Ari Fleischer at Sunrise:
Ari Fleischer awakens in the morning sucking down air like a drowning man surfacing in the middle of the ocean, like he's only got a couple of seconds to breathe until the next wave washes over him, until he's sucked down by the undertow. And then he remembers who he is and what his role is in this world. "Goddamn you, soul," he says to himself, for, whatever you want to call it - soul, conscience, Jiminy Motherfuckin' Cricket - these split seconds when it escapes are always the most tightrope-jostling terrors. He shoves it back down, forgets about the ocean, and rises.
After a piss, he showers and shaves, quickly, so that he doesn't have to stare at his face in the mirror for too long. It's those times that he wishes he still wore glasses because then there was some buffer between himself and his reflection, which always talks back to him, forcing him to remember all the lies he was given to tell with a straight face, lies that he was told to speak as forcefully as gospel, and that he ran away because he couldn't stand seeing himself on television every night, demanding that no one question the lies he himself refused to question. When one lives under the threat of Dick Cheney breaking into your house and cutting your kids' jugulars in front of you, one tends to do what one is told.
Clean and dressed, he grabs a cup of coffee and pads into his office to check his email, get his talking points, read Drudge. He watches a clip of himself looking smilingly impatient on Hardball last night, when he told Chris Matthews, "But after September 11, having been hit once, how could we take a chance that Saddam might not strike again? And that's the threat that has been removed, and I think we're all safer with that threat being removed." He watches the entire segment. Goddamn, he thinks, that was kick-ass.
And then the video messenger pops up. It's Rove. Goddamnit. He just got dressed. "Ari, put on the fuckin' cam," Rove barks. Fleischer pauses, which just makes Rove angrier. "C'mon, you doe-eyed dick, I know you're there." Fleischer puts the cam on and asks Rove what he wants, as if he doesn't already know since Rove is sitting there without pants on. "You know what I want, Ari. Do it. Do the Oval Office trick." Shit, Fleischer thinks. How many times is he gonna have to go through this? Ever since he first did it on command for George W. Bush's amusement, Rove has come at him again and again.
Offering no resistance, Fleischer carefully removes his slacks and folds them over the chair. He turns the computer around so that the cam can get him in the middle of the floor. He drops his underwear and sits bare-ass on the rug. In the corner of his eye, he catches the screen and sees Rove starting to fondle his AAA battery of a penis. With the dexterity of a circus performer, Ari Fleischer pulls his legs behind his head and starts to suck his own cock. Rove moans as the former press secretary deep throats his own joint, jerkily bobbing his head up and down. A few moments of this, accompanied by a bit of anxious anus fingering, and both men groan as they cum together, Rove onto his lap, Fleischer into his mouth. It would surprise almost no one to hear that he's a swallower. The low rumble of Rove's voice comes from the computer's speakers: "That was good, Ari, really good. Talk to you soon." And the video window is gone.
Fleischer gets up, sighs, and wipes himself off with a Kleenex. He debates brushing his teeth as he puts his underwear and pants back on, but instead he swirls his cold coffee around his mouth. He sits back down at his computer, a little proud that he can still get the old legs back there. He uses some Purell on his asshole-fingering hand. And just as he sits back down and gets ready to do some more research, another window pops up. It's Bush. Fleischer rolls his eyes. He wonders why he even bothers putting pants on some mornings.