(no subject)
Title: Attack Dog
Author: alicebluegown16
Rating: PG-14/R (for themes, not porn)
Summary: John McCain meets a real pitbull.
Characters/Pairing: John McCain, Rahm Emanuel, Barack Obama, implied Obama/Emanuel if you choose to read it that way.
Author's Note/Warnings: This fic is inspired by a quote from the Newsweek Election Post Mortem. This fic is not very kind to John McCain, so those who see him as a nice but slightly mistaken old man best move along. This fic hints at some potentially disturbing subjects. And the biggest warning of all: This fic contains a slightly more lovable Rahm than previously seen before. However, the kinder gentler Rahm still drops lots of f-bombs, threatens people, and plots wicked deeds. *Rushed announcer voice spouting lots of please don't sue me mumbo jumbo* This never happened and I am not advocating that anything described in this fic actually should happen. Rahm, please don't shoot me. x-posted to
rahmbamarama
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The Obama campaign was provided with reports from the Secret Service showing a sharp and very disturbing increase in threats to Obama in September and early October, at the same time that the crowds at Palin rallies became more frenzied. Michelle Obama was shaken by the vituperative crowds and the hot rhetoric from the GOP candidates. "Why would they try to make people hate us?" Michelle Obama said to a top campaign aide.---Newsweek
Attack Dog
The moment he walks past her desk, the Senator’s mousey little secretary lets out a noise akin to a squeaky toy getting caught in the garbage disposal and quickly hides.
The sight has Rahm feeling all kinds of warm and fuzzy inside.
It’s always nice when his reputation precedes him.
When he clicks the lock on the office door, the Senator's hand involuntarily clenches on his pen and then he goes very, very still. Rahm makes a great show of taking in his surroundings.
“Wow. The Senate offices are much nicer than the House.”
“Rahm. Didn’t know we had an appointment. How can I help you?”
McCain flashes that grimace of a ‘My running mate said what dumb shit today?’ smile. Rahm eases himself away from the wall and raps his knuckle against the desk. The older man flinches as if in pain.
Rahm thinks he can work with that.
“This real mahogany?”
“I-um, yes. Yes it is.”
“It’s lovely. Federalist style? Good lines to it, nice and clean. You’ve got wonderful taste. I can’t stand any of that fancy Chippendale crap in the Oval Office.”
McCain stares at the desk as if he’s never seen it before this moment. It’s clear that even if he’s been anticipating this meeting, he did not think the topic of conversation would be furniture.
It’s such an unexpected avenue of attack, the old soldier doesn’t know what to do with it. His confusion makes him look almost fragile.
Breakable. McCain looks breakable. And so very scared.
That warm fuzzy feeling is back, low in the pit of Rahm’s stomach. It’s like a shot of the best scotch, the rush of a good lay. Or a really good lie.
Once again he zigs instead of zags and abruptly turns toward the window. Waits until the silence stretches out as thin as a rubber band and finally speaks up, voice bland as dry toast.
“You’ve got a hell of a view, Senator. Lots of sunlight. People coming and going. I bet the cherry blossoms must look lovely in the spring. Why, you can even see the White House from here! You know what they say, location, location, location. After all that hard work to get here, a man would have to be crazy to think of giving all of this up.”
It’s killing McCain not to ask what this is all about. Killing him not to react, not to squirm, to continue meeting his gaze, to wait for him to explain himself.
He could go on for awhile longer. Toss out some passive aggressive bullshit, vague threats and insinuations. He could leave McCain shaken and unsure of his place in this new administration, the sword of Damocles hanging over the other man’s head.
God, the stress of it all might just give the old bastard a heart attack.
He could but he won’t. That subtle infinitely patient crap is more his boss’s style and he has three other meeting scheduled after this, so he figures he better cut to the chase.
“Tell your buddy Joe to take the fucking deal. Not only will he continue to caucus with the party, but he will also hold a press conference reaffirming his loyalty and denouncing all rumors to the contrary. ”
“Senator Lieberman is his own person. I’m afraid I---“
“No, you’re not afraid. You’re not afraid yet, but you will be if you don’t convince him to sit down, shut up, and take whatever piddling ass chairmanship Reid is willing to offer. He will behave himself, he will demonstrate nothing but full and uncompromising support for his President’s agenda and maybe if I’m feeling especially generous and he convinces me of his remorse, I won’t devote every waking hour to unseating him in 2012.”
“And if I don’t?”
Ah, the general rallying the troops for one last charge over the hill. Too bad they’re running right into cannon fire.
“Then I focus all of my attention on you, Senator.”
