If you've never read "The Trouble-Shooter: Gender Studies," the first in this series, you might want to do so here. In this world there is a ticketing system for people dissatisfied with the way the world runs. For example, in that story a woman is sick and tired of being pushed around by sexists, so she reports this one asshole to the Trouble-Shooters, and they work on resolving the issue. The punishment usually fits the crime in such a way that the victimizer winds up having to see the world from the victim's point of view.
So here we have "The Trouble-Shooter: Executive Order." I don't think you'll have to stretch your imagination to figure out who the victimizer is in this situation. The reason I'm posting this is that I wrote it during the 2020 election, and when a certain dipshit lost I felt I no longer needed the world to see it. But said dipshit might be running again in 2024, and the midterms are coming up next week. So maybe the world does need to see it. Anyway, there are some pretty grim scenes in this. Reader discretion is not just advised but probably mandatory. To quote Frankenstein, "Well . . . we've warned you."
THE TROUBLE-SHOOTER: EXECUTIVE ORDER
By John Bruni
The President of the United States rolled off of her, breathing heavily. His hair—a giant comb-over on TV—lay askew, showing off his mostly bald pate. He wiped his mushroom head with a tissue and stood, putting on his pants.
“You were terrific,” he said. “My lawyer will pay you off. I’m heading to the office. I know, I know. Having sex with me is the greatest experience of your life. You might need some time to get yourself together. I would appreciate it if you’d be gone in an hour.”
He shook his head to one side, and his comb-over slid magically back into place. He went to the mirror and put on his red tie. Moving his head side to side, he admired his face. “Maybe I should hit the tanning bed.”
He left, and Monique Baker sighed with relief. She could finally let out her tears. They flowed so swiftly they wet the pillow case through entirely. Her body shook with revulsion. This hadn’t gone as she had expected.
She was a reporter for her college paper, and she’d been lucky enough to score an interview with the president. She suspected she’d gotten it due to her extraordinary beauty. It opened a lot of doors for her, and it also left people—men, mostly—vulnerable to her. None of them expected her to have much of a brain. She used it to her advantage and had hoped to get the president to say something stupid.
She had not expected to be raped by the most powerful man in the world.
She wanted to wash him out of her. The thought of going to the police occurred to her, but they wouldn’t believe her even if she had DNA evidence. When powerful men want something, “accidents” happen to people who stand in their way. Besides, she didn’t want everyone to know what had happened to her. She didn’t want people leering at her, suggesting that she had it coming, or she shouldn’t have gone into the president’s suite alone.
But she had to do something. Sobbing, she picked up her phone and went to the Trouble-Shooter’s app. There was an anonymous option, so she selected that. She filled in the blanks and hit send. Only then did she shuffle to the bathroom.
#
A notification dinged, and the Trouble-Shooter checked the queue. A new ticket had been submitted. He assigned it to himself and opened it up. He read the comments.
An anonymous report on the president? It happened all the time. Nothing usually gets done because it was almost always bullshit. People wanting to bitch. Most of these went into the circular file.
This was a rape, though, and the Trouble-Shooter always took this kind of thing very seriously. He checked a few things and was able to confirm that the anonymous report had been made within property owned by the president. He gained access to the security cameras and watched as the person showered, crying as she scrubbed vigorously between her legs.
Circumstantially it checked out. The Trouble-Shooter couldn’t make the call on this, though. He had to go to the big boss.
The Trouble-Shooter marked himself as “in a meeting” and headed for the elevators. He took one up to the top of the building and approached Mavis Stark’s desk.
“Hello Mavis,” the Trouble-Shooter said.
“Look at you!” Mavis said. “I don’t see you much these days. How are you?”
“Fine. I actually have to get Caleb Malcolms’s approval on something. It’s pretty urgent.”
“Okay, let me check his schedule.”
“It’s about the President of the United States.”
Mavis rolled her eyes. “Another one?”
“This one’s pretty big. It’s a rape charge, and so far it checks out.”
“Okay.” Mavis closed her eyes, and they moved violently beneath the lids, as if she were locked into a REM experience. She opened her eyes. “You may proceed.”
The Trouble-Shooter thanked her and ducked into the rear office. From there Mavis buzzed him into the main room.
Caleb Malcolms floated in a tank of whatever solution it was that kept him alive. A skinny runt of a man, he’d been born without all five senses to a mother exposed to radiation tests back in the ‘Fifties. She didn’t know what to do with him, so she dumped him in a river. Somehow he survived. The Trouble-Shooter thought that perhaps being born without sight, scent, hearing, taste and touch helped him evolve unheard of abilities. He guessed this because he knew for sure that Caleb Malcolms was a telepath.
