President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad watched as two of his bodyguards checked the young, room service fellow, doing a quick spectrographic scan of the tea and biscuits on his silver cart to insure they hadn’t been poisoned.
“Is the suite to your liking, your Excellency?” asked Millard Holt, counsel for Rapp, Tapp, and Tippytoe, chief lobbyists for the state of Iran. “We always recommend the Four Seasons to all our clients —”



“Are you a Jew?” asked Ahmadinejad.
“No… no, I’m not,” said Holt, his voice high and nasal “I’m here to brief you prior to meeting President Obama, Excellency. Our source within the White House has informed us that the president’s opening remarks will be very conciliatory,
very favorable to our interests. He’s going to call for increased trade, a stepdown of all U.S. military exercises in the region, an exchange of scholars —”
“You look like a Jew,” said Ahmadinejad.
The room-service fellow, a lanky long-haired blonde in a white uniform, rolled the cart over, laid out bone china cups on the coffee table. He had a Snoopy gold earring stud.
“Well . . . hmmm . . . a Jew?” Holt adjusted the perfect Windsor knot in his necktie. “I hate to disagree with your Excellency, but my family came over on the Mayflower — ”
“What is this Mayflower?” demanded Ahmadinejad.
“A sailing ship that brought the original settlers to America,” said Holt, puffing up slightly, his smooth cheeks the color of rare veal. “The Founding Fathers, if you will — ”
“Your family owned a slave ship,” sneered Ahmadinejad, as though he had cracked the code. “I
knew you were a Jew.” He flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Out of my sight.”
The room-service fellow stood frozen, the silver teapot in his hand. “Whoa.”
“You there,” said Ahmadinejad, addressing him. “What’s your name?”
“Lance.”
“Lance?” said Ahmadinejad. “Like a spear?”
“I guess.” Lance flipped his head, swung his hair out of his eyes. “If, it makes you feel better, I didn’t know what the Mayflower was either.”
“Sit down, Lance. I want to talk with you about President Obama. You’re not a Jew, are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You would know if you were, I can assure you. Now sit, sit.” Ahmadinejad stroked his beard as Lance seated himself across from him. “These
conciliatory — he made air quotes with his fingers — “proposals of Obama’s, they’re a ruse, designed to convince us that he is weak and out of his depth. Well, it won’t work.”
“I’m not really supposed to hang out with the guests,” said Lance. “I used to be a lifeguard, and the pool manager really ripped me for that.”
“I’m sure no one here will rip you, in spite of what your Zionist newspapers print.”
“Cool.” Lance pointed at the almond crescents. “Can I have a cookie?”
“Of course.” Ahmadinejad clapped his hands and two of his bodyguards sprang forward. One poured them tea, the other served cookies. “Do you agree with my appraisal of your president, Lance?”
“I wasn’t really listening, no offense.” Powdered sugar drifted onto Lance’s chin as he chewed. “I was going to vote for Big O, because like everybody was, but I got really wasted the night before and figured, heck, he can make it without me.”
“Obama
is popular with young people, isn’t he?” said Ahmadinejad. “I too am popular with the young people in my country.”
“Where’s that?”
Ahmadinejad looked at his bodyguards, decided Lance was serious. “Iran.”
“Axis of Evil, Axis of Evil,” chanted Lance. He suddenly grinned. “Psyche.”
“Ha ha.” Ahmadinejad dropped three sugar cubes into his mint tea, gently stirred. “Let me be equally honest. Your young president, he is very crafty. Very dangerous.”
“You are talking about President Obama, right?” Lance slurped his tea, made a face. “Can I get a Red Bull?”
“A Red Bull for the young American,” Ahmadinejad said to one of his bodyguards, his dark eyes never leaving Lance’s. “So . . . tell me, are you CIA?”
“A spy?’ Lance shook his head. “Wish I was though. James Bond rocks, especially the new one . . . what’s his name?”
“Daniel Craig,” said Ahmadinejad.
“Right. Guy’s got a real sixpack.”
“A splendid sixpack,” agreed Ahmadinejad.
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