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THE NEXT DAY, THE president has a phone conversation with the King of Saudi Arabia, this time with video. The king feels more comfortable seeing the faces of those who approach him for favors. The two leaders speak English, though a pair of translators stand by in the palace should there be confusion. The president’s English is known to be bizarre. “Yo, your highness. How ya doing?”

“Thank Allah, my good friend.”

“Amen to that,” the president says. “Your highness, you may not be so familiar with the practice, but every four years we here in America have what our Asian friends call an erection?” Because it is the White House photographer’s night off, the president has fortified himself with two Peronis, not enough to dent the presidential judgment, but just enough to stimulate what the first lady calls his “inherent friskiness.” The king does not so much as hear the joke. “I am familiar with elections, Dwayne.”

“Well, your—say, would you mind if I call you Abdullah?”

The silence that greets this is so glacial the president eases back. “Your highness, the American people been paying through the nose for oil for decades. They need a price at the pump they can live with.”

“Dwayne, as always we do our very best.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. But there’s been a development.”

“A development?”

“Yes, sir. Seems that while you been doing your best, our friends in Israel been doin’ theirs.”

“Dwayne, to characterize these people as my friends is not, how shall I put it, suitable. But please continue.”

“The sons-o-guns gone and installed their nuclear devices in your oilfields.”

The monarch signals for his translators. “Would you mind, Dwayne, repeating that?”

“They got nukes in oilfields all over the Middle East. Sort of a stealth thing? You know: surprise!” The president is at once pleased with himself and concerned about the effect of that second beer. But not that much. “It’s changed the equation.”

“Excuse me, my dear friend.” The king has never studied mathematics—others count his money. The royal translators are challenged. One suggests situation; the other tries formula, then realizes this is no better than equation. He chooses playing field.

The monarch gets the picture. “If true, it is an act of war.”

“Jesus, king. You folks don’t really want another one, do ya? If so, those Israelians gonna open up a can of kosher whup-ass. And they ain’t gonna stop until they visit whatever palace you plan to be sleepin’ in that night.”

“Mr. President, I hope I do not understand correctly that you approve this act of...of piracy.”

“Your kingship, how do I say this delicately? You people been flyin’ the skull and crossbones for eighty years. Anyhoo, to cut to the chase, we’re talking two bucks a gallon at the pump. Regular.”

The king needs no translators for this, nor mathematicians. Oil is now selling at over $150 a barrel. The new price would cut that by two-thirds. “My dear friend, that is simply not possible.”

“Yeah, well, then you can expect the Jews to blow up your oil, and you won’t have none at all.”

The king learned to play this game before the grossly smiling man on the other end of the telephone was born. “My dear Mr. President, neither will you. It is a...standoff, no?”

“Hmmm,” the president says. “Let me think on that.” He mimes thinking, the tip of his index finger to his lips, his face screwed up as if in intense cogitation. “Uh, actually, no. Number one, we made you king and we can unmake you. Number two, the US of A is not about to sit still until we get to the point where some damn Jew with a itchy trigger finger blows all that oil to kingdom come. Number three, let me put it to you direct. The price of oil is always going to be an internal political problem in my country. Your highness, Abdullah, whatever, oil goes up over two bucks there’ll be so many American military in your oilfields you’ll have to salute some nineteen-year-old corporal from Mississippi just to take a leak.” He signals for another Peroni.

“Mr. President!”

“And some of them military gonna be women. And by golly, by executive order I’m gonna make sure every goldarned one of them ladies be wearing short shorts!”

“Mr. President, I have never been addressed in this manner! By anyone!”

“And Abby, by the way,” the president says, “don’t ever be fuckin’ with a sitting American president in an election year.”