“Proceed,” Caleb Malcolms said inside the Trouble-Shooter’s head.
The Trouble-Shooter’s eyes closed, and he could feel something probing his brain. It was an unpleasant suppurating feeling. It felt like someone sucking at his brain like he was a fast food soda.
It retreated. “You have no plan.”
“Not my department,” the Trouble-Shooter thought.
“Fair enough. You seek my approval?”
“Yes sir.”
“You have it.”
The Trouble-Shooter felt his brain invaded again. Information flooded into his head as Caleb Malcolms downloaded procedures for punishing someone of such high stature.
“Thank you,” the Trouble-Shooter said.
“Keep me apprised. And when you’re done, I want to see the vice-president.”
“Understood.”
“Dismissed.”
The Trouble-Shooter backed out of the office and took the elevator to his floor. There he put himself back into “ready” and filled out a form with his notes. He entered Caleb Malcolms’s validation code and sent it off to Action. He smiled, wondering how this would be handled, eager to find out.
#
Secret Service Agent Joe Norton opened his door, surprised to find Dennis Fariolla on his doorstep. Dennis grinned, his mustache highlighting it, and he held a package that looked suspiciously like a bottle.
“Joey!” Dennis said. “How ya’ doin’? Long time.”
“Hey Dennis,” Joe said. “What can I do for you? Come on in.”
Dennis stepped past him into the Norton family room. Mrs. Norton watched TV while two kids played with toys on the floor. Dennis introduced himself with a jovial inflection.
“Let’s go to my office,” Joe said.
They went to the back of the house, where Joe closed the door and indicated a chair with his hand. Dennis sat and held out the package. “For you,” he said.
Joe took it and unwrapped it, discovering a twenty-year-old scotch. “My favorite. Thanks, Dennis!”
“Sure thing, pal. It’s the least I could do, considering why I’m here.”
“So it’s finally happened?” Joe asked.
“And it’s gonna be on your watch.”
Joe blew out his breath in what he hoped would bring relief. It did not. “Tony does that shift with me. What about—?”
Dennis held up a hand. “I already visited Tony. He’s on board.”
Joe nodded. “Understood. Drink?” Holding up the bottle.
“Nah, I’m in a hurry. Remember the protocol for this kind of thing?”
“Like the back of my hand.”
“Good.” Dennis stood and shook Joe’s hand. “Thanks for making this easy.”
“Thanks for the scotch.”
They said their goodbyes, and as soon as Dennis got back into his car, he updated the ticket. He then texted the Strike Team so they knew everyone was on the same page.
#
Joe met up with Tony in the White House locker room. They nodded to each other as they got dressed and armed for the job. The silence between them felt awkward, like maybe one had fucked the other’s wife.
Finally: “Hey Tony. Dennis visit you last night?”
Tony gave a nervous chuckle. “You, too, huh?”
“It’s pretty crazy.”
“About time, you ask me. All the shit we’ve seen him do? His alt-right minions would be sick at themselves.”
“True. You ready for this?”
Tony held up the syringe. “You’d better believe it.”
“Let’s do this.”
Both Secret Service agents walked through the corridors of the White House to the Oval Office, where POTUS sat at the famed desk, tiny fingers working at his phone. Five would get you ten that he was on Twitter, as usual.
Ted and William, two other agents, nodded from behind the president and moved to make way for their replacements. The president didn’t even acknowledge the changing of the guard.
They waited until Ted and William left, then gave it a little more time. Joe was about to give the signal when the president turned around.
“John. Tommy. I’m expecting a visit from one of those broads today. You know the ones. They’re on TV all the time. I can’t tell ‘em apart.”
Neither agents even considered correcting the president on their names.
“Make sure she gets up here without a problem. If that ni . . . uh, n-word is with her—what’s his name?—make sure he gets distracted. I’m planning to lay a bit of presidential pipe, if you know what I mean.”
Using the phrase “the n-word” in such a way surprised Joe. Nothing should have by this point, but this POTUS, unlike any others he’d served under, seemed full of surprises. “Understood, sir.”
The president turned back to Twitter. Joe looked at Tony and gave him the sign. Tony jabbed the needle into the back of the president’s neck, hitting the plunger immediately.
The president barely noticed as he slumped forward on the desk.
Joe made the call to Dennis. “It’s done.”
“Beautiful, Joey. You done good.”
Joe and Tony backed away to let the Strike Team take over. They secured the president and secreted him away through the subterranean corridors beneath the White House.
#
Bill O’Hanrahan wheeled the president into Raj’s private hospital room. Despite being loaded up on Raj’s special sleepy juice, the president was bound tightly to the stretcher.
