“Sit down, Agent Bentley,” Special Officer X said. His real name was Ecks, but every time he tried to explain it, people would nod and smile at him like they didn’t quite believe it. It was quite a handicap when he was a rookie, but now since he had moved up in the ranks, “X” fit him like an old glove.

 

Bentley sat, and X regarded him thoughtfully. “What have you heard about your new assignment?” he asked.

 

“I’m supposed to bird-dog the Veep,” he answered, somewhat quizzically. “Is that accurate?”

 

X chuckled. “Er…somewhat,” he answered, lighting a cigarette. “There’s…a bit more to it. Let me explain.” He took a deep drag and exhaled, the blue-gray smoke billowing around his head, giving him a moment to think. This was a rather delicate matter, and it had to be related just so.

 

“Joe Biden is an idiot. He also is VPOTUS.” X paused, waiting for a question from Bentley. When there was none, he continued:  “Sometimes, that is an advantage. In this particular case, however, it can be a…liability.“  He blew smoke in the air, waiting for a response. Getting none, he went on: “POTUS, or “Kool Menthol”, as we prefer to call him, needed Mr. Biden as a prop to win the election. Now that the election is over, Mr. Biden…serves… in the capacity of Washington D.C. glad-hand and general boob-about-town.” He sighed, and rubbed his temples.

 

“What do we call him?” Bentley asked.

 

X rubbed a finger over his lips, almost smiling again.

 

 

Bentley blinked again, and looked around. There has to be a camera somewhere in here, he thought. They’re testing me, to see if I’m going to laugh.

 

“Ever notice how he mumbles in mid-speech?” X explained. We try to anticipate a dumb or racist comment, and we lean over and tell him, ‘Have a cracker, Mr. President?’”

 

X rolled his eyes. “He likes it when we call him that. He takes it, and he never stops talking. Watch.” X flipped a switch, and on the TV screen, Joe Biden was giving a speech: “…and so, gentlemen, let me close with an old joke I heard the other day: A Black guy goes into a bar with a parrot on his head… Huh? Oh, sure…gobble gobble snarf…smack, snarf….full of ‘em!” Biden grinned, and the room erupted with laughter and applause. X flipped the screen off and sighed.

 

“Usually, they’re too polite to ask him to repeat himself, they just laugh on cue, and he goes off to his next engagement. But, for the few times we can’t stop him early enough, all hell can break loose. Do you know he actually asked for somebody’s Website Number on CBS? Geez!” X shook his head.

 

“What about the time he said, ‘a three-letter word. J-O-B-S!’” Bentley grinned, “I was there for that one!”

 

“Well, there’s the problem,” X said. Think you’re up to snuff?”

 

“Tell me that joke, and we’ll see,” Bentley answered.

 

Bentley caught on quickly. He had to make sure a roll of Ritz®  was in his pocket at all times, not allowing it to be crushed. Mr. Biden hates crushed Ritz® . Not only that, they had to be fed to him before he said something dumb, racist, politically incorrect, sexist, or insensitive, and stuff it in his mouth without the media getting wind of what was going on. Not that the media really cares, that isn’t the point, but, as X liked to say, “It’s the appearance that counts.”

 

Bentley proved quite adept at “Stuffing The Chimp," as they called it. At a State Dinner, as Biden began telling the story of the Muslim and the pork chop, Bentley slipped Joe a Ritz® , barely averting catastrophe.  During a social at a New Black Panther Party meeting, a reference to watermelon was quickly muzzled, earning Bentley a medal.

 

His last assignment was simple: Escort the Veep to a luncheon with MO and the kids, or, as the Secret Service called them, “Virginia Slim and the Blunts.” Bentley stood nearby in a strategic spot, while MO made nice with Biden.

 

“Subject is in plain view,” Bentley spoke in his wrist radio. “Defensive wafers, loaded and ready.”

 

“10-4,” the radio crackled. “We got a visual on that.”  Biden took the dais, while MO tended to the kids.

 

Those luncheon sandwiches tasted gross to Sasha so MO looked around and saw Biden’s Secret Service agent standing nearby. Funny looking little man, she thought. But he always has a pack of Ritz® on him. MO raised her finger, and crooked it at Bentley.

 

“Me?” Bentley was a bit puzzled. MO was not part of his training.

 

“Yeah, you, sugar. Come here.”

 

Geez. Bentley never had a Black woman call him “sugar” before, as a matter of fact, no woman had ever called him that. He would have ignored her, but, of course, nobody ignored MO.

 

“Yes, Virgin—Ma’am, Miz Ma’am, how can I help you?”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “You tryin’ to be funny?”

 

“Oh, no ma’am! No, ma’am, not at all! What can I do for you?” He tried to smile, and keep his eyes away from her cleavage, no mean feat. Failing miserably, he repeated: “What can I do for you?” She smiled. Her cleavage had distracted stronger men than Bentley, and she knew it.

 

“That pack of crackers in your pocket, I need them, please?”

 

“Huh?” He broke training, and touched his jacket pocket; the rustle betrayed him.

 

“The - pack - of - crackers - in - your - pocket,” she repeated, touching his jacket with every word.

 

Well, between her bosom and her finger, poor old Bentley never had a chance. He handed her the Ritz® and in a moment Sasha was happily crunching away.

 

“And, in conclusion...,” Biden was wrapping it up as Bentley was sweating bricks, “...let me conclude by telling a little story that my colored nanny used to tell me…”

 

“Scramble, scramble!” Bentley’s earpiece crackled. “Agent, initiate defensive wafer maneuver, now!”

 

“Uh…agent has been…uh…stripped of…uh…defensive wafers.”

 

“WHAT? Stick the frickin’ Ritz® in his mouth, you idiot, NOW!”

 

“I can’t! The Blunt’s eating the last one!”

 

“ABORT!! ABORRRRTT!!!”

 

 Bentley raced over and tackled Biden in mid-sentence, knocking over the dais and the luncheon tables. Agents from all over ran and dived into the melee, and, needless to say, it was a mess.

 

“Ow!” Bentley yelled, “You bit me! Frickin’ dummy, who do you think you are?” Bentley was hot. He started punching Biden, and it took three agents to pull him off…

BO awoke with a start. He had been napping at his desk again.  He smiled, and reached for The Phone.

 

“Director Sullivan? BO. Let me run an idea by you…”

 

---