Fic: The Usual Insanity
Written for belantana for the crossover meme. (The prompt being Evie from The Mummy meeting someone from The West Wing. I don't propose for the others to be this long, but belantana kind of challenged me to introduce her to the show, which is new to me, too. I couldn't include Toby or Leo, but they get refs.)
Story: The Usual Insanity
Author: lost_spook
Rating: All ages
Word Count: 2578
Characters/Pairings: Evelyn O'Connell, Sam Seaborn. Also Donna Moss, Josh Lyman, CJ Cregg, President Bartlett.
Warnings: Late S1, None. (The only thing that could even count as a spoiler refers to something in the first 20 mins of the series.)
Summary: There’s a crazy, beautiful librarian (or, possibly a ghost), in Sam’s office. With an urn. Nobody else is surprised.
***
Sam Seaborn was wrestling with a speech for the President. Technically speaking, the address to the annual assembly of the inter-state pea growers' association wasn’t a shining beacon in the political calendar, but it still called for some artistry in appealing to the target audience and avoiding the vegetable-related jokes that everyone else thought it was amusing to suggest. He had the second draft printed off, all but ready to present to the president for last minute alterations, when she turned up.
He had his head down over the paper, so maybe that accounted for why he didn’t see or hear her enter, until she was suddenly there, putting a large, vaguely cat-shaped Egyptian urn down on his print out.
“Oof,” she said, leaning on the desk, as if to steady herself. She looked up out of wide dark eyes and stared about her. “Well, that certainly wasn’t what we expected. I suppose I should know by now that one shouldn’t read an inscription aloud, but it’s so hard not to, isn’t it?” And then she slipped and disappeared behind the desk with a short cry. “Whoops.”
Sam raised his eyebrows, and then opened his mouth and shut it again, his brain taking some time to assess the situation, but if he wasn’t imagining things then an incredibly beautiful girl (as in too stunning for words) was now picking herself off the ground on the other side of his desk. She pushed back her long wavy, black hair, giving an apologetic smile as she did so; a quirk to it, as if wanting him to share the joke. And she was clearly crazy. Plus, she had an urn. He got as far as holding up his pen, and trying to think of a question.
“Oh, how rude of me,” she said, smiling directly at him, which was enough to send the few logical facts he’d tried to ascertain scattering again. “I haven’t introduced myself and you must be wondering what I’m doing here.”
He muttered, “Oh, no. I mean, yes, actually.”
“I’m Evelyn O’Connell,” she said. “Now, let me find the proper page, and I shall translate that inscription again - properly this time. I expect I was a bit hasty, don’t you? Or, of course, it could have been some horrible curse all along.”
He swallowed, and said, “It’s hard to say.” He got over the Smile, and returned to the issue of her being In His Office. With an urn. “Did you say curse?”
“Oh,” she said, sitting down on the nearest chair, and giving him a rueful look. “You’re going to tell me you don’t believe in any of that silly mumbo-jumbo curse nonsense, aren’t you? Well, I think you’re quite right in general, except that some of them do turn out to have a surprising amount of power.” She leant back as she finished, and looked almost gleeful about the statement.
He tried another tack. “I’m sure you shouldn’t be here. Who let you in?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she returned, leaning forward again. “I shouldn’t be here, so if you would only be kind and lend me your pen, I shall work this out and get back.” She paused then, with a frown. “At least, I hope. What if I’m trapped here? Oh, dear. I do hope Rick and Jonathan don’t do something silly. They might, you know.”
Sam folded his arms. “Don’t worry. You won’t be. Security will be seeing you out very shortly, unless you can explain.”
“That really isn’t the problem,” she said. “Now, shush, please, and let me finish this. After all, if it is a curse, there could be all sorts of hideous consequences, and I don’t suppose you’d like that much.”
Humour the crazy lady, he reminded himself. “No, I don’t suppose I would.”
*
Sam poked his head out of the office. “Did anyone send a woman in to see me?”
There was a general chorus of no’s.
He frowned. “Well, it’s funny, because there’s one in there now. With an urn.”
“An urn?” said Donna Moss, presenting him with a memo from Josh, and stopping at this announcement. Her eyes widened. “Has somebody died?”
“No,” he said, and then thought about it. “At least, I hope not.”
She frowned. “Why else would you have an urn?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’d like it if someone could tell me who she is and that I’m not going crazy and imagining things, because either she’s mad, or I am.”
