About the Author David A. Bright has published stories in The Rose & Thorn, Cafe Irreal, Artisan, The Iconoclast, The Cimmerian Journal and other journals. He lives in Onset, near Cape Cod. Day Three Hundred Sixty-Six and Presidential Suite, Five Star Hotel are his first stories in Nuvein.

The President sits rigidly on a settee, carefully filing his nails with a beautiful, onyx handled instrument that had been given to him by the premier of Japan. Chief of Staff Bob Harkins is on the phone at the polished mahogany desk.

“What do we got for poontang tonight Bob?” interrupts the President. He grins devilishly while keeping his narrow blue eyes on his task.

Harkins covers the mouthpiece with a meaty, Midwestern hand. “It’s a surprise, Mr. President.”

“Oh! I like surprises!” A full smile now, one side up, one down on the long, uneven face.

Harkins goes back to his call. The President hums as he files.


An hour later at a press conference the President announces the invasion of Namibia, where oil has recently been discovered. Then, dinner with the governor, where everyone dances around the issue of the failing economy. The main course is exquisitely tender filet mignon with potatoes au gratin and fresh green beans with almonds.

The President leans over to Harkins as if to give an order that will change the world.

“We should be havin oysters,” he says softly. “Shouldn’t we Bob?”

The Chief of Staff heaves an exasperated little sigh. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. President.

The President gives him a reassuring wink. Harkins is a good man, he thinks to himself. Can do anything, can fix any problem. Makes being the leader of the Free World a piece of cake.

“And speaking of cake,” he says out loud, “I wonder what’s for dessert.”

Harkins forces out a chuckle and the guests follow his lead.

“Let them eat cake,” says the governor’s wife wryly. She is an over-intelligent liberal who doesn’t wear quite enough makeup. The governor’s eyes nervously dart back and forth.

Harkins senses she is referring to the President’s veto of a bill providing aid to the homeless. He’s got to defend the President, and he’s got to do it now. “This hasn’t been officially announced yet,” he begins authoritatively, making it up as he goes along, but the President is recommending that an additional two hundred million dollars be appropriated for homeless shelters nationwide.” Over ten years, he says under his breath, for the original bill was for one hundred fifty over five years.

Polite applause. The President beams proudly. Twenty is better than thirty, sings a happy, taunting jingle in his head. Twenty is better than thir-ty.

The governor dabs sweat from his brow with an embroidered cloth napkin. Red marks appear on his wife’s cheeks, making it look as if she has been slapped.

The President wonders what the girl tonight will look like. It could be this woman’s daughter, he thinks. It could be her daughter!

Harkins raises his glass of five hundred dollar wine. ”To our friends—the homeless!”

“Cheers!” says the President, and glasses are raised all around



Back upstairs, the President relaxes in a rich leather recliner in the bedroom, filing his nails and taking an occasional sip of wine. “Where is she Bob where is she,” he shouts. He enjoys pestering his Chief of Staff.

Harkins, at the desk in the front room, covers the mouthpiece once again, for he is almost always on the phone. “Coming, Mr. President,” he answers wearily. “Coming.”

“Is that a pun, Bob?”

Just then there are two loud thunks on the main door from the brass door knocker—a gift from the Queen of England. The President covets it so much he brings it on the road with him. Harkins has it installed on the main door of every suite the President stays at. The President refuses to go up to his suite without assurance from Harkins that the knocker has been installed.

Harkins slams the phone down, strides over and swings the door wide. A female voice immediately brightens the heavy air like a bouquet of flowers.


“Oh what a nice suite!” And then a sweet, happy giggle. “Nice desk too!” There is a rapping of knuckles on the desk. “Solid! You must be important.” She trills on—twenty words to his every two. “So, um, can I sit down?”