“Got a delivery for you, Raj. Your wildest wet dream come true.”
“I heard,” Raj said. He approached the president with a clipboard, which had a tablet on it. He double-checked his information, then looked at his new patient. “Wow. It really is him.”
“On a silver platter.”
Raj cocked his head to the side, smiling. “More or less.”
“What are you gonna do to him?” Bill asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. I bet you’ve fantasized about this moment since the inauguration. You’ve got all sorts of ideas.”
“Well . . . maybe.”
Bill sighed. “Have it your way, Doc. He’s all yours.”
Bill left, and Raj continued to smile. He did have quite a few ideas. Usually the punishment fit the crime, but he didn’t think it was a good idea in this case. Two rapes did not make a right, at least not in Raj’s book. In a case like this it would be too unimaginative. Considering all the horrible things the president had done in his time in office, the punishment had to be bigger.
Raj changed the president into a hospital gown and attached an IV of his sleepy juice.
The operation took four hours. He didn’t need to do much—just tweak a facial feature here and there. The difficult part would be the formula for skin pigmentation. He needed to expose the president to it for a month, or it would fade after a couple of days. Raj took a great deal of pleasure in watching the president’s skin go from a trashy orange to a rich brown. Raj let him grow a mustache for an enhanced effect.
#
A month later the president opened his eyes, wondering if he’d drifted off to sleep in the Oval Office again. He hoped he hadn’t missed the chance to fuck what’s-her-name. He wanted to ever since he saw her porno, the one produced by her mom.
No, wait. He was on his back. In a hospital bed? What the fuck? His doctor said he was fit as a fiddle. He couldn’t possibly—
Did he have a heart attack? Oh shit. That meant his vice-president was acting president. That guy was a Jesus freak. What was he doing to the president’s America?!
Then he saw the man in the white lab coat. “What happened to me, Doc? How long have I been here?”
“About a month,” Raj said. “You’ve undergone serious surgery. How do you feel?”
“Like shit.” The president noticed his brown hands. “Oh God. What did this? Am I going to live?”
“You will. But . . . well, perhaps you should see for yourself.” Raj handed the president a mirror.
The president grabbed it like he owned it, holding it up to his face. Shock registered immediately, and he couldn’t breathe. His eyes bugging, his mouth open, the president finally drew in air. “You turned me into a fucking spic!”
Raj clicked his tongue. “I think you’ll find the term ‘Hispanic,’ or maybe even ‘Latinx,’ will be more favorable than that racist word.”
“What the fuck?! How . . . why . . . fuck you, sandnigger!”
“Monique Baker,” Raj said.
“Who the fuck is that?”
“Hm. Interesting. You raped her, and you don’t even remember her name.”
“The college broad? She was asking for it. I grabbed her by the pussy, and she melted in my hand.”
“Wow. You have no idea how awful you are. You’re completely unaware of yourself.”
“I’m a very important man,” the president said. “I don’t have time for this. Fix my face, or I’ll sue you for all you’re worth.”
Raj smiled. “No.”
It was a word the president didn’t hear often. It confused him. How dare someone say it to him? Only he could say it to others when trying to win at the Art of the Deal.
Raj liked the sensation of saying no to the president, so he said it again. “No. Now it’s time for beddy-bye.” He hit the sleepy juice, and the president slumped into unconsciousness. It wasn’t Raj’s finest work, but it was certainly his most satisfying.
He entered his notes into the ticket and handed the president over to Transportation. It gave him great pleasure to close this one out. He sent off a message to the front line, notifying them of the resolution. Then it was back to the business-as-usual tickets.
#
When the president opened his eyes, he found himself squinting into a scorching-hot sun. He shaded his eyes against it as he sat up, looking around. All he saw was desert for miles. Somehow he felt like this wasn’t an American desert. It felt like . . .
“I’m in fucking Mexico,” he muttered.
“¿Necesitas ayuda?”
He turned, surprised to see the group of Mexicans he’d missed the first time around. The man who spoke to him wore a cowboy hat and boots and a thick brush mustache under his nose. He looked sweaty and tired. Probably hadn’t showered in a month.
“What did you say to me?” the president asked.
The man, confused by hearing English from an obviously brown man, repeated himself.
“This won’t do,” the president murmured. He said, “I don’t speak Mexican.”
The man stared back at him.
Fuck. Maybe if he tried louder? “I don’t speak Mexican! I’m an American! You have to speak English if you’re going to talk to me!”
Some of the people behind the man chuckled. The man did not. He latched onto the word “American.” He smiled.
The man said,“¡America! ¡Vamos a America!”
