Panic in the Obama Camp

CHAPTER TWO
Since the beginning the White House has consisted of two levels.

The first level is the official White House, the above ground image in which the President works, where the First Family lives, its untarnished corridors open to the press and public.

The other level is underground, where the real business of running a world empire happens. Leaks, gun-running, coups, assassinations-- these occurrences are unseen, and so, deniable, as if they never happened.

On this rainy Washington D.C. afternoon, while the President in the Oval Office innocently wonders about the NBA finals, his staff beneath him is busy. They're busy because they're worried.

"We wanted Mitt as an opponent. Yes, he's a robot. He has the charisma of a mannequin. But right now that kooky plutocrat is beating us!"

The man who says this sweats through his ill-fitting gray suit. He wears a brushy moustache and has oily dark hair swept across one side of his oblong head. His voice shakes with urgency-- possibly because he himself has been booed on the campaign trail.

"Drastic action is needed, or we're going to blow this." His eyes gleam madly. "Too much is at stake!"

As the speaker calms himself and mops his forehead with an oily rag while muttering about the poor air-conditioning down here, an nerdy young know-it-all aide speaks back.

"What kind of drastic action?"

The question is dismissive of his worried elder. The question says, The top dog is losing it. The question is sneering and sarcastic by its being asked.

"We bring in the best," the now calmer Chief Strategist answers the young man.

"The best?" the entire room asks him, in chorus. "You don't mean--?"

"Yes, I do mean. Him. Things have become that urgent. Besides, he's available. Working secretly for us fits his unique sense of humor."

With this, the Chief Strategist turns to the side, where appears what seems to be a simple blank wall. The man touches a button. The wall slides open. Sitting in a plush chair with a sly smile on his face is him. Him. The best there is. The ultimate political weapon. Karl Rove.

The chair, as if pulled by unseen strings, slides automatically forward. The wall closes behind Karl Rove. The entire campaign staff, except for the mad Chief, gasps as one. Brilliant! They're awed by the audacity of the move.

The staff remains hushed, waiting for the oracle to talk to them.

"What do we do?" the Chief asks Rove. "How do we turn our campaign around? How do we win this election?"

"Simple," Karl Rove tells them. "You out-Republican the Republicans."