A snort of disgust.
“What will you do to me, Emanuel? Put Janet forward for my seat? Go right ahead. Turn the whole state blue if you want, see if I care. My political career is over. You know it, I know it. At this point I’m just waiting for the clock to run down so that I can retire with dignity. I still have some left and I’m not going to squander it kissing your guy’s ass for two years.”
The old man smirks at him. Rahm is sure that he views this suicidal display of bravado as something to be proud of.
Fuck. If I didn’t think he was a dumb shit for picking Caribou Barbie, I sure as fuck would know it for sure now.
He looks at McCain and shakes his head as if the other man is a particularly dimwitted toddler.
“John, John, John. This is so much bigger than your Senate seat. You were going to lose that no matter how this meeting went. Just between us, getting an opportunity to fade into obscurity was actually your best case scenario. How about we talk worst case scenario? If you don’t get Lieberman to see the error of his ways, if you decide not to play nice with us, I promise I will make the next few years absofuckinglutely miserable. You and Lieberman will be a two man committee of Jack and Shit. The First Dog is going to have more power than you. And that’s not all you’ll have to look forward to. I swear on the moldering maggot ridden corpse of Ronald Reagan that I will investigate every single penny that was raised by your campaign and every single mouth breathing, sister fucking, knuckle dragging, hate monger who came to your rallies. I have the Southern Poverty Law Center and the Anti-Defamation League on speed dial. If I find something, I will contact them. If I don’t, I will make something really good up and then I will contact them. If anyone who supported you has so much as a Confederate flag belt buckle, I will crucify you in the press. “Respected Senator’s Presidential Bid Financed By White Supremacists.” Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
He ends this declaration with a smile that more resembles a snarl. McCain’s sweating now.
“Rahm-“
“Don’t fucking tell me it wasn’t your fault. Your crowd, your supporters, your running mate, your campaign, your responsibility.”
“Not as if the President’s supporters were all saints. Congressman Lewis---“
McCain’s voice goes high pitched and wheedling. Without warning Rahm slams a hand down on McCain’s desk, effectively ending any and all discussion.
“You’re whining, John. Nobody likes a whiner. You sound like a fucking pussy when you whine like that.”
He puts his face within centimeters of the other man’s, his features twisted in a mask of disgust.
“I swear to fucking God, Senator. If you dare to compare the statements made by a national hero like Congressman Lewis, statements the President distanced himself from immediately even though they were entirely on point, to people howling for an assassination, I will bring down your whole fucking party just for shits and giggles. When I’m done with you, the Hanoi Hilton will seem like the good ol’ days in comparison. You had Palin’s baby mama drama. The President had death threats.”
He could have been killed. He could have died, all those Secret Service agents, they’re just men; they can’t be everywhere at once. Barry, you stupid optimistic dumbfuck insisting on going out into the crowds, shaking every single hand and kissing every single baby. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry so much, Rahm.’ He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get that he’s not invincible, doesn’t get that it didn’t have to be an elaborate plan, all you’d need is a single whack job who happens to get lucky one day.
He pushes it all down, ruthlessly shoves the memory of Michelle asking “Why would they make people hate us?” into a triple locked box in the back of his mind. When this meeting is over, he’s going to need to punch something.
Rahm looms over the old man, his voice like the final wrath of a vengeful and angry God.
“You may have said all the right things in your concession speech, and the President may believe that you’re super duper sorry and won’t ever, ever do it again, but then he’s a far better person than I am. You took a gamble playing on the worst in people and you lost. Time to pay the piper.”
With that, Rahm turns toward the door.
The decrepit little fucker must have eaten his Wheaties this morning because apparently he’s decided he wants the last word on the matter.
“It’s nice to see where our new President’s priorities lie. Indulging your petty revenge fantasies is clearly a much better use of time than fixing the economy. This is what Obama the Uniter looks like. Make the grand speeches and then send his attack dog out to do his dirty work.”
Damn. He really is this fucking stupid, isn’t he? No wonder he crashed so many fucking planes.
“I’m sorry, did you think calling me an attack dog would hurt my feelings? Let me explain this to you and I’ll use small words that even your leg humping yippy Chihuahua of a running mate would understand. You wish I was acting on behalf of the President. At least then you’d know he’s keeping me in check. This is all me, my friend. Making your life fucking miserable is now my personal hobby. The President is a good man. He doesn’t hold grudges. But you are do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, triple fucked. Because I do.”
*****
That evening finds the President and Chief of Staff flipping through the news channels. It’s been a busy day.
