Barack Like Me – part 2, “Setting up the Plot”

After a long, restful night of sleep, I awoke to the sun peering through my curtains, somehow amplified by the window pane, urging my eyes to open to a peaceful spring morning. As I walked down stairs in my slippers, I pondered who to call to help me with my little experiment. Steam flavored by fragments of roasted coffee beans served as an appetizer for my ceremonial morning coffee. After a few sips, I decided to call my old friend Kip Hooker for help.

When he answered the phone, he mimicked the script of an answering machine as he always did, attempting to screen his calls. When I spoke to leave a message, he realized that the number on his caller ID had not been spoofed and quickly answered me back saying, “I’m here! I’m here!” After exchanging a few pleasantries regarding each other’s families and baseball card collections, I came to the true purpose of my call to him.

Upon hearing the description of my grand scheme, Kip exclaimed, “You’re going to get yourself killed!” He went on further to describe in unpleasant detail the kind of horrendous fate I was likely to suffer at the hands of disgruntled American taxpayers if I traveled the country without high tech security gadgetry and “G-Men” trained in Ninjitsu.  Nonetheless, realizing how determined I could be once I set my mind to something, he relented and asked what he could do to help.

I asked him to help finance my journey across the country, as well as my transformation to become Barack Obama, and, in return, I would write stories for him to publish in his world-renowned publication, The Vitamin Press. He gladly accepted, but asked me to speak with his colleague, Walt Jameson, before executing my plans.

Walt was a cantankerous gentleman of forty years. After listening to him rant about what he referred to as the “idiocy of my plan” for nearly two hours, he finally agreed to lend whatever support was needed to make my plans reality. I took him up on his offer and asked him if he would order a pizza to be delivered to my house in lieu of an advance on the stories I would write. He reluctantly agreed.

As I waited at my kitchen table (which often doubled as my office desk) for dinner to be delivered, I broke the news to my loving wife, who reluctantly agreed to temporarily become a single parent to our two puppies: Frankie and Johnnie. After eating the pizza, the gravity of the situation I had gotten myself into began to sink in. I could sense the pepperoni floating discontently in my stomach as I began to ponder the unknown dangers and deadly situations I would soon encounter. I felt the weight of power upon my shoulders resulting from who I would soon become and what I had decided to do.