Long Live The King (standard:drama, 669 words)
Author: K. Derby	Added: Jan 05 2004	Views/Reads: 3670/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The death of The King... A possible explanation.

Long Live The King 

A seedy office in Washington, DC August 16, 1977 

The tall thin man with short dark hair opened the office door and
slipped inside.  It's lone occupant, a portly prematurely balding man, 
raised a hand in greeting and returned to his phone call.  The thin man 
quietly closed the door and settled into a chair opposite the cluttered 
desk. 

"So it's confirmed then," said the portly man, fingering the gaping
shirt over his bulging belly.  "The king is dead."  He shot a glance at 
the thin man sitting across from him. 

"I will convey your thanks," he said grimacing.  "Yessir, the usual
bonus conditions will apply."  He paused for a moment, listening.  "Of 
course I expect the autopsy to show natural causes, sir," he replied 
testily.  "Yessir, of course, sir.  Thank-you, sir, and pass the 
President our condolences."  He listened for a moment longer, a 
mosquito like buzz emanating from the secure telephone.  "Good-bye, 
sir," he said finally, before hanging up. 

The portly man sighed and leaned back, his chair squeaking dangerously
as it adjusted to his bulk. 

"Is it just me or has the secret service gotten more wordy under this
new guy?" he asked the thin man in a conversational tone, fixing him 
with a penetrating glare. 

The thin man looked back with dead eyes, unaffected by the ferocity of
the portly mans' glare. 

"I mean," continued the portly man, "under the Jock, they at least had
the sense to clam up, act embarrassed by the guy at any rate.  Then the 
peanut farmer moves in and now everybody's talking like they got all 
day to spend jawin' with you."  He shook his head.  "Jeez, I'm doing it 
too." 

He leaned forward abruptly, slamming his palms on the beaten looking
desk.  "What's the autopsy going to show?" he asked curtly, suddenly 
all business. 

"Heart attack," said the thin man, focusing dark eyes on the face of the
man before him. 

The portly man hesitated for a moment and looked away to stare out the
flyspecked window for a long moment.  "He bought it on the crapper," he 
said wincing. 

"It's a shitty business," said the thin man shrugging bony shoulders. 

The portly man swiveled his head around and glared at the thin man in
rebuke for the unwarranted levity. 

Unblinkingly the thin man returned his glare.  After a few moments, the
portly man relaxed fractionally and began rocking in his chair, his 
stubby fingers gripping the edge of the desk. 

The thin man remained absolutely still in the face of the nervous
motion. 

"It's too bad, y'know," mused the portly man, "I kind of liked his
music." 

The thin man shrugged again, not caring about anyone's dislikes. 

"How'd ya do it?" asked the portly man, stopping his motion in mid rock.


"Binary poison," replied the thin man after a heartbeat of silence. 
"Agent A in the peanut butter..." 

"And B went into the bananas," said the portly man, completing the
thought. 

The thin man showed a small spark of amusement, quickly extinguished
from his dark eyes.  "The cooking oil," he said.  "I couldn't figure 
out how to inject the bananas." 

"Brilliant," breathed the portly man, slamming his hands on the desk. 
"The Secret Service sends its thanks," he said after a moment.  "He was 
becoming a liability and shouldn't have been making those ridiculous 
demands about that idiot sheriff." 

The thin man inclined his head a fraction in response. 

"I'll be calling you if the service should need you again," the portly
man said, heaving his bulk out of his chair and extending his hand.  
"It's been good working with a pro again, Stan," he said. 

The thin man rose from his chair smoothly and, after a brief hesitation,
took the proffered hand.  "Just make sure I get paid, Zephram," he 
mumbled, and slid out the door as silently as he entered. 

The portly man returned to his seat.  "Elvis is dead, long live the
king," he muttered turning to yet another report. 


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