Two Fascists
The president climbs up the stairs to Air Force One. With each step the disbelief of those watching him on the tarmac grows as they dare to shout entreaties for him to reconsider. Before taking the last step into the plane, the president turns around and gazes down at his collection of despicable do-gooders surrounding him at all times—but not today—and he reassures himself by thinking, I’m the president, I do what I fucking want when I want. Without waving, he disappears.
Miriam, his personal flight attendant, greets him. “Good evening, Mr. President. Welcome on board.” She, and those in the cockpit are the only ones on the plane. Not even his doctor is needed.
Before the president relaxes in his executive suite, he ambles into other compartments to make sure he’s alone. He likes to rely on his own cognizance. He checks the area normally filled with his security personnel, checks the comfortable quarters for his collection of so-called advisors and finally glances into the space for the despicable press. No one is on the plane to protect him, nor to make suggestions about policy, nor to ask impertinent questions. He doesn’t want assholes on this flight.
The president makes himself comfortable on a sofa in his suite. He freed himself from official activities: no paperwork, no documents, no diversions.
Quickly the plane is 40,000 feet above the earth’s surface. Fighter jets usually fly on either side of Air Force One, but today, no jets. His orders.
It’s good to fly, and with eyes closed he’s imagining being in the cockpit of a spaceship where he sits next to the commander guiding the ship to Mars. That feels so good.
Miriam knocks on the door and comes in with refreshments, including a burger with fries. Miriam is his type, and once, on a dreary flight to some filthy African country he demanded to fondle her breasts, and of course, she consented. Who would not allow a king, a billionaire or a powerful president to please himself? Many women envy Miriam. Many have said so. She sits down beside him, opens a couple of buttons of her blouse and lets him reach in. He plays with her warm breasts while he holds his burger with the other hand and takes a bite. He eats and fondles, fondles and eats. He hears himself wonder, does she like his touch today? But it doesn’t really matter, does it. I like twisting her nipples, that’s what matters. When he finishes his burger, he pulls out his hand and holds up his other hand. She wipes the grease and ketchup off his fingers then buttons her blouse again, says, “Thank you, Mr. President. It was wonderful,” and leaves.
It’s now good to be alone. All alone. Moving to a seat by the window, with eyes closed again he allows the door of his mind to open and thoughts to slip in and out. People say but what do they know I don’t like dogs sure different from cats purr purr purr that’s all yet dogs can growl and bark while cats in bed purring would be a nightmare with unreliable tails but dogs yeah they’ve got ones that work like a fan it’s just I’ve never needed one cause I watch over myself even before and assholes say I don’t have compassion how would anybody know it’s so big maybe the biggest but why do they want to study my mind it’s mine all mine and no I don’t have to sing and smiling makes you look weak.
Why does he allow his mind to open? To refresh himself, to make himself sharp before he engages in disciplined reflection.
It’s almost dark, and he counts the stars he sees. He starts again, and yet again, as new ones keep popping up.
Miriam appears and asks if he would like anything. “Eh, Mr. President, do you want, you know, eh…” He considers her suggestion, it would be nice, but decides no, he’ll save it for the return flight. He has some serious thinking to do on this short night. She leaves and says, “Thank you, Mr. President. I’m looking forward to our return flight.”
It’s all stars now. No, no chance to count them. But where is Mars? Maybe it’s on the other side? The earth is small, we’ve been here a few thousand years, and everything’s developed. Let others fight for crumbs. He needs a new expanse. He remembers when his buddy promised him Mars. Of course, I’ll rename it, he thinks. And, as he often does when a great thought jars his mind, he repeats his insight by stating out loud, “I’m going to rename the damned thing.”
A head pops out from behind the open door with a smirk. Then his buddy steps in. He was in the cockpit guiding the pilot on this journey no pilot has ever flown. No, he’s not a passenger, he’s the impresario, the super techie who will take the plane back in time. He’s wearing a black flowing cape over a black t-shirt emblazoned in front with THE PAST OR BUST. “I just want to update you, Mr. President,” he says. “We’re closing in.”
“Where are we now?”
“We just crossed into the 20th century.”
A bit unsure if he should ask, he mumbles to himself, yes, I must know, and he asks, “Are we flying backwards?”
His jovial buddy laughs, “No, no. It’s forward all the way through the thaumaturgy of AI. You remember how to greet him, right, Mr. President?”
The president shows him his move.
“Higher. Raise your arm higher, Mr. President. Also, you must make sure your arm is elevated a few seconds longer than his. That shows deference. He’s a stickler for detail.”
The buddy leaves, and the president reflects. The guy is brazen sometimes, but he’s rich, and he knows AI, and he promised him Mars. Next, he thinks about historical leaders. The greats are inside him: I’ve got their genes, feel their stamina, benefit from their cleverness. It’s Caesar, Napoleon, Washington, a few kings, and the genius I’m going to visit. He marvels how significant it is he’s alive now with this new technology allowing time-travel. His scheme is bold, and he wants to exchange ideas with the genius. And wouldn’t it be even more outstanding to see the results of his decisions a thousand years from now? God keeps saving me. Maybe I’ll be resurrected. Heck, maybe he’s planning to let me live.
The first light of the new day in the bygone era brings him back to the now. He goes to the bathroom and closes the door. When he opens the door 30 minutes later, he is freshly tanned, wears a new white shirt with a red tie and a dark suit with an American flag pin on his left lapel.