“Yes. I know. I’m great, and my country is great. The best in the world. I should know. I know it’s hard to tell through this brownface—which I think is very distasteful and rude—but I’m the President of the United States.” He held out both hands as if expecting applause.
He got laughter instead. Even the man broke down at that one. The president didn’t understand, but he smiled serenely at them. He knew he killed in America, but it was nice to know he could kill south of the border.
“Are you going to America?” he asked.
“Sí.”
“You really shouldn’t. There’s a wall there. It’s huge. You’ll never get around it. It’s the best wall, really. There are also soldiers there. Good soldiers. The best.” He brought his hand across his front, fingers tented out like he was holding a pencil.
“Vamos a America,” the man said.
“Where is America, anyway?” He looked up at the sun, as if it could help him. Did it rise from the east or west? He could never remember that one.
“Vamos a America.” The man rejoined his people and walked away.
The president followed. He figured he’d work something out with the border guards. His family would vouch for him. It would be nice to see his wife’s tits again considering how much he’d paid for them. What were the names of his kids again? He knew one because he’d named the kid after himself, but the others? He drew a blank.
The walk lasted several days, all of it miserable. The Mexicans shared their food and water, but he never got enough. As a white man the president felt entitled to more, but he never got it. He promised to himself that he would turn on the Mexicans when they got to the border.
He hadn’t walked this long in . . . ever. Sweat sheened his body, and his muscles ached. Didn’t they have limos in the desert?
They crossed the border into Arizona without even knowing it. They got almost a mile into America when an H2 came out of the dust and screeched to a halt. Four guys in civilian armor and wraparound sunglasses jumped out, hooting and hollering like frat boys around a passed out woman.
“Woo-wee! Looks like the caravan finally fuckin’ showed up!”
“Look at them assholes! Think they’re gonna get our jobs? Our healthcare? Hell no!”
“Murderers and rapists.” The one who said this spat into the sand.
“Gentlemen,” the president said, “I appreciate your vigilance in these dark times.”
“Well, well, well! This one talks American!”
“La-dee-dah!”
“You don’t understand. I’m the President of the United States. I’ll need you to—”
“Fuck this wetback,” one of the men said. He drew a handgun from his holster and fired two shots into the president’s considerable center mass. He dropped dead, never to finish his final executive order.
“Damn, Hank! You ain’t fuckin’ ‘round!”
“That was awesome, dude!”
“Can’t have no wetback talking shit about my president.” He spat again, this time on the president’s corpse.
“What about them?” A man pointed to the backs of the fleeing Mexicans.
“Fuck ‘em. They had their taste of America. We won’t see ‘em again.” He paused, drawing a survival knife. “How do you boys think about me scalping this guy?”
#
The vice-president never liked seeing Caleb Malcolms. Creeped him out each and every time. He hated the telepathy most. Knowing that someone existed who could read his thoughts was absolutely horrifying. He had too many secrets, and if they were known everyone would think him a hypocrite. His political life would be over.
But he had to do this. To refuse Caleb Malcolms was to invite suicide.
“Hello, Mr. Vice-President,” Caleb said in his mind.
“Hello,” the vice-president said.
“This might startle you, but I’m about to download some important information into your mind.” He then shoved everything in Monique Baker’s ticket into the vice-president, who grimaced like he had brain freeze.
“Jesus God!” the vice-president said. “You killed the president?!”
“Thereby making you the president.”
“Holy fuck.” The vice-president blinked and suddenly smiled. “I’m the president of the United States! Wait ‘til I tell Mother!”
“Just remember this,” Caleb said. “No one is above the rules. Not even the president. Especially not the president.”
The vice-president felt his guts tighten and chill.
The twisted visage of Caleb Malcolms almost smiled. “Good luck, Mr. President.”
#
The Trouble-Shooter checked on the president’s ticket, and he was pleased to see how it all turned out. He smiled when he saw that Caleb Malcolms himself put the final notes in the ticket. He found Monique Baker’s email—even though it was, in theory, supposed to be anonymous—and sent her one final message. After he copied and pasted this into his notes he permanently closed the ticket.
#
Monique watched as the vice-president was sworn in as the new president on TV. No one knew where the previous one had gone. With any luck, he was in a shallow grave somewhere. She liked to hope that her anonymous ticket had something to do with it, but her ego would never allow her to accept this.
And then the email dinged on her phone. It was from Trouble-Shooters. She didn’t wonder how they knew about her if it was supposed to be anonymous. Instead she felt an overwhelming urge to read it.
When she did, she couldn’t help but smile.
THANK YOU FOR USING TROUBLE-SHOOTERS
FOR ALL YOU TROUBLE NEEDS.
HAVE A GREAT DAY!
THE END
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