A Matter of Authority

The President ran his index finger through the edge of the pile of salt on his desk. “So what you’re telling me, Mike, is this used to be an FBI Agent.”

The Vice President stood in front of the desk. The Attorney General peeked from behind him uneasily. Behind the AG, the Director of the FBI looked back toward the partially-open door like he wanted to bolt out of it. An uneasy silence hung in the air, as thick as the musky, fruity smell of the Director’s body spray.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” The Vice President moved to reveal more of the Attorney General. “I don’t trust these two clowns any farther than I can throw them, but I know the agent who filed the report. She used to work out of Indianapolis. She’s solid.”

The Attorney General frowned at being called a clown, a few seconds late, as if it had taken that long for the insult to reach his brain. “W-wait a minute! I’m no—I mean, what do we do about this?” The FBI Director behind him squeaked out a “Yeah! What?”

“We?” the President said, gently scooping the salt into a brass container with the FBI seal on the side, so as not to lose a single grain. “I’m not going to do anything. You, however, might want to rethink your brilliant plan to shut down those churches. Clearly, the Homeowner is not pleased with you at all.”

He dismissed them before the locusts showed up.

I don’t often delve into current events, but sometimes I get close to them for the purposes of an interesting kind of story. This is one of those.

Play along with the writing prompt here!

(Photo Credit: mkupiec7 on Pixabay)