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SPECIAL TELL-ALL ISSUE
"The art of a news reporter is to learn how to lull a victim, because all good reporters are confidence tricksters in embryo." ~Derek Tangye

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My Time In The Frost White House
"Kid, you'll do fine." That's what St Krems said to me after I'd accepted the job of Staff Writer for the White House. I'd met Krems once before, interviewing him for my newspaper, The Fieldist, back when President Frost was elected. Krems was Secretary of the Media then, and we'd had a pretty good conversation. Now he was looking for someone to replace Syrup, who was more an artist than a humble wordsmith like myself.

The White House. Who doesn't leap at a chance to be part of it? When the US abandoned D.C. back in World War III, they'd taken it apart and carried it piece by piece to Florida. It was the country, the seat of the Administration, and now I'd be its voice. I'd be part of history. I'd been appointed Director of Fun by President scrabman, but this was something real, not just a forgotten department that existed only on paper. When you wrote for the White House, people paid attention.


(An empty James S. Brady Briefing Room, the calm before the storm)

Then-Chief of Staff Speedcat McNasty approved Krems' choice, and I went on the next day. I thought I was golden. Witty repartee with the press corps, playing up the Administration as best I could from the angle I was told to do it. At the time, the Administration was in the waning days of its Revolution, and I was hired to continue that level, continue the fun, if I can speak from my Fun Department days.

But afterwards, I lost the thread of things. The US was moving government offices, and I never got an access key. Furthermore, Krems was moved to State not long after and former Vice President Gulden Draak was brought in. Then he was brought out. They ended the revolution and brought my friend CRoy in as Media. CRoy told me we'd do the writing together.


(An image of how I thought things would go)

It never panned out. Instead CRoy did all the work. I never saw anything related to the White House ever again, never knew what was coming. I now was free to roam the halls, eat from the kitchens, drink from the liquor cabinets; all of which I did. I was a writer without responsibilities, and I guess the White House tolerated me because I didn't do them any harm.

Instead I just became a silent witness to the last days of the Frost White House. I watched as McNasty (now at Defense) and Krems, prepared for what was to be a rough meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They put on bulletproof vests and then said a couple of prayers together. Then they went to the meeting. Another time I passed Henry Arundel (aka Pfeiffer), whose official title is "Man Slave", in the hall. He was wearing nothing but a leather studded harness. "What are you looking at?" he said, and shoved me.


(When this picture of President Frost was taken, he'd begun contemplating his legacy)

Things got bleak. They stopped writing press releases altogether. With no access to information, I couldn't even pick up the slack. Frost had by this time begun retreating to his litter box, spending all day in there just "pondering". He only came out for an interview with Claire Littleton. Once Vice President PigInZen lost his congressional campaign in Pennsylvania, he just drank and drank. Blank Keating just sat in the corner, rocking himself back and forth, saying "must educate the citizens," over and over.

By now, the staff was essentially geared into two camps; Krems' that was setting up PANAM and Inwegen's that was running his election campaign. Once the primaries had passed, things looked bleak for Inwegen, and the campaign essentially descended into ad hominem attacks on his opponent, Haliman. I started packing my stuff, which wasn't much: a nearly full pad of paper and an pencil that hadn't been used since the first day.


(Krems travels to Canada to ensure PANAM's acceptance)

I bid farewell to the Frost administration today. It's snowing in Rhode Island, where I live most of the year, and it reminds me that Florida's Caribbean coast is so untouched by the weather most of the rest of the country feels; the only time they worry is when the hurricane's on their doorstep. Otherwise they bask on the beach, unfeeling to the concerns of the rest of the country.

I don't know whether I'll be back in the White House ever again. The Frost Administration never utilized me, and I was lucky not to be savaged by Florida insiders like Syrup was following his departure. I was quietly put aside, which is no place for a wordsmith to be when he's been hired to write. To younger folk looking to be part of the White House, I recommend the experience. It's a truthful one. Perhaps it might help for me to explain what I mean by truth. I regard our lives as shrouded in lies, lies we wear for protection; because when the truth is revealed to us, it burns.

-SamWystan

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