falconwind
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I didn't think this should go into the fanfic section 
I got this idea while chatting with a US buddy of mine. This is my second draft.
Any comments are welcome.
This can be considered a What if... depending on what you beleive.
---------------
A Good President
by Falconwind
(C) Copyright 2007. All rights reserved.
Disclaimer: I'm Canadian, so I don't exactly know the intricate details of the White House. But you probably don't know the difference between a "Liberal" and a "liberal", so tit for tat and all that.
This is a fictional story about George W. Bush.
Synopsis:
George W. Bush is very unpopular for his policies and decisions. But what if he's a puppet, and not the puppeteer. What if he's not the criminal, but just another victim.
Taking a sip of his coffee, George W. Bush re-read the speech that he'd been given. It sounded alright to him, though it used a few words that he thought were there to make him look more eleqouent.. He resented the fact that the people, and even his own staff, considered him a simpleton. He was a simple man, not prone to big words, which he felt complicated things, unnecessarily. But the people demanded a certain level of sophistication, and it made him grimace to think that his staff felt it necessary to prop him up.
Combined with his relative failure in business and the fact he was a college drop out, the world viewed him as an idiot. There were times when he had stepped on his own tongue, fumbling his words and saying things that didn't come out quite right. They laughed at him, and that made him angry, but also sad. They didn't have confidence in him anymore, and that made it hard to get up every morning.
What was the point of being the President if no one would believe you? If no one would follow you? How can you lead a nation that doesn't respect you? As he'd once tried to say, 'fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.' The country didn't want to be fooled again. They didn't listen to him; they tolerated him.
His approval rating was at an all time low, and that only served to depress him further. Republican dinners and rallies could only help his mood so much. And even then, it felt so hollow. They adored him, supported him, but not because he was a good President, but simply because he was the President. Because he was a Christian. Because he was a Republican. Because he was a Texan. Because of his father. It was a love and fanfare borne of all the wrong reasons.
In truth, George hated politics. Every issue had its complications. He had to dodge bullets and hop over landmines as if he was on a battlefield. No matter what he did, he would always offend or hurt someone. There was no way to please everybody, to give everyone what they wanted. As much as wished he could write that one piece of legislation that would bring a smile to everyone's face, it was impossible.
That was politics, and it pissed him off. There were times when he'd thrown caution to the wind, ignoring the political consequences out of sheer spite. He'd regretted every single one of them, but felt he'd stood up to the system. People said he was brash, that he was a cowboy, but he just wanted to get things done, to cut through all the bureaucratic bull.
When he was re-elected, a part of him had screamed. He didn't want the power, the title, or the responsibility, especially if he wasn't even the swordsman, but simply the sword bearer. He was a man with a rubber stamp that only Cheny could ink.
He would never admit it, but sometimes, alone late at night, he wondered if John Kerry would've made a better president. He was a better politician, George thought, and a real soldier who understood war. Advisers could only tell you so much. But Kerry knew in ways that George didn't. He wouldn't have gone to war. But then, he wouldn't have had Cheny breathing down his neck either.
Most would point to the Iraq War and say, 'that's when he started his nose dive.' But George knew better. It was the day that he appointed Dick Cheny that he sowed the seeds of his downfall. The name was like ashes in his mouth. He'd never trusted the man, for good reason, but that hadn't stopped him from ruining everything.
Back in the day, he'd taken the man's advice. Counted him as an ally working to a similar goal. As time when on, he realized it was an alliance of convenience. And now, he knew, it had been an alliance of opportunity.
When 9/11 happened, it was a tragedy and a travesty, for both the victims and the government that was supposed to protect them. George was a Texan, but he'd never really understood why there were militias and people who distrusted the government and it's agencies so much that they stockpiled weapons and planned for invasions and wars on American soil. George didn't understand it, the military was the best in the world, surely they could protect the country alone.
