Charles, the waiter, appeared again, carrying a small silver bowl filled with lobster salad in one hand and a small garden salad in the other. He placed the garden salad in front of Rice first, and then served the president the lobster salad.
Bush began to inhale the white, lumpy stuff on his plate. “Did you know this canned lobster is fifty years old?” Bush asked Rice. He continued before she could answer. “My grandfather had several thousand cans frozen in liquid nitrogen. I’m the only man in the world who can eat lobster. Quite a feeling of power to eat an extinct animal fifty years after its disappearance from the face of the Earth, I can tell you.” A large piece of lobster fell out of his mouth and onto the now-extinct, tropical ipê-wood table.
“Quite.” Rice watched him eat. He shoved enormous quantities of food into his mouth and made loud smacking and slurping noises as he chewed and swallowed. She knew no one that ate as repulsively as he did. Apart from this habit, his social skills were impeccable. Aside from his long nose, Bush was a good looking, fit man, who dressed well and took pride in his appearance.
Rice looked past Bush, at the original Picasso painting that hung on the wall behind him, The Crying Woman. Feeling the emotion of the painting, she again hoped that this lunch meeting would not end in sexual activity.
Bush noticed that Rice looked a bit uneasy and had not touched her food. “What’s wrong, Sadina,” he spoke with his mouth full, a piece of lobster meat dangling down his chin, “don’t you like your salad? It’s the good stuff, organic produce from my personal agritubes. Not the pesticide- and chemical-fertilizer-laced poison we sell to the masses through ConAg Rice, Inc.” Bush sat on the board of directors of the Sadina Rice-owned agricultural-products corporate behemoth.
“I know that, sir. It’s just that there are so many things on my mind for Wednesday,” responded Rice. “I had a late breakfast, and to be honest, I would rather be at work right now.”
Bush winked at her. “Operation Smoke Out will be a complete success, Sadina. After the move to New Vegas, we won’t have any more problems with these Free Vegas greeno terrorists. Then, I will appoint you as the U.S. secretary of defense.”
Rice smiled, emotionally indifferent to the price she had to pay to attain such a position in Bush’s cabinet.
Bush finished his enormous serving, gulped down his last mouthful of champagne, and belched loudly. Immediately, Charles appeared and cleared both plates. Two other waiters carried in the next course on a large, silver platter – a whole, roasted pheasant, its feathers arranged decoratively around it.
“I hope you like this, Sadie, I shot it myself on my private hunting range.” Apart from fresh, organic vegetables, the upper classes in America ate gourmet-quality meats raised in private agritubes. The vast majority of Americans, on the other hand, barely subsisted on low-quality meatball meat and frozen vegetables sold by ConAg Rice, Inc. The traditional high-fat, high-sugar McMeatball’s restaurant food enjoyed widespread popularity, resulting simultaneously in both malnutrition and obesity all across the nation.
Without offering Rice anything, Bush grabbed a pheasant leg and started to devour it. Between mouthfuls, he asked, “Have you had sex yet with the target we decided on?”
“Yes, as necessary,” Rice answered a bit defensively; she could not determine with what meaning Bush was now looking at her. 
“Oh, you don’t have to defend yourself. It doesn’t bother me,” Bush said, honestly. “But, tell me then, why does he want to kill me?”
“His grandparents were detained and executed without due process of law.”
“Without due process is a necessary thing in America, despite what the Constitution guarantees. From lynching to vigilanteism to the Patriot Act of early last century.”
Bush once again dug in to his food, swallowing mouthfuls of meat without chewing.
Rice sighed as she watched him continue to eat like a pig. She swallowed a big gulp of champagne, and asked “How will your clone perform, Negon? I mean, will they believe that he’s actually you? That’s my biggest concern right now.”
“I’ll speak personally with the clone and tell him that he’ll survive and become a rich, free man for the rest of his days.”
“But the likelihood that he’ll survive is minimal,” said Rice.
“Of course, but he doesn’t know that. I’ll motivate him, don’t you worry about that,” proclaimed Bush.
Rice was amazed at the quantity of food that Bush could shovel into his mouth as the two ate on in silence. She estimated that he had already eaten at least a pound of meat.
Charles appeared again and cleared the dishes from the second course, pouring yet more champagne.
As the couple ate the third course, Big Macs with caviar patties instead of beef patties, the president’s stomach began to emit loud, rumbling, bubbling noises. Bush grimaced and pressed a button on his multifunctional device. Rice sighed again in resignation. She knew what was about to happen.
Bush wiped his hands on a napkin and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Charles, we’ll have a pause in the meal,” he called in a loud voice. Charles appeared with an empty champagne bucket.
Activated by his MFD, a thin plastic hose one inch in diameter emerged from Bush’s navel, humming quietly. The flesh-colored tube grew longer and longer, reaching a length of two feet. Charles held out the champagne bucket and looked to the side as Bush put the end of the hose into the pail and pressed another button on his MFD. A motor buzzed as the contents of Bush’s stomach were pumped into the bucket for the next thirty seconds; Charles sprayed expensive perfume around the table to cover the foul odor. Bush cleaned off the hose and it retracted, vanishing into his navel once again. Charles bowed and disappeared carrying the full bucket. Bush buttoned up his shirt and, whistling light-heartedly, grabbed another Big Mac.
“Lots of the secret special sauce, just the way I like it,” he said to Rice with a nod. He ate the sandwich in only four bites.
Bush had had an artificial stomach surgically implanted about three years earlier. This way, he could enjoy without moderation all the delicious flavors reaped from his private agritubes and not gain a single pound – a 22nd-century bulimic and glutton.
Thirty minutes later, the working meal was over. Bush had approved Rice’s battle plan on all strategic points.
“Should we go back to the House of Light?” Rice asked wishfully.
“In a little bit,” said Bush. He stood up. “First, I think we need to go to you know where.” His eyes glinted in anticipation.
Rice said nothing, putting her mind into political-ladder climbing mode. Bush put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the art museum and down the hallway to a guarded doorway. The president nodded to the soldier and entered a security code into the keypad by the door. It slid open, revealing a passenger conveyer belt. They stepped on and rode it for several minutes through the mansion. Bush again sang the lyrics to the popular song that had been on his mind since the morning’s military meeting. Rice listened wordlessly.
She’s Miss Extreme
A nightmare and a dream
She’s Hell and Heaven
She’s so cute and she’s so mean

The president and Special Agent Rice got off the conveyor belt and stood in the doorway of the first of three rooms where Bush personally tortured political prisoners. Rice forgot about her anxiety and accepted the fact that she had to assume her persona of dominatrix. Slipping into her role, she suddenly commanded in a sharp voice, “Open the door and shut up!”
Bush silently obeyed, a smile crossing his lips.