The dining room was a monument to power. Heavy drapes of deep navy blue and valances of gold were drawn tight against the world beyond. A portrait of a long-dead leader hung over the hearth, his gaze solemn and dignified. A great mahogany table stretched the length of the room, but only a single place had been set.

The man ate alone.

His dinner was laid before him on heirloom china. The cutlery, polished to a silver mirror finish, gleamed untouched to the side. Cheeseburgers and chicken sat on silver platters, a sharp contrast to the regal tableware they occupied. A very old goblet of expensive crystal stood tall, holding a large pour of diet cola.

He paid no mind to the fine silverware, instead choosing to use his fingers, large and blunt, to rip apart the meat of the chicken, its fried golden skin gleaming under chandelier light. He tore through the chicken with a greedy hunger, grease slicking his fingers, juice running down his wrists. His teeth ripped apart the white flesh with an audible force, chewing fast, swallowing even faster. The only sound in the room was that of his indulgence, the smack of his lips, the grunts of greedy satisfaction, the scrape of the chair across the floor as he repositioned his heavy body, pausing only to pour large gulps of the cola into his mouth.

Elsewhere in this historic mansion, outside the isolation of his feast, aides and advisors moved hurriedly around corridors and offices, making conversation with other leaders, making plans about the affairs of the state, proposals of policy, strategies for power.

The world outside simmered with tension; neighbors at odds, bitter disagreements about the very fabric of society. But inside the dining room, none of that mattered. He could eat as he pleased, unbadgered by the relentless, bothersome demands of those people. Right now, in this room, none of that was of interest or concern. He could eat alone. In silence. In solitude.

Then, suddenly, a sharp stab in his throat. He stopped mid-chew, his fingers suddenly frozen over the carcass of the bird. He instinctively tried to swallow. Too fast. Too hard. Something jagged and sharp was lodged in his windpipe. A splinter of bone with meat still attached.

His chest tightened. He tried to cough, but couldn’t produce the force. He shoved a large, thick-fingered hand into his mouth, trying to will the obstruction to budge.

Nothing.

His breath came in short, wheezing gasps. His eyes began to involuntarily water. He tried to inhale but his lungs would not fill. His chair scraped violently against the hardwoods as he stood up suddenly, hitting the table hard and spilling dark, bubbly cola across the mahogany wood. He tried to reach for the chair to steady himself, but his legs buckled and his knees hit the floor.

He needed help.

His mouth opened to call for the security detail standing just outside the thick large doors that protected the room, but no sound came out. His voice, so used to commanding, demanding, failed him now. He clawed at his chest, eyes bulging, his face rapidly turning a pale, sickly blue. The light began to dim on his supper, not from failing chandelier light, but from the darkness that was beginning to creep in from the corners of his eyes. The painted face on the wall looked on with indifference. The great house stood still, unmoved by the dying of its famous occupant.

His fingers twitched. Once. Twice… stillness. His body slumped sideways, sprawling gracelessly on the floor. His mouth gaped open, shining with grease and desperation.

The President was dead.