He came from his office walking stooped over, as though he were ill; faint. There would be no victory celebration that night.
"Are you alright, Mr. President?"
"Fine, fine," he said, waving the aide away.
It was finished, all the furor of election over. He was also finished, having lost.
He went quickly and furtively to his small Private Room, where no one but he was ever allowed.
A shot rang out, a dozen rushed to investigate.
Slumped across his desk, he lay partially covering his words, written on an old manual typewriter. "THEY TRIED, BUT THEY CANNOT DEFEAT ME!"
"Are you alright, Mr. President?"
"Fine, fine," he said, waving the aide away.
It was finished, all the furor of election over. He was also finished, having lost.
He went quickly and furtively to his small Private Room, where no one but he was ever allowed.
A shot rang out, a dozen rushed to investigate.
Slumped across his desk, he lay partially covering his words, written on an old manual typewriter. "THEY TRIED, BUT THEY CANNOT DEFEAT ME!"