On 9/11 he understood that was not true. If the government could let something like that happen, then it was no wonder why they didn't trust them to protect their families, homes, and interests. It saddened him to think that Americans could have so little faith in it's own government.
Dick had told him "if you strike back at the terrorists, you'll be avenging the deaths of those Americans." It had sounded reasonable enough. If they couldn't protect them, at least they could avenge them, and protect them in the future.
The war against Al-Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan was just. It was righteous, its was provoked. Not many would argue against that.
The war in Iraq, however, was not so clear. Cheny had insisted they take the fight to them. He knew how George wanted to strike one for his old man, and he played to that. Rumsfeld, Powell, they all agreed. They gave George reports of WMDs, and he jumped at the chance to smother an old enemy, so settle the score and make his dad proud.
George blamed them all. Condi, Dick, Colin, Donald, they were all in on it, to some degree. But Dick, he'd been the mastermind, he could tell. The profits of Haliburton spoke clearly enough to him about that. The undisputed contracts, the overcharging. It screamed of war profiteering, but Cheny had managed to have everything swept under the rug.
The man, in essence had started a war so that he could go in and pick up the pieces, all the while making money hand over fist. Cheny and his shareholders drowned themselves in money, blood money. Money printed with the blood of US soldiers and Iraqis.
He hated the man. Despised him and loathed him with all his soul. He had played him, he had used him, and he had ruined him. And Dick would find a way to come out unscathed, while George, George would get the shaft. He'd get booted out of office if he was lucky, impeached if he wasn't.
The Democrates had taken Congress, and that was something he was grateful for. Finally, there was a power that was strong enough to oppose the President, and therefore Cheny. George only hoped they had the will to use it; that they weren't all talk.
There was a knock, and an aid came in carrying a folder. George opened it as the man left, and cursed. It was an intelligence report stating that Iran was supplying weapons to Al-Qaeda.
George had just read another report stating the opposite. But on this copy was a post-it-note that said "we're going with this one". It was in Cheny's handwriting. He could only sit there and seethe. He was trying to do it again!
Picking up his phone, he jabbed the numbers for Cheny's office. The man gave a very casual greeting.
"You can't do this!" George yelled. "Not again!"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. President," he said calmly.
"Don't give me that bullshit. I know what you're doing. I'm not going to let it happen. Not this time."
There was an icy silence. "George, don't be a hero. It doesn't suit you."
"**** you."
"That's more like it. In anycase, it's already started. You'd know that if you read the newspapers."
"You bastard!"
"Where was all this courage when I tapped those people's phones?" he asked in a mocking tone. "I didn't hear you threatening me then."
A pang of guilt went though him. He hadn't had the resolve to oppose Cheny then. But now, now the stakes were much higher. "That was then, this is now. You know damn well we don't know Iran is officially helping insurgents!"
"I suggest you get your stories straight, Mr. President. Because if I don't hear you marching to my tune... well, we all know what will happen, don't we?"
George stood, his chair clattering to the floor. "If you even think about it, it'll be over. I'll resign. And I'll take you down with me."
He laughed. "Both you and I know that you don't have the balls to do that. Now, don't you have a speech in a half hour?" He hung up.
George slammed the phone down. And then did it again, and again until he shattered the handset.
A secret service agent opened the door. "Sir? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine! Get out!" he barked.
"Yes, sir!"
George gritted his teeth, his fists clenched. Cheny still had him in his hands, still had him by the balls. So long as he held his ace up his sleeve, George couldn't do a thing against him. It was a nightmare straight out of a political thriller novel. And possibly the most frightening thing was that if anything happened to him, Cheny would become President. That was something that sent a chill up his spine.
He wanted to stop him. He wanted to do the right thing, but he couldn't. He wanted to be a hero and a patriot, but he wasn't either. Cheny was right. He was a selfish, brat, and he knew it.
He blamed Cheny for all of this. But most of all, he blamed himself, for not being stronger than him. For not being a good President.