Donna bit back a smile, and then peered into his office. “Nobody there. You must be crazy,” she told him, before sweeping onwards with a flick of her blonde hair.
*
“I’ve heard this place is haunted,” said Sam, conversationally, sitting on his desk, as she concentrated on the hieroglyphics she’d scribbled all over his speech. “If you’re a ghost, I should warn you, it’s not much fun in here. You could always try next door. Bet Toby wouldn’t even see you.”
She glanced up. “Please. Do be quiet - if I get this wrong, it could be disastrous, and I do my best, but I’m not an expert in the field.” She gave another one of those quirky little smiles. “Well, not yet.”
“Fine,” he said, “only that bit of paper was important.”
Evie looked back up again. “Oh!”
“I mean, it’s sort of about peas, but it is a presidential speech, nevertheless.”
She smiled. “Oh, did you write it? I thought it was quite pretty in places - and that explains why you were quite so enthusiastic about America, because personally, all the Americans I’ve met have been obnoxious, bumptious, crude, dirty freebooters with a tendency to shoot at things.” Then she looked down with a slow smile. “Except for one. Well, he does like to shoot at things, but then some people deserve to be shot at, don’t they?”
“Oh,” said Sam. “Pretty?”
She nodded, eager to please despite the rough dismissal of his entire nation. “I thought it was a lovely simile on the second page. I’m so sorry if I’ve spoiled it.”
“I can print it off again,” he said, forgetting to call for security, or not to be sucked into conversation with the crazy lady who might be a ghost. Plus, now there was a point to be proven and once there was a point to be proven, Sam found it hard to let go. “You don’t like Americans? All Americans?”
“Oh, I’m sure some of you are nice enough,” she said. “I do wish you’d stop talking. Patience, you know, is a virtue - and silence is golden.”
“Because, actually, we Americans are quite sophisticated these days, and we happen to have made some significant contributions to the world, in addition to developing a civilisation that is, in fact, the envy of most other countries. Some of us, anyway,” he amended, being fair. “I happen to be quite fond of our system of government. One or two minor things, perhaps, but I like to think we make a difference. And what are you doing in the White House if that’s the case?”
“I’m ignoring you,” she informed him, all her attention on the urn and the paper, and the book.
He paused. “That thing doesn’t have… well, a dead person in it, does it?”
“No,” said Evie, sitting up with a smile, and a glint in her eye.
“Good.”
“It probably has the internal organs - if anything’s left by this time. Do you want to hear about the process of mummification?”
Sam sat down at his desk. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. You carry on there. This is my office, and you’re an intruder, but fine, don’t mind me.”
*
“There,” said Donna to Josh Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff, putting a typed up letter on his desk. “Do you know why Sam’s got a girl in his office with an urn?”
He looked up slowly, frowning. “Is this a joke? Because I … don’t get it.”
“And there’s a thing,” she said, screwing up her face. “You see -.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Donna, I am kind of busy. Leo McGarry also has a thing, and his thing is way more important than your thing -.”
“How do you know?” she returned, with a pout. “I haven’t told you what my thing is. It could be the end of world civilisation as we know it.”
Josh sighed, and said, “Okay. Tell me your thing, but somehow I don’t see how anything involving Sam and an urn could be the end of world civilisation, or even this administration, and trust me, the other thing could be.”
“Well, I lied,” she said, biting her lip. “It seemed funny at the time, but maybe Sam really thinks he’s crazy. Do you think I should go back and tell him I can see the lady with the urn?”
Josh stared at her. “Donna. You want to know what I think?”
She nodded.
“I think you’re crazy. And, yes, if you lied, you should tell Sam. He’s busy with the speech about corn, or potatoes, or whatever, so he’ll probably be grateful.”
“Peas,” said Donna. She flounced back out, letting the door fall shut behind her.
He looked up, too late. “An urn?”
*
“CJ,” said Sam, moving across to her, breaking off his conversation with the girl, who has was beginning to be convinced really was a ghost. She seemed to think it was the Twenties, for one thing. He coloured. “You’re probably wondering why I was talking to myself.”
The tall, red-headed woman paused and gave him a stare through her glasses. “No, I was wondering why you were so rude to that woman just because I walked in the door.”
“Yes, well, I was practising - I - wait, you can see her?”
She gave him a worried glance, and nodded. “Not being blind, yes. Sam, are you okay? Are the vegetables finally getting to you?”
“Ask me tomorrow,” he said. He looked at Evie, rewriting the passage again, her tongue sticking out slightly as she did so. “So… I should definitely call security.”
