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Quatrain

His wife Gloria was finished dressing and stood behind her husband in the mirror.
―You look so Presidential. I am so proud of you.‖
―Thanks, honey,‖ said Woodson. ―And I know America is going to love its next
First Lady.‖
―Aww.‖ She adjusted her husband‘s tie in the mirror. ―You are going to forget
about me the first time you get back to the Oval Office.‖
―Not true.‖
―All I ask is that you remember our wedding anniversary. If you forget that, even
the Secret Service is not going to be able to protect you.‖
Woodson laughed, and walked over to the coffee table, picking up the sheets of
paper containing his inauguration Speech. He looked it over again.
―This is going to be an Inauguration to remember,‖ said his wife, smiling. ―Just don‘t
let that little Southern bitch steal the spotlight from you. This is your day.‖
Mohammed el Faya opened the door to the small business office at 6 a.m. He had to
set up his sniper perch. The twelve-story