The End
I got this idea while chatting with a US buddy of mine. This is my second draft.Any comments are welcome.
This can be considered a What if... depending on what you beleive.
---------------
A Good President
by Falconwind
(C) Copyright 2007. All rights reserved.
Disclaimer: I'm Canadian, so I don't exactly know the intricate details of the White House. But you probably don't know the difference between a "Liberal" and a "liberal", so tit for tat and all that.
This is a fictional story about George W. Bush.
Synopsis:
George W. Bush is very unpopular for his policies and decisions. But what if he's a puppet, and not the puppeteer. What if he's not the criminal, but just another victim.
Taking a sip of his coffee, George W. Bush re-read the speech that he'd been given. It sounded alright to him, though it used a few words that he thought were there to make him look more eleqouent.. He resented the fact that the people, and even his own staff, considered him a simpleton. He was a simple man, not prone to big words, which he felt complicated things, unnecessarily. But the people demanded a certain level of sophistication, and it made him grimace to think that his staff felt it necessary to prop him up.
Combined with his relative failure in business and the fact he was a college drop out, the world viewed him as an idiot. There were times when he had stepped on his own tongue, fumbling his words and saying things that didn't come out quite right. They laughed at him, and that made him angry, but also sad. They didn't have confidence in him anymore, and that made it hard to get up every morning.
What was the point of being the President if no one would believe you? If no one would follow you? How can you lead a nation that doesn't respect you? As he'd once tried to say, 'fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.' The country didn't want to be fooled again. They didn't listen to him; they tolerated him.
His approval rating was at an all time low, and that only served to depress him further. Republican dinners and rallies could only help his mood so much. And even then, it felt so hollow. They adored him, supported him, but not because he was a good President, but simply because he was the President. Because he was a Christian. Because he was a Republican. Because he was a Texan. Because of his father. It was a love and fanfare borne of all the wrong reasons.
In truth, George hated politics. Every issue had its complications. He had to dodge bullets and hop over landmines as if he was on a battlefield. No matter what he did, he would always offend or hurt someone. There was no way to please everybody, to give everyone what they wanted. As much as wished he could write that one piece of legislation that would bring a smile to everyone's face, it was impossible.
That was politics, and it pissed him off. There were times when he'd thrown caution to the wind, ignoring the political consequences out of sheer spite. He'd regretted every single one of them, but felt he'd stood up to the system. People said he was brash, that he was a cowboy, but he just wanted to get things done, to cut through all the bureaucratic bull.
When he was re-elected, a part of him had screamed. He didn't want the power, the title, or the responsibility, especially if he wasn't even the swordsman, but simply the sword bearer. He was a man with a rubber stamp that only Cheny could ink.
He would never admit it, but sometimes, alone late at night, he wondered if John Kerry would've made a better president. He was a better politician, George thought, and a real soldier who understood war. Advisers could only tell you so much. But Kerry knew in ways that George didn't. He wouldn't have gone to war. But then, he wouldn't have had Cheny breathing down his neck either.
Most would point to the Iraq War and say, 'that's when he started his nose dive.' But George knew better. It was the day that he appointed Dick Cheny that he sowed the seeds of his downfall. The name was like ashes in his mouth. He'd never trusted the man, for good reason, but that hadn't stopped him from ruining everything.
Back in the day, he'd taken the man's advice. Counted him as an ally working to a similar goal. As time when on, he realized it was an alliance of convenience. And now, he knew, it had been an alliance of opportunity.
When 9/11 happened, it was a tragedy and a travesty, for both the victims and the government that was supposed to protect them. George was a Texan, but he'd never really understood why there were militias and people who distrusted the government and it's agencies so much that they stockpiled weapons and planned for invasions and wars on American soil. George didn't understand it, the military was the best in the world, surely they could protect the country alone.
On 9/11 he understood that was not true. If the government could let something like that happen, then it was no wonder why they didn't trust them to protect their families, homes, and interests. It saddened him to think that Americans could have so little faith in it's own government.
