The President’s Jet

The President’s Jet

Reclining in his big beautiful bathroom, the president felt things were going well—really well, in fact, frankly. Even the water pressure in his gleaming shower was working well on his magnificent hair. An Arab state had officially made him the gift of a brand-new luxury jet costing a billion dollars (give or take five hundred million). He would have to be a stupid person not to accept, so he gleefully did. He was intending to ask them to throw in more gold and a dedicated crew, which he was sure they would agree to. Not only that, but behind the scenes they had asked him if he would like a big beautiful palace as well; he had hesitated for at least a nanosecond before accepting—he wasn’t a stupid person. He was sure that many of the world’s top women would be tempted to visit—not for sex, just so you understand, but purely for show. Even his wife seemed pleased at the jet gift, as it seemed like a good way to get away with her girlfriends to visit fashion shows in Estonia (the president had not mentioned the palace for obvious reasons). Maybe now he would get some respect from those nasty women “journalists” from the fake news who kept asking him disrespectful questions about his policies. He was standing tall and walking straight and sitting comfortably—this was what he had signed up for. Some losers had muttered some nonsense about security concerns, but he wasn’t worried because he knew that he was perfectly secure. He was looking forward to having a bigger plane than Elon, though he would make a point of not inviting him aboard. It was all going very golfingly, as he liked to say.

But above all it would settle his little problem with the pope. All Little Leo had was his pathetic popemobile—he didn’t even own his tiny Vatican apartment. No Arab state had offered him his own gold-plated luxury plane. He just wasn’t that important (“consequential” as the president had recently learned to say—he knew all the big words). He could lord it over the pope, no problem. He wondered whether some Arab state would buy the Vatican for him, hmmm. What with crypto-coin he was rolling in it! With these agreeable thoughts humming in his head, the president wandered royally into the kitchen, expecting to see his wife happily absorbed in a glossy. But she wasn’t there, having gone off to a spa in Latvia with a couple of her rich girlfriends without mentioning it. He pressed a button that would bring him a refreshing coke and stared vacantly at the wall dreaming of his big beautiful jet and royal palace.