The second man did not lower himself to the floor as gracefully as the first. His hood was cumbersome and made quick maneuvering awkward. He struggled to locate the eye holes after turning his head. He felt around under the white sheet above his clothes to make sure the knife had not fallen.
The third man shot the first and second the angriest look one can achieve while one's face is covered. He carried with him the sword that the murder would be carried out with. It was a fine blade, and had once belonged to a Confederate Officer. His family had passed it down for generations.
They had planned for this event for several decades. They had poisoned, bribed, distracted, and murdered the many obstacles with mechanical precision. Even the most heavily fortified building on Earth could be infiltrated with perseverance.
The events of 2008 had only made them more determined. They felt as though the honor and legacy of hundreds of years of Southern pride rested on their success.
As they approached the sleeping man, the leader quietly drew his sword. He was dizzied by the weight of what he was about to do. His focus was so great that it took him several minutes to notice he had been toppled over by a blow to the head.
As he groggily attempted to comprehend what had happened, a sharp pain registered in his chest. A kick had shattered several of his ribs. His vision was hazy and the pain had dulled his senses. He made out the profile of a large, stout man before a third kick shattered his skull.
President Obama shook himself awake quickly. He quickly reached under his bed and unsheathed a fine katana. He swung it at the man holding the knife. It struck deep into his wrist. Blood spewed out as the hand bent back, suspended only by thread.
As the man gazed at what was left of his appendage, a second blow left a gash across his stomach. In shock, the man collapsed as his intestines began to fall forth from the wound.
The third man was desperately fleeing the room. Gaining on him was a lanky old man. As he tripped over his sheet, the old man took hold of his shoulder. He swung the sheeted man around and ripped off his hood. The lanky man took the assassin by the top of the head and sank his teeth into the flesh of the neck.
Pulling back, the lanky man spat the assassins' throat upon the floor. He shoved his arm up into the bloody hole as a puppeteer would. He pulled a chunk of brain from the assassins' skull.
"Goddamn son of a bitch!" the lanky man yelled, pounding his fists upon the assassins' corpse. The burly man pulled him off.
"That's enough, Andrew." he said. "Give respect to the dead."
The lanky man just snarled spat upon the body.
President Obama stared at the scene unfolding before him. He knew it impossible, but he could not refute what was in front of him.
"Who the hell lets a slave into the White House anyway?" said Andrew Jackson, staring with contempt at the president.
"Please excuse our friend here, Mr. President." said Theodore Roosevelt. "He hasn't quite grasped the change of the times. If you would be so kind as to accompany me downstairs, I believe I could give you a more detailed picture of the situation."
"Mr. President," he said, his face darkening, "we have reason to believe the nation's security may be compromised..."