“The multi-million dollar wrongful termination suit recently filed by Commissioner Walt Monegan has assured that the rest of Gov. Palin’s term will not be enjoyable. That is if there is a rest of the term. Reporting on the massive donations pouring into the Recall Palin Campaign is NBC reporter, Savannah Guthrie.”
Click.
“The neighborhood of Holland, Ohio is once again a center of media attention as favorite son Sam ‘Joe the Plumber’ Wurzelbacher was today arrested for suspicion of possessing child pornography. Police, acting on an anonymous tip, seized Wurzelbacher’s computer…”
Click.
“The official statement released by Senator Lieberman regarding tomorrow’s scheduled press conference claims that he ‘intends to right the many grievous wrongs I have done to my party. This is the first step in restoring the dignity to my office. My loyalty and respect for the office of the Presidency and the great man who holds that office cannot be doubted or measured.’”
Click.
“Rumors on the Hill continue to circulate that Senator John McCain will be announcing his intention to step down from several key chairmanships within the coming months. Sources within the Senator’s office report that he is thrilled with the possibility of having more time to devote to his wife and family after the stress and rigors of the long presidential campaign. Does this mean that McCain is looking to retire in 2010? We turn to Craig Crawford of CQ Magazine to discuss the opinion of those in the know within Congress…”
Click.
The president turns the television off.
“That’s quite the sudden one-eighty on McCain’s part.”
“Guess he’s had a real change of heart. Maybe he was visited by three spirits or something.”
“You didn’t have to do all this, Rahm. We won. We won bigger than everyone thought we would. There’s no need for scorched Earth tactics anymore.”
This display of peace, love, and understanding elicits an epic eye roll.
“It’s because you’re dumb enough to believe that kind of hold hands and sing Kumbaya bullshit that I know I’ve got job security.”
“Rahm.” The president’s using the same ‘I’m so disappointed' voice that always works so well on Sasha.
It does not have the same effect on his Chief of Staff.
“I’m not sorry. They stirred it all up. They questioned your patriotism, they tried to turn this election into a referendum of every person who ever stood next to you on the El, they threw the red meat to the crowd, they made Michelle fear for your life.”
Rahm looks away and stares at the dark television screen.
I feared for your life. I watched the rallies and I saw the hate mail and I heard the Secret Service men whispering and I can’t get it out of my head, Michelle biting her lip and trying not to look like she’d been crying in front of the girls. I was scared. I was fucking terrified that something might happen to you and I was powerless and I. Did. Not. Like. It.
He doesn’t say it, won’t ever say it, because if he did-if he admitted it, surely the Earth would cease spinning on its axis.
“We won. We won and you can talk all you want about being President to everyone, including the people who didn’t vote for you. I’ll smile and nod and spout the party line about healing America because it makes for good copy. But that doesn’t mean people don’t still hate you. There are people who want you dead and I’ll be damned if I feel guilty for going after those who poked the crazy.”
“Rahm-“
“If you want me to turn in my resignation, I will. Just wait at least three days so that shit stain Blunt doesn’t win the GOP ‘Countdown to Rahm Emanuel Fucking Up’ office pool. But don’t make me apologize. Don’t make me take it back, because I won’t. I couldn’t be there when it was all going down, but I can do this for you now. Let me do this for you now.”
“I’m not firing you for this, you idiot. It’s only February. I’m sure you’ll do something much stupider down the line. Besides, I need you here.”
He nods sharply. In Emanuel-speak, this translates into a profuse and heartfelt thank you. It’s fortunate that the president is fluent in the language.
This better be the end of the matter. They’re skating dangerously close to him saying the unsayable (I won’t let you down, you won’t regret it, you can always trust me, I need you too) and fuck if he’s going to have that. He’d have to go out and beat up a hobo or something just to be able to face himself in the mirror again.
His president is looking at him. His president is looking at him, but all Rahm sees is Barack, not the President of the United States.
His president is looking at him and he’s getting that warm and fuzzy feeling again in the pit of his stomach and he didn’t even have to make anyone cry this time.
His president is looking at him and smiling softly, a smile of such fond indulgence, one that says ‘I am on to you, buddy, and I know that for all your claims otherwise, you are a big gooey marshmallow on the inside.’
If it were anyone else, Rahm would probably cut their balls off and make him eat ‘em for daring to insinuate such blasphemy.
But this is Barack and instead he gives the man .05 seconds to indulge in his big touchy feely Hallmark card moment before he turns the television back on.
He wants to see the plumber’s perp walk one last time before he goes to bed.
Rahm Emanuel serves at the pleasure of the President.
Be afraid.
Be very, very afraid.