CJ Cregg became suddenly very serious. “Yes, Sam, you should. One thing: she’s not a hooker, is she?”
“That,” he said, glaring, “isn’t funny. Actually, as it happens, she’s a librarian.”
She smirked at him, then turned on her heel, and left.
“You know,” he said, aloud, to the air, “that should have sounded a lot better, but it didn’t. Weird. Why is that?”
*
“Aha!” said Evie. “That’s it!” She waved the now almost unrecognisable script about. “Now, if I read this out, and turn the top of the urn - the cat’s head - like so, then I should be back home. I hope.” Then she picked up his paperweight and widened her eyes. “Oh. This must be why I’m here! Do you mind if I take this? This must have come from the same tomb. It’s worn down, but the head must have been part of the matching set -.”
Sam said, “Well, actually that was given to the President by a high-ranking Egyptian official whose name I’m not at liberty to mention, only there was a whole lot of other stuff and it sort of ended up being used as a paperweight, but I think there are official documents you need to sign before I could possibly let you have it. There might be a diplomatic incident.”
“It’s a priceless relic,” she said, “and it’s also terribly dangerous. See that cartouche? It means that this was taken from the tomb of Seti the First. It’s almost indecipherable now, it’s been so worn, but it’s there. Now, wish me luck -.”
He said, “Actually, now you’re trying to steal things, I’m going to call security. I don’t know why I didn’t do that half an hour ago.”
Sam reached for the phone, as she began reading something out in what was presumably Ancient Egyptian. When he turned his head, she’d vanished, and the urn and the artefact-cum-paperweight with her.
At the same moment, the power cut out. Outside, he was sure he heard a crash of thunder.
*
“I like the little decorations,” said President Bartlett, eyeing Sam over the top of his reading glasses, as he was standing in front of him in the Oval Office. “I mean, the part about the peas is good, especially the simile on the second page, but not as good as the Ancient Egyptian round the edges.”
He paused. “Sir. I think those are hieroglyphs. The bit at the end, I understand, is a cartouche.”
“Sam?”
“Sir.”
He glared at him. “I know it’s hieroglyphics. What I’m trying to ask - politely - is why are they all over the draft speech for these darned pea-pickers?”
“Yes. Sorry about that,” said Sam. “It’s a bit of a long story, but we haven’t got the power back yet and I can’t print off a fresh copy, and you were kind of insistent on seeing it.”
The President glanced at the candles around him. “The marvels of modern technology,” he agreed with a wry twist to his mouth.
“Sir,” said Sam. “You haven’t ever heard of a ghost in the West Wing, have you? Particularly a female ghost. British. A librarian. Doesn’t like Americans.”
“Impertinent sort of spectre to get in the White House,” he returned, frowning at him. “I’m pretty sure we only take patriotic spooks round here. Is there a reason?”
Sam hesitated.
“Of course,” continued Josiah Bartlett, with a sudden gleam in his eye, “there was a story about the Lincoln Bedroom I heard once, although I can’t say the source was reliable -.”
Sam carefully negotiated the line between offending the President and getting an answer to his current query before sitting through what would undoubtedly be a long and discursive tale. “Sir, if you don’t mind -.”
“I do mind. It’s a great anecdote, and I happen to be the President of the United States, and you interrupted me, which is rude, even if I wasn’t.”
He said, “Sorry, sir. It’s only - I saw something, and I’m not going crazy, because CJ saw it, too. Do you think we need to - I don’t know - call in a priest?”
“Sam,” said the President. “It’s been a long day. Has the ghost gone?”
“Yes.”
“Right,” he said. “Well, if this unpatriotic spectre comes back, tell me. Otherwise, get me a non-illustrated version of this speech, and I’ll be happy. More importantly, don’t you think I should fit in the old peas/peace gag somewhere?”
“I think it would be prudent to avoid it.”
He nodded, with a sigh. “Knew you’d say that. What did this so-called ghost actually do?”
“Drew hieroglyphs on my speech and stole a paperweight that was a gift from an Egyptian official. I suppose I’ll have to report that. It’ll be an interesting form to fill out.”
“Well, that’s what I call an original spectre,” said the President. “If she turns up again, tell me. I’d like to meet her.”
“And you don’t think I’m crazy?”
He said, “Oh, I think you’re crazy, but not any more so than usual. Now, get out, unless you want to hear the story about the bishop and the ghost in the Lincoln Bedroom.”
