Donald and Harvey by Martin Edwards

 The fifteen minute exercise...

As part of our monthly get together, we were given fifteen minutes to write a continuation of the following opening paragraph. For the next quarter of an hour, our zoom chat was silenced by the quiet, but intense, clatter of keyboards whizzing backwards and forwards across our cosy digital divide – just like a busy press room. Here’s my effort…

In the waning hours of a presidency, Donald huddled in the Oval Office with his last remaining friend and pondered his final decisions. At that moment he felt as though he'd botched every decision in the previous four years, and he was not overly confident that he could, somehow, so late in the game, get things right.

 ——————-

Harvey remained silent. He usually kept a low profile. There was a knock at the door. 

“Mr President, Sir”. It was his secret service minder.

“Yes, Mike?”, said Donald wistfully, oblivious to the impending disaster that was about to unfold.

“You’re wanted in the Situation Room, Sir”.

“What’s up, I’m busy with Harvey at the moment, we’re doing some important work here. Really important. The most important work any president has ever done - and I’m still doing it even though I should be on my way to Mar-A-Lago. We’re making lists. Long lists. The longliest lists ever”. Donald paused. With an exasperated sigh, he stared at his life-long buddy, Harvey.

“What should I take with me to remind me of the last four glorious years? Decisions. Decisions. Decisions”.

Donald turned to the glazed doors that opened onto the balcony and poked his head out. The morning sun caught a glint of his freshly applied orange glow, and the brightest star in the sky winced. 

“Melania!” He shouted down to the Rose Garden, that no longer had any roses. “Have you packed my case yet? Don’t forget to grab a few souvenirs. Ya’ know, a couple of those White House monogrammed towels, some toiletries. I love that bath soak they use here - I like the little bottle it comes in. Not too big for my tiny little hands”.

“Sir”, Mike attempted to install a little urgency. “The Situation Room... the generals are waiting”.

“Oh, yeh! Maybe they have a surprise for me - a BIG cake! The biggliest cake ever! Yeh! In the shape of a huge golden golf ball”.

“Sir... Please, we have a situation - we have detected armed missiles from Russia heading our way. We have less than ten minutes to react, Sir”.

“Can Harvey come? I don’t think he’s ever been to the situation room”.

“Sorry Sir, six foot invisible white rabbits are deemed a security risk. Can I ask you, Sir... have you been taking your medication? The tablets that Dr Fauci prescribed?”.

“Hell NO, Mike! Fake medicine! Besides, he said if I took them Harvey would disappear forever. They tried to do that to James Stewart in that old film that Harvey first appeared in, before he found me alone as a child - with no one to play with. No way. Harvey’s my only real friend and I ain’t losing him - especially to that crackpot doc, Fauci”.

Harvey was a pooka, a benign but mischievous creature from Celtic mythology. Donald spent most of his time taking Harvey around town, eating at various burger bars, playing golf and introducing Harvey to almost every person he met, much to the puzzlement of strangers - who thought Donald must have been a mad impersonator, not the real president - though the few friends that Donald had, like Rudy and Texan Ted had accepted Harvey's (supposed) existence. 

The colour was draining fast from Mike’s face. He lifted his wrist and spoke into the communication device attached.

“Situation Room? This is ‘Minder One’. I think we have a situ...”

BOOM!