Bill Clinton stepped off the helicopter like a man escorting a beautiful woman to a glamorous event, but he was entirely alone. He swept out gallantly, and one could easily see him turning on his heel to proffer his hand to a duchess and escort her down the red carpet, but instead he strode confidently to the waiting car. It was black, heavy, and vaguely alien. From a glance, you could see it was terribly expensive once, long ago in its country of origin before the economy there had collapsed. It was a lost treasure from an extinct kingdom. He nodded politely to the indistinct form of the driver ahead of him, and they pulled away in silence. When he arrived at the offices, he moved too quickly to be stopped.
There was protocol here; he was supposed to be announced. Doors were supposed to be opened for him dramatically, so that the glamour of the rooms behind them would make the most impact, but at every turn he beat the attendant to the knob. He moved like a freight train. When the last door opened, a surprised little man jumped briefly before recognition took him, and he frantically attempted to seem regal again after being so shaken. Bill hadn’t broken his step. He stormed across the room and stopped abruptly at the edge of the man’s desk, lowered his zipper, gently pulled his cock from his pants and laid it across the warm wood surface.
A look of terror gripped the little man.
Bill Clinton never broke eye contact, his steely, blue-eyed gaze neither antagonistic nor defensive; it simply was. The little man started to speak, but Bill cut him off.
“You know who I am, what I’ve done and what I can do. This is my dick. It’s on your desk. This dick ruled the free world for the better part of a decade, and now it’s on your desk. This dick nearly toppled the reign of an established democratic superpower, and it is now on your desk. This is the dick of a President. And it is on. Your. Desk.”
The little man fidgeted. He simply could not process this information. The penis lay there half turgid – limp but still full – and draped almost tenderly across a stapler, the corner of a budget report, and two paper clips. The head was less than an inch away from the little man’s steaming cup of tea.
An eternity passed, and Bill remained there in silence, never averting his gaze. The little man seemed on the verge of tears.
“What are we going do to about this situation, friend? What happens now, to make this stop?” Clinton asked.
“I…I don’t…do you…do you want the reporters?” Kim Jong-Il asked, folding and unfolding his hands nervously.
“That’s a start.”