Bush mixed a new color on his palette and began to paint Nitra Khan’s combat boots. Unexpectedly, the door burst open and Vera Dan Bush entered the studio.
Bush’s second wife was twenty-eight years old. A dirty blond of Scandinavian descent with bright, emerald-green eyes and freckles, she was the daughter of a society family and had been a model and actress before marrying Bush.
Vera Dan staggered visibly as she walked over to Bush standing at the easel. It had been a typical day for her, consuming eight doses of blue ice.
“Hello, my darling. It’s lovely to see you,” greeted Bush facetiously, “but please don’t disturb me right now.” He was barely able to contain his anger at the interruption.
Vera Dan stood beside him, glaring at the naked model. Then, pointing at the painting, she slowly shook her head. “Who the hell is that, then?” She yelled angrily. “Nitra Khan?”
“Yes, it’s the queen of the She-Huns.”
Vera Dan abruptly changed the subject. “Negon, listen to me! I just got back from New Vegas and have seen my bedroom. It’s completely different than what we agreed on last month. It’s only one thousand-square feet and has no balconies onto the main light shaft. The rooms for my servants are tiny—”
“Not now, Vera Dan!” Bush could not remain calm any longer. “I have only a few minutes of this light left and I must take advantage of it. We can talk about this tomorrow!” Bush’s voice rose.
“Shut up about your precious light!” she continued, completely ignoring him. “The servant’s rooms are tiny. They’ll be very disappointed and vindictive. Of course, your rooms and studio get all the light. For what? For this so called,” she made a sweeping gesture with her hand and took on a sarcastic tone, “art?” The president’s wife stared at Seeta’s breasts, “And now you’re bringing your whores here, right into my house?” she jeered.
“Vera Dan, leave at once!” commanded Bush.
Vera Dan continued, “Where did this one come from, president crooked-cock?”
Seeta suppressed a laugh.
Bush could not tolerate this insubordination from his wife. Even after plastic surgery for a penis extension and beautification, she continued to make fun of “little Negon.” Bush was truly frustrated and angry now. He could sense that the artistic inspiration of moments ago had abandoned him.
“What do you think of his cock?” Vera Dan aimed the question at the naked model, stood a few feet away.
“Okay, that’s it Vera Dan. Leave right now or else!”
“Or else what?” she folded her arms and waited. Now, speaking directly to the model, she said, “Our bible-thumping president spends millions on advertising against pre-marital sex and for monogamy, but he fucks anything that moves. Well, anything that inflicts pain on him and moves—”
“That’s it, woman!” Bush pushed a button and screamed into his MFD, “Code P, red!” God damn this woman. I should have her eliminated, like the last one, he thought. He looked upward and said softly, “Really, my Lord, damn her straight to heck.”
The door flew open and four Secret Service agents rushed into the room. They scanned the room for an enemy threat and were clearly surprised not to see one.
“Sir? Code P, red?” asked the lead agent.
“Yes, yes. Get this woman out of here,” he nodded towards Vera Dan. “House arrest. Take her to her quarters.”
The soldiers grabbed Vera Dan by the arms. She resisted fiercely as all four men struggled to get her out the door.
She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Kill him with that chain, you bitch! Do it for me! I’ll reward you richly!”
The door closed behind them. Bush pulled a black ice crystal from a pillbox next to the easel and inhaled it deeply. He looked up through the ceiling; the moon had already disappeared behind the thick blanket of clouds. Bush calmly picked up the mixing palette and pressed it onto the painting, watching as it slowly slid down the canvas, leaving a trail of jumbled colors in its wake.
“But, Mr. President, surely that was worth saving? We could have finished it another day,” said Seeta, trying to calm him down.
The frustrated artist looked up at her with an expression of maniacal rage on his face. There was no trace there of the happiness of only moments before. She knew not to say another word.
Without warning, Bush kicked the easel and the painting flew across the room, landing on the floor with a thud. He walked over to it and jumped up and down on it, a childish temper tantrum gripping him completely.
After destroying the painting, Bush closed his eyes, took a deep breath and walked over to Seeta, who retreated backwards a few steps. “Don’t worry, Seeta, it wasn’t your fault.”
Out of the artistic mindset, Bush was already thinking of Wednesday night and Operation Smoke Out; he did not want Seeta to be afraid of him.
“Wait here in the studio. One of my guards will pay you and escort you home.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” she said. “I’m looking forward to our Wednesday night session at the Dark Temple.”
“As am I.”
She strode past him towards a chair, grabbing his balls and giving him a quick, hard squeeze. A jolt of pleasure shot through Negon R. Bush.