“After I’ve got the printer working, I’ll be delighted, sir,” he said, and disappeared.
*
They never warned you it would be like this in the White House.
***
Story: The Usual Insanity
Author: lost_spook
Rating: All ages
Word Count: 2578
Characters/Pairings: Evelyn O'Connell, Sam Seaborn. Also Donna Moss, Josh Lyman, CJ Cregg, President Bartlett.
Warnings: Late S1, None. (The only thing that could even count as a spoiler refers to something in the first 20 mins of the series.)
Summary: There’s a crazy, beautiful librarian (or, possibly a ghost), in Sam’s office. With an urn. Nobody else is surprised.
***
Sam Seaborn was wrestling with a speech for the President. Technically speaking, the address to the annual assembly of the inter-state pea growers' association wasn’t a shining beacon in the political calendar, but it still called for some artistry in appealing to the target audience and avoiding the vegetable-related jokes that everyone else thought it was amusing to suggest. He had the second draft printed off, all but ready to present to the president for last minute alterations, when she turned up.
He had his head down over the paper, so maybe that accounted for why he didn’t see or hear her enter, until she was suddenly there, putting a large, vaguely cat-shaped Egyptian urn down on his print out.
“Oof,” she said, leaning on the desk, as if to steady herself. She looked up out of wide dark eyes and stared about her. “Well, that certainly wasn’t what we expected. I suppose I should know by now that one shouldn’t read an inscription aloud, but it’s so hard not to, isn’t it?” And then she slipped and disappeared behind the desk with a short cry. “Whoops.”
Sam raised his eyebrows, and then opened his mouth and shut it again, his brain taking some time to assess the situation, but if he wasn’t imagining things then an incredibly beautiful girl (as in too stunning for words) was now picking herself off the ground on the other side of his desk. She pushed back her long wavy, black hair, giving an apologetic smile as she did so; a quirk to it, as if wanting him to share the joke. And she was clearly crazy. Plus, she had an urn. He got as far as holding up his pen, and trying to think of a question.
“Oh, how rude of me,” she said, smiling directly at him, which was enough to send the few logical facts he’d tried to ascertain scattering again. “I haven’t introduced myself and you must be wondering what I’m doing here.”
He muttered, “Oh, no. I mean, yes, actually.”
“I’m Evelyn O’Connell,” she said. “Now, let me find the proper page, and I shall translate that inscription again - properly this time. I expect I was a bit hasty, don’t you? Or, of course, it could have been some horrible curse all along.”
He swallowed, and said, “It’s hard to say.” He got over the Smile, and returned to the issue of her being In His Office. With an urn. “Did you say curse?”
“Oh,” she said, sitting down on the nearest chair, and giving him a rueful look. “You’re going to tell me you don’t believe in any of that silly mumbo-jumbo curse nonsense, aren’t you? Well, I think you’re quite right in general, except that some of them do turn out to have a surprising amount of power.” She leant back as she finished, and looked almost gleeful about the statement.
He tried another tack. “I’m sure you shouldn’t be here. Who let you in?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she returned, leaning forward again. “I shouldn’t be here, so if you would only be kind and lend me your pen, I shall work this out and get back.” She paused then, with a frown. “At least, I hope. What if I’m trapped here? Oh, dear. I do hope Rick and Jonathan don’t do something silly. They might, you know.”
Sam folded his arms. “Don’t worry. You won’t be. Security will be seeing you out very shortly, unless you can explain.”
“That really isn’t the problem,” she said. “Now, shush, please, and let me finish this. After all, if it is a curse, there could be all sorts of hideous consequences, and I don’t suppose you’d like that much.”
Humour the crazy lady, he reminded himself. “No, I don’t suppose I would.”
*
Sam poked his head out of the office. “Did anyone send a woman in to see me?”
There was a general chorus of no’s.
He frowned. “Well, it’s funny, because there’s one in there now. With an urn.”
“An urn?” said Donna Moss, presenting him with a memo from Josh, and stopping at this announcement. Her eyes widened. “Has somebody died?”
“No,” he said, and then thought about it. “At least, I hope not.”
She frowned. “Why else would you have an urn?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’d like it if someone could tell me who she is and that I’m not going crazy and imagining things, because either she’s mad, or I am.”
Donna bit back a smile, and then peered into his office. “Nobody there. You must be crazy,” she told him, before sweeping onwards with a flick of her blonde hair.
