trusted banks, the space was well-hidden.
Then Melker, pocketed the bundle and proceeded to the front door, put the “closed” sign up and locked the door, then back through the office where he grabbed his straw boater—his grandfathers hat, and left through the rear door, getting into his Ford escape, already running and just above comfortable temperature.
“Carl, mama ti’s.” Mama ti’s African Kitchen, one of the cities best African restaurants, could almost match his mom’s cooking, and when times were less weird it had become one of Melker’s favorite places when he didn’t feel like cooking himself—and the shop was still profitable.
Somehow Mama ti’s was still thriving despite the plague, though only take out these days. Melker sent off one of his “usual” orders and noted the estimated ETA on the dash. “Carl, music.” The sound system began playing his mix of favorites. “Carl, softer, recline seat full, darken windows, announce five minutes from destination.” “Yes, Melker,” the car responded.
Melker lay there, not hearing the music. Min Gud! What a strange and wonderful day, his salvation at a single stroke! He pulled out the bundle of cash. ”Carl, seat up, reading light.” The seat rose to driving position as the lights came on. Melker carefully examined a bill pulled from the middle of the stack, he pulled out his phone to magnify it—it certainly looked legitimate, after he took his lunch in the park, he’d stop at a bank and verify that was true. He put the bundle into the center console. ”Carl, recline seat full, light off.” Laying down, his mind raced with ideas and speculations, but none stuck, and in a couple minutes he was just listening to the music.
One of the big benifits of the plague was that there was little traffic, so before long Carl announced, ”Five minutes to Mama ti’s. Seat up?”
Melker replied, ”Yes, and lighten windows 25.”
”Yes sir.” Responded the AI.
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