[ WP ] You have just been elected the president of the U.S only to learn that every President before you was actually a super villain , and always stopped by one man . The Prime Minister of Canada .

4:00 AM: Wake up -- it's a good thing you've never slept that much anyway. The leader of the free world is n't entitled to 40 winks. 20 if you're lucky and that's on a slow day. But today is the inauguration. You were n't really asleep, anyway. 
 
 4:30 AM: You're all dressed and briefed on your day's itinerary. Your speechwriters are going over some final revisions while you sip a coffee, straight black. The first hints of sunlight are drawing spikes on the DC skyline. It's going to be a cold, beautiful day. 
 
 5:00 AM: Breakfast with the wife and incoming cabinet. Smiles and jokes for the 24 hour news to eat up. 
 
 6:00 AM: Worship services at the First Presbyterian Church. More photo-ops for the news. You go over your speech in your head while you appear to pray. And other things. 
 
 7:00 AM: You depart for the capitol. In the grand tradition of American democracy, the mantle of power is passing on to you by the will of the people. It warms the cockles of your heart almost as much as your millions do. You ride along with the old guy -- a gesture symbolizing this grand tradition. He does n't say much, and spends the ride staring out the window. Up close you can see he has some scars on his face covered with makeup. 
 
 8:00 AM: The festivities are in full swing. The US poet laureate, whom you have never nor will ever personally meet, and whose name you will have forgotten an hour from now, is reading an interminable poem about America's beauty for the crowd of thousands assembled on the mall. You are in the wings, discussing the last-last-minute details of your speech. The old guy is nowhere to be seen; he'll appear on stage with the other dignitaries, another old tradition. 
 
 9:00 AM: Showtime. You stroll out onto the stage, all swagger and cocksure. The podium is decked in patriotic bunting and balloons. The crowd below is wailing with almost religious fervor. You can see your breath and your cheeks are stinging, but despite the cold you take off your black gloves to wave. You are resplendent. 
 
 9:45 AM: Your speech draws to a close. Wild applause. The pundits are already saying that your performance has surprised and that you are an unexpectedly eloquent statesman. At least according to the aides chattering in your earpiece. The old guy is among the many lining up to shake your hand, before he returns to the White House and a helicopter ride aboard Marine One destined for his home in Chi-town. You notice that the Canadian Prime Minister is missing -- he was there for your speech, but he seems to have disappeared into thin air. 
 
 11:00 AM: You complete the arduous walk from the Capitol to the White House. Surrounded by a motorcade and waving to the lookie-loos behind the barricades on both sides of the street, this stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue in the blistering cold has quickly soured you on the many grand traditions surrounding inauguration. 
 
 11:30 AM: A final briefing with the old guy in the Oval Office before he screws off forever and leaves you to the business of cleaning up his mess. He hands you a letter: a letter written personally by him, addressed personally to you, which no one else on the planet will ever read. This, too, is an old and grand tradition. 
 
 12:00 PM: The letter reads: 
 
 > Brother, I am sorry. I have failed. Now you must do what the rest of us could not. 
 
 > Your one and only duty is to destroy the Canadian Prime Minister. Be vigilant and ruthless. Here is what I can tell you: 
 
 What follows is a bulleted list of the Canadian Prime Minister's superpowers, weaknesses, phobias, potential tragic flaws, blackmailable transgressions, personal schedule, relationships with other foreign powers, favorite foods, machinations, schemes, insecurities, self-esteem issues, hopes, dreams. The letter is nearly 50 pages long and serves as a nice dossier. But of course it's not necessary. This is what you've been *really* preparing for, this whole time. 
 
 12:35 PM: The red telephone inside bottom-left drawer of the Oval Office's Resolute desk rings. The noise is shrill and irksome. You put down the letter, open the drawer, and answer. 
 
 `` Will you cease this madness, or are you aboot to make the same mistake as your predecessors?'' 
 
 `` You ca n't hold me back. I'm not a pansy like the old guy was.'' 
 
 A long pause. 
 
 `` I see. Then it's going to be like this. You know this means I have to destroy you, too. Sorry.'' 
 
 `` Go ahead and try. I've got two words for you, buddy.'' 
 
 `` Oh yeah, eh? What?'' 
 
 `` You're fired.'' 
 
 
 