His buddy pops up again. “Mr. President, here are your boots. They are authentic.” The president sits down and swings out a foot. His buddy kneels, removes the president’s shoes and succeeds in sliding the boots on. “Now, let’s see you walk.” The president needs encouragement, finally does stand up, stands in place and shifts weight from one foot to the other. His buddy becomes more assertive and tells the president to walk. “Come on now, march with determination.” After the president takes a few steps his buddy says, “You sit with an attitude. With boots you must walk with an attitude.” After practicing, the president says, “I’ll leave them on. When we get back, my fans will love it, and the press will go nuts. Two wins.”
After the plane lands, irritation seizes him as he looks outside. This is not Berlin. No, the fool landed the plane in some hinterland.
His buddy comes to get him. “We made it. We’re here.” The president crosses his arms, signaling a rage. His buddy finally says, “Look. This is the Berlin of the past. Not the Berlin you recall.”
They’re at the front of the plane as Miriam opens the door. The buddy, super cool again, holds the president back so he doesn’t walk down a staircase that doesn’t exist. “Don’t forget,” says his knowledgeable buddy, “planes at this time were tiny compared to today.”
The president wonders, where’s the red carpet? Where’s the music? “There’s no oom-pah-pah,” he says.
His buddy points. Smoke rises beyond the bare trees and the buildings. “We made the date. It’s definitely November 10, 1938,” he says. The president smells the air and expresses as much of a chuckle as he can. “They’re not mass grilling burgers.”
A fire truck arrives followed by a black Mercedes.
The president is forced to step down a ladder. It’s an ordeal, but he makes it. While the president steps down, carefully, step by step, Miriam, always mindful, tells the president’s buddy she’s glad the press is not here. They would describe this ordeal by the unathletic president as the comedic stunt of the year. But with a bit of flair, the president actually jumps down two rungs from the bottom and yells to his buddy still standing by the open door of the plane, “See, I can do it.” His buddy hustles down to stand beside him.
Four men in uniform step out of the Mercedes. The president prances in his boots to meet them. One of them clicks his heels and lifts his arm, and before he can say Heil Hitler, the president shows energy by swinging his arm high while producing an emphatic “Heil Hitler.”
But not one of them looks like him. Where is the man he’s expecting to have lunch with?
“Und Sie sind?”
Furrows appear on the president’s forehead. His eyes become darts. “Where is Adolf?”
The three officials standing behind their leader make inaudible comments to each other and grin. The leader looks as stern as a German can look and asks, “Was wollen Sie?”
His buddy steps closer and tells the president to tell them who he is.
“What? They don’t know?” He represses an explosion by stating very slowly and squinting with his eyes, “I’m the president of America. The United States of America. Where is Herr Hitler?”
Aha. The leader seems to understand. “Der Führer ist nicht hier.”
One of the men steps forward, says something to the leader who nods. He then steps close to the president and points to his plane. “Big. Very big.” He points to his flag pin. “Small. Very small.” He points behind him to several planes. “Small. Very small.” Then he points to his armband with the large swastika. “Big. Very big.”
The president looks at his plane, then the other planes, then the man’s armband, says, “Okay. But where is Hitler?”
The man says with hesitation, “Der Führer is not here.”
The president points to the smoke and simulates rising smoke with his wiggling fingers. “Is he leading the charge?”
“Was?”
The president again, “Is he shooting Jews?” And he uses his thumb and pointer figure of his right hand to simulate a gun. “Jews. Jews. Bang. Bang.”
“Nein! Our Führer not shoot,” and he pushes the president’s outstretched hand down. “Our Führer sink.” He points to his head, then to his armband. “Sis make people shoot,” and he outlines the swastika with his finger. “Panzer will shoot. Der Führer does sis,” and he claps with his hands and yells, “Ja, ja, hurrah, hurrah.”
“But I wanted to discuss my plans with him. Learn from him.” The president conveys his frustration with his boots first stomping one foot, then the other.
His Buddy suggests they head back to the present. On the way back Miriam can please him.
They’re back in Air Force One. He’s furious, calls his buddy into his suite and lets him have it.
“Look. Who else could have taken you into the past? So, it wasn’t perfect. The first trip to Mars might not be perfect either.” The buddy shoots up from his chair, says, “Why don’t you ask someone else to take you into the past again, or, for that matter, to Mars?”
He’s alone again. No, he despises Miriam, doesn’t want her.
Alternative Ending
A man in uniform steps out of the passenger side of the Mercedes. The president prances in his boots to meet him. The man clicks his heels and lifts his arm, and before he can say Heil Hitler, the president shows energy by swinging his arm high while producing an emphatic “Heil Hitler.” The man opens the back door of the Mercedes and motions for the president to step inside. The president points back and says, “What about my buddy?”
The man waves his hand, “no,” and points to him, “you.”
The president gets in, the man steps back in, and the Mercedes zooms off.
Close to evening the Mercedes whisks back, the man steps out of the passenger seat and opens the door for the president who steps out, stands straight and pumps his fist. He has a fabric American flag pinned to his lapel that is much larger than his flag pin and an armband with a black swastika on a white and red background. He clicks his heels, says “Heil Hitler,” and climbs up the ladder to Air Force One without incident.
Alone again, he calls for Miriam.
~
Author’s note: Several early readers assumed the president described in this story is the current president. That cannot be, since AI is currently incapable of inducing time travel. In the future it might, so the president described here must be a future president.