*
“I’ve heard this place is haunted,” said Sam, conversationally, sitting on his desk, as she concentrated on the hieroglyphics she’d scribbled all over his speech. “If you’re a ghost, I should warn you, it’s not much fun in here. You could always try next door. Bet Toby wouldn’t even see you.”
She glanced up. “Please. Do be quiet - if I get this wrong, it could be disastrous, and I do my best, but I’m not an expert in the field.” She gave another one of those quirky little smiles. “Well, not yet.”
“Fine,” he said, “only that bit of paper was important.”
Evie looked back up again. “Oh!”
“I mean, it’s sort of about peas, but it is a presidential speech, nevertheless.”
She smiled. “Oh, did you write it? I thought it was quite pretty in places - and that explains why you were quite so enthusiastic about America, because personally, all the Americans I’ve met have been obnoxious, bumptious, crude, dirty freebooters with a tendency to shoot at things.” Then she looked down with a slow smile. “Except for one. Well, he does like to shoot at things, but then some people deserve to be shot at, don’t they?”
“Oh,” said Sam. “Pretty?”
She nodded, eager to please despite the rough dismissal of his entire nation. “I thought it was a lovely simile on the second page. I’m so sorry if I’ve spoiled it.”
“I can print it off again,” he said, forgetting to call for security, or not to be sucked into conversation with the crazy lady who might be a ghost. Plus, now there was a point to be proven and once there was a point to be proven, Sam found it hard to let go. “You don’t like Americans? All Americans?”
“Oh, I’m sure some of you are nice enough,” she said. “I do wish you’d stop talking. Patience, you know, is a virtue - and silence is golden.”
“Because, actually, we Americans are quite sophisticated these days, and we happen to have made some significant contributions to the world, in addition to developing a civilisation that is, in fact, the envy of most other countries. Some of us, anyway,” he amended, being fair. “I happen to be quite fond of our system of government. One or two minor things, perhaps, but I like to think we make a difference. And what are you doing in the White House if that’s the case?”
“I’m ignoring you,” she informed him, all her attention on the urn and the paper, and the book.
He paused. “That thing doesn’t have… well, a dead person in it, does it?”
“No,” said Evie, sitting up with a smile, and a glint in her eye.
“Good.”
“It probably has the internal organs - if anything’s left by this time. Do you want to hear about the process of mummification?”
Sam sat down at his desk. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. You carry on there. This is my office, and you’re an intruder, but fine, don’t mind me.”
*
“There,” said Donna to Josh Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff, putting a typed up letter on his desk. “Do you know why Sam’s got a girl in his office with an urn?”
He looked up slowly, frowning. “Is this a joke? Because I … don’t get it.”
“And there’s a thing,” she said, screwing up her face. “You see -.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Donna, I am kind of busy. Leo McGarry also has a thing, and his thing is way more important than your thing -.”
“How do you know?” she returned, with a pout. “I haven’t told you what my thing is. It could be the end of world civilisation as we know it.”
Josh sighed, and said, “Okay. Tell me your thing, but somehow I don’t see how anything involving Sam and an urn could be the end of world civilisation, or even this administration, and trust me, the other thing could be.”
“Well, I lied,” she said, biting her lip. “It seemed funny at the time, but maybe Sam really thinks he’s crazy. Do you think I should go back and tell him I can see the lady with the urn?”
Josh stared at her. “Donna. You want to know what I think?”
She nodded.
“I think you’re crazy. And, yes, if you lied, you should tell Sam. He’s busy with the speech about corn, or potatoes, or whatever, so he’ll probably be grateful.”
“Peas,” said Donna. She flounced back out, letting the door fall shut behind her.
He looked up, too late. “An urn?”
*
“CJ,” said Sam, moving across to her, breaking off his conversation with the girl, who has was beginning to be convinced really was a ghost. She seemed to think it was the Twenties, for one thing. He coloured. “You’re probably wondering why I was talking to myself.”
The tall, red-headed woman paused and gave him a stare through her glasses. “No, I was wondering why you were so rude to that woman just because I walked in the door.”
“Yes, well, I was practising - I - wait, you can see her?”
She gave him a worried glance, and nodded. “Not being blind, yes. Sam, are you okay? Are the vegetables finally getting to you?”
“Ask me tomorrow,” he said. He looked at Evie, rewriting the passage again, her tongue sticking out slightly as she did so. “So… I should definitely call security.”
CJ Cregg became suddenly very serious. “Yes, Sam, you should. One thing: she’s not a hooker, is she?”
