Washington, D.C. –Gathered in the Rose Garden, which was temporally converted into a makeshift graveyard with styrofoam grave markers craved with the names of the terrorists taken out by the infamous predator drone, President Obama and the first lady hosted their annual Halloween party just for kids.
With the president dressed up as the Angel of Death and the first lady as a fairy godmother, the two greeted a throng of mummies, witches, monsters and skeletons at the door.
During the Halloween party a mummy walked up to the president and asked him, “Where’s your scythe, Mr. Death?”
Obama lifted up his skeleton facemask and crouched down to talk to the boy face-to-face.
“I’m glad you asked me that kid,” said Obama, reaching into his black cloak pulling out a remote control device. “Oh, here it is.”
“That’s your scythe?” questioned the mummy.
“Yeah, in a way,” said Obama as he fully extended the antenna. “But, um, its been updated.”
Soon a crowd of children gathered around the president as he begun to explain what each of the buttons, knobs, dials and toggles could do.
“But you never,” emphasized Obama. “And I mean never, push this red button unless you are absolutely sure your client is in your crosshairs.”
“What’s ‘client’ mean?” asked a witch.
“Yeah, and what are ‘crosshairs’?” asked a monster.
“Say kids, who wants to see a movie?” asked Obama, knowing it would be faster at answering the kids’ questions. All the kids lifted up their hands in the air.
“I’ll be right back, honey,” Obama yelled out to the first lady. “Come on kids. Follow me to the war room.”
As the children emerged from the war room masks removed, a frigid look was fixed on their faces.
“Well, kids,” said Obama as he led them back to the Halloween party. “What do think of my new scythe now?”
“Is one, one up there nnnow?” stuttered a child, as he pointed out to the night sky.
“Yup,” responded Obama, whipping out the remote control box and extending the antenna. “Wanna see?”
“No!” yelled out the kids as they clung to Death’s robe.
“Please Mr. Death,” pleaded another child. “Don’t call in a predator drone strike here.”
“Why not?” asked Obama from behind his skeleton mask.
“Because, we’re Americans?” answered another child.
“That never stopped me before. Why should it now?” replied Death as he began laughing like a mad man, while pushing buttons, turning knobs and flipping toggles seemingly randomly on the remote control box. Sending the children running for cover, screaming.
“I can hardly wait until I get my Rose Garden back,” said the first lady as she shut off the bathroom light in the bedroom suite on the second floor of the White House.
“I don’t know about that,” said Obama as he looked over at his Angel of Death costume he hung over a chair at the side of his bed, predator drone remote control box on top.
“What do you mean?” said the first lady, while getting into bed.
“I like the way it looks now,” replied Obama. “Did you see the looks on those kids’ faces? That look of panic.”
“It looked more like terror to me,” said the first lady.
“All their little faces peeking out from under the punch bowl table,” sighed Obama. “Looking up to the night sky for my predator drone. Let’s do that again for Thanksgiving. What do you say?”
Copyright © 2008-2011 by Robert W. Armijo. All rights reserved.