Harkins rests his hand on the young lady’s back and politely guides her to the bedroom doorway. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

The President swivels the recliner toward her, smiles and holds up his glass in tribute. She is a tall, pretty redhead with very fair skin and a long graceful nose. She is wearing a form fitting red dress with gray and black striped fur at the neckline, which swoops just low enough to reveal a hint of breast.

“Oh, oh,” she says, putting her hand to her mouth. “You’re, you’re—“Her eyes touch on the shirttail covering his privates, then quickly shift to the doorway, the wall, the windows. “You’re—“

“Mr. President,” grins Harkins, “may I introduce Princess Babbling Brook, also know as—“

“Princess,” interrupts the President. “We’ll just call her Princess.” Smiling warmly, he stands and extends his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” She is delightful, simply delightful—pleasing to the eye but far from boring. Harkins has done a splendid job.

It takes her but a few seconds to recover and soon she is flitting about the room, critiquing a Monet painting on the wall, looking out the window and commenting on a long white limo far below.

“Mr. President, the delicacy you ordered should be arriving soon,” intones Harkins.

The President’s eyes get bigger. “Oh, you mean oysters?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Oysters, ugh,” says Princess from the other side of the room. “I never had oysters before.”

“Maybe you can try just one,” says the President.

“Well—maybe just one.” For a moment it seems like she is in control here—in control over the leader of the Free World and his Chief of Staff.

“In the meantime, I’ll just leave the two of you alone.” Harkins eases his way back to the desk, leaving the bedroom door open.

Princess stops near the President without looking directly at him, nervously interlocks the fingers of both hands and turns them outward. “Well!” She is temporarily out of words.

“Would you like some wine?”

Relieved smile. “Yes. Yes, thank you.” And then she if off again, roaming about the room. “You know,” she calls over her shoulder, “they say it’s supposed to be sunny out tomorrow.” She bumps into a table. “Oh, excuse me,” she says as if it was human, and touches it lightly.

Simply delightful. The President tells himself he’ll have to reward Harkins somehow.

“So what did you do before you were President?”

“I was a computer programmer for a short while.” She must like me, he thinks. If they ask questions that means they like you.

“Wow! Computer programmer. Did you like doing that?”

“Yes, I did,” he answers proudly. “It was like a game.”

While he is pouring the wine his guest spies the ornate onyx nail file which had been a gift of the Japanese premier.

“Oh, isn’t this nice!” Standing in front of the President, she holds it up to the light, above eye level, to better see the delicate design painted on the handle.

A click sounds from the other room, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath by Princess. “Oh, oh,” she murmurs, and slumps to the floor.

Shocked, the President looks down at her. The first thing he notices is how vividly her pale white skin and bright red dress contrast with the staid Oriental rug. Then he notices there is something on her upper arm, something thin. Harkins rushes into the room.

“Hah!” he shouts.

“Bob—what the hell is going on?”

“Tranquilizer dart. I knew I couldn’t trust her! I just knew it. Too cheery, too artificial.”

The President kneels beside the girl, who is not moving. “What?!” He feels anger towards Harkins, possibly for the first time ever.

“She was going to stab you, Mr. President.”

“With the nail file?”

“Yes.”

“No, couldn’t be.”

“I was watching her. Caught her just in time.”

A few drops of thick blood ooze from the girl’s arm. It is shockingly red, more so than that of her dress or her hair. The dart is small and unobtrusive—rather James Bond-ish. The President has the urge to pull it out but wonders if there are barbs on the shaft to prevent this. She seemed like such a sweet girl. Confused, he stands up.

“Bob—“

“Trust me, Mr. President. It was an attempt on your life. Someone sent her.”

“She’s not dead?”

“No, oh no. Only tranquilized.”

“Like an animal at the zoo?”

“Sort of.”

“What happens to her now?”

“You don’t need to know, Mr. President. You don’t need to know. But she’ll be fine.”

The President drops to his knees again and begins pulling up her red dress. “Poontang!” he yells like a child. “I want my Poontang.”