“That,” he said, glaring, “isn’t funny. Actually, as it happens, she’s a librarian.”
She smirked at him, then turned on her heel, and left.
“You know,” he said, aloud, to the air, “that should have sounded a lot better, but it didn’t. Weird. Why is that?”
*
“Aha!” said Evie. “That’s it!” She waved the now almost unrecognisable script about. “Now, if I read this out, and turn the top of the urn - the cat’s head - like so, then I should be back home. I hope.” Then she picked up his paperweight and widened her eyes. “Oh. This must be why I’m here! Do you mind if I take this? This must have come from the same tomb. It’s worn down, but the head must have been part of the matching set -.”
Sam said, “Well, actually that was given to the President by a high-ranking Egyptian official whose name I’m not at liberty to mention, only there was a whole lot of other stuff and it sort of ended up being used as a paperweight, but I think there are official documents you need to sign before I could possibly let you have it. There might be a diplomatic incident.”
“It’s a priceless relic,” she said, “and it’s also terribly dangerous. See that cartouche? It means that this was taken from the tomb of Seti the First. It’s almost indecipherable now, it’s been so worn, but it’s there. Now, wish me luck -.”
He said, “Actually, now you’re trying to steal things, I’m going to call security. I don’t know why I didn’t do that half an hour ago.”
Sam reached for the phone, as she began reading something out in what was presumably Ancient Egyptian. When he turned his head, she’d vanished, and the urn and the artefact-cum-paperweight with her.
At the same moment, the power cut out. Outside, he was sure he heard a crash of thunder.
*
“I like the little decorations,” said President Bartlett, eyeing Sam over the top of his reading glasses, as he was standing in front of him in the Oval Office. “I mean, the part about the peas is good, especially the simile on the second page, but not as good as the Ancient Egyptian round the edges.”
He paused. “Sir. I think those are hieroglyphs. The bit at the end, I understand, is a cartouche.”
“Sam?”
“Sir.”
He glared at him. “I know it’s hieroglyphics. What I’m trying to ask - politely - is why are they all over the draft speech for these darned pea-pickers?”
“Yes. Sorry about that,” said Sam. “It’s a bit of a long story, but we haven’t got the power back yet and I can’t print off a fresh copy, and you were kind of insistent on seeing it.”
The President glanced at the candles around him. “The marvels of modern technology,” he agreed with a wry twist to his mouth.
“Sir,” said Sam. “You haven’t ever heard of a ghost in the West Wing, have you? Particularly a female ghost. British. A librarian. Doesn’t like Americans.”
“Impertinent sort of spectre to get in the White House,” he returned, frowning at him. “I’m pretty sure we only take patriotic spooks round here. Is there a reason?”
Sam hesitated.
“Of course,” continued Josiah Bartlett, with a sudden gleam in his eye, “there was a story about the Lincoln Bedroom I heard once, although I can’t say the source was reliable -.”
Sam carefully negotiated the line between offending the President and getting an answer to his current query before sitting through what would undoubtedly be a long and discursive tale. “Sir, if you don’t mind -.”
“I do mind. It’s a great anecdote, and I happen to be the President of the United States, and you interrupted me, which is rude, even if I wasn’t.”
He said, “Sorry, sir. It’s only - I saw something, and I’m not going crazy, because CJ saw it, too. Do you think we need to - I don’t know - call in a priest?”
“Sam,” said the President. “It’s been a long day. Has the ghost gone?”
“Yes.”
“Right,” he said. “Well, if this unpatriotic spectre comes back, tell me. Otherwise, get me a non-illustrated version of this speech, and I’ll be happy. More importantly, don’t you think I should fit in the old peas/peace gag somewhere?”
“I think it would be prudent to avoid it.”
He nodded, with a sigh. “Knew you’d say that. What did this so-called ghost actually do?”
“Drew hieroglyphs on my speech and stole a paperweight that was a gift from an Egyptian official. I suppose I’ll have to report that. It’ll be an interesting form to fill out.”
“Well, that’s what I call an original spectre,” said the President. “If she turns up again, tell me. I’d like to meet her.”
“And you don’t think I’m crazy?”
He said, “Oh, I think you’re crazy, but not any more so than usual. Now, get out, unless you want to hear the story about the bishop and the ghost in the Lincoln Bedroom.”
“After I’ve got the printer working, I’ll be delighted, sir,” he said, and disappeared.
*
They never warned you it would be like this in the White House.
***