Margery Strool opened the door with her hip, her hands full. The Prime Minister’s Office seemed empty. ‘Gerald?’ Where the hell was he? ‘You wanted a word about tactics for the meeting with the POTUS and… Oh shit, no.’
Gerald Marlene emerged, arms wide open. ‘What do you think?
Margery deposited the files. ‘So this is how we restore the Special Relationship, is it?’
‘See,’ Gerald adjusted the holster, ‘this is how I see it. Chuck is from Milwaukee, right? He’s all good ol’ boys and rhinestones so this,’ he waved a hand at the embroidered waistcoat, the chaps and the dusty boots, ‘ will make him…’
‘… think you’re a pillock,’ Margery thought but didn’t say.
Gerald spun the Stetson toward an ormolu hatstand. It missed. ‘Tony Blair did it with George.’ He affected a cod-American accent, ‘Yo, Blair.’
Margery slumped on the sofa. ‘He’ll think more Yo-Yo than Yo. We should focus on policy…’
‘… or the new head of NATO…’
Margery peered with a jaundiced eye. ‘Do you need one of your pills?’
Gerald tutted, practicing a quick draw that sent the six-shooter across the room and into a novelty coal scuttle made from a troll’s foot, gifted by Norway. ‘I like this approach. Homely.’
‘Why not ask him what he wants to talk about?’
‘Oh sure. That’s the verbal equivalent of tickling a man with diarrhoea. Come on, your my PPS. Who’s after Chuck?’
‘The German chancellor. And no, you can’t wear your lederhosen. You know that’s reserved for party conferences and undecided voters.’
‘My Brunhild? I could use the false breasts the last chap left?’
Margery turned away, wondering what she’d do when he realised that he was down for dinner with a party of shaman from Easter Island.
This was written for the latest Microcosms prompt