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reaching into the hallway from under the kitchen door. A couple of delicate, bare footsteps closer and he hears low murmuring—a man’s voice. The president clutches the club tighter and suddenly reconsiders his position on gun control. A loaded semiautomatic handgun would be great right now, he thinks.
    With the loud clanking of silverware now just on the other side of the kitchen door, the president braces himself, with both hands on the club, to face the intruder who has violated the sanctity of the American People’s home. He closes his eyes and counts quietly, “1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”
    “Hey!” the president shouts as he springs into the kitchen ready to fight.
    The silhouette of an older, heavyset man standing at the kitchen’s island is lit from behind only by the small light of the microwave. The man throws up his hands, dropping a butter knife from one and a sandwich from the other.
    “Whoa! Whoa! Easy there, Tiger Woods! It’s me!”
    The president, with the golf club still poised, squints to see the man, but the room is too dark. He reaches behind him and turns on the overhead light. Standing there in the middle of the White House kitchen, wearing only a T-shirt and extraordinarily small white J ockey underwear, is Dick Cheney.
    “What the f**k?” the stunned president mutters under his breath.
    Cheney breaks into a crooked smile. “Can I put my hands down here, officer? You already ruined my sandwich, and I don’t mind telling you, you ruined this pair of underwear, too.”
    Obama lowers the club. “What the hell are you doing here, Vice President Cheney? It’s three-thirty in the morning. And you’re wearing your underwear. Jesus Christ, you scared the crap out of us.”
    Cheney lowers his arms. “First things first: call me Dick. Everybody else in your socialist party does,” the former vice president quips with a laugh.
    The look on Obama’s face suggests that Cheney’s attempted icebreaker has failed to break the considerably thick ice.
    “Aw, phooey, did I wake you up when I dropped that plate? I apologize. I’m just having a little late-night snack here in my kitchen. That’s my bad on the noise. Hey, how great is this T-shirt?”
    Cheney pulls down his shirt to reveal the words I’M WITH STUPID and a photograph of President George W. Bush.
    “Lugar gave it to me,” he says with a chuckle.
    Obama does not laugh. “Why are you in the White House, Dick? This is not your kitchen.”
    Cheney has turned back to his sandwich, spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I live here, Barack-Attack! We don’t like to make a big fuss about it on account of the press would go batshit, but, yeah, got a little underground setup downstairs here. You wanna go check it out? I’ve got Xbox on the big screen and everything. Only downside is that we have to ride the dumbwaiter to get down there.”
    Obama puts the club down on the island and walks toward Cheney. “You live in the White House?! This is an outrage!”
    Cheney takes a bite of the sandwich, stuffing a loose piece of lettuce into the side of his mouth. “Oh, spare me, Obama! I’ve been running the United States government since I got Scalia to give Slappy the Clown that 2000 election. Would you believe that whole crazy thing was decided over a late-night game of pinochle at Newt’s place? You tell anybody that, I’ll have you sent to a black site in Siberia. No shit. I will do that.”
    Obama shakes his head as Cheney continues.
    “Don’t look so shocked, my man. Have you happened to notice that your foreign policy looks exactly like Slappy’s? Well, you can thank your old Uncle Dick for that. Yes, sir. Still calling the shots down there.”
    Obama is stunned. “Good God!”
    Cheney turns and opens the refrigerator, takes a swig of milk directly from the gallon jug. “And, look, I’m sorry for being an asshole to you all the time.” Cheney wipes away the milk around his mouth. “I have to do that every now and again to throw