Dick had told him "if you strike back at the terrorists, you'll be avenging the deaths of those Americans." It had sounded reasonable enough. If they couldn't protect them, at least they could avenge them, and protect them in the future.
The war against Al-Qaeda and the Taliban in Afghanistan was just. It was righteous, its was provoked. Not many would argue against that.
The war in Iraq, however, was not so clear. Cheny had insisted they take the fight to them. He knew how George wanted to strike one for his old man, and he played to that. Rumsfeld, Powell, they all agreed. They gave George reports of WMDs, and he jumped at the chance to smother an old enemy, so settle the score and make his dad proud.
George blamed them all. Condi, Dick, Colin, Donald, they were all in on it, to some degree. But Dick, he'd been the mastermind, he could tell. The profits of Haliburton spoke clearly enough to him about that. The undisputed contracts, the overcharging. It screamed of war profiteering, but Cheny had managed to have everything swept under the rug.
The man, in essence had started a war so that he could go in and pick up the pieces, all the while making money hand over fist. Cheny and his shareholders drowned themselves in money, blood money. Money printed with the blood of US soldiers and Iraqis.
He hated the man. Despised him and loathed him with all his soul. He had played him, he had used him, and he had ruined him. And Dick would find a way to come out unscathed, while George, George would get the shaft. He'd get booted out of office if he was lucky, impeached if he wasn't.
The Democrates had taken Congress, and that was something he was grateful for. Finally, there was a power that was strong enough to oppose the President, and therefore Cheny. George only hoped they had the will to use it; that they weren't all talk.
There was a knock, and an aid came in carrying a folder. George opened it as the man left, and cursed. It was an intelligence report stating that Iran was supplying weapons to Al-Qaeda.
George had just read another report stating the opposite. But on this copy was a post-it-note that said "we're going with this one". It was in Cheny's handwriting. He could only sit there and seethe. He was trying to do it again!
Picking up his phone, he jabbed the numbers for Cheny's office. The man gave a very casual greeting.
"You can't do this!" George yelled. "Not again!"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. President," he said calmly.
"Don't give me that bullshit. I know what you're doing. I'm not going to let it happen. Not this time."
There was an icy silence. "George, don't be a hero. It doesn't suit you."
"**** you."
"That's more like it. In anycase, it's already started. You'd know that if you read the newspapers."
"You bastard!"
"Where was all this courage when I tapped those people's phones?" he asked in a mocking tone. "I didn't hear you threatening me then."
A pang of guilt went though him. He hadn't had the resolve to oppose Cheny then. But now, now the stakes were much higher. "That was then, this is now. You know damn well we don't know Iran is officially helping insurgents!"
"I suggest you get your stories straight, Mr. President. Because if I don't hear you marching to my tune... well, we all know what will happen, don't we?"
George stood, his chair clattering to the floor. "If you even think about it, it'll be over. I'll resign. And I'll take you down with me."
He laughed. "Both you and I know that you don't have the balls to do that. Now, don't you have a speech in a half hour?" He hung up.
George slammed the phone down. And then did it again, and again until he shattered the handset.
A secret service agent opened the door. "Sir? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine! Get out!" he barked.
"Yes, sir!"
George gritted his teeth, his fists clenched. Cheny still had him in his hands, still had him by the balls. So long as he held his ace up his sleeve, George couldn't do a thing against him. It was a nightmare straight out of a political thriller novel. And possibly the most frightening thing was that if anything happened to him, Cheny would become President. That was something that sent a chill up his spine.
He wanted to stop him. He wanted to do the right thing, but he couldn't. He wanted to be a hero and a patriot, but he wasn't either. Cheny was right. He was a selfish, brat, and he knew it.
He blamed Cheny for all of this. But most of all, he blamed himself, for not being stronger than him. For not being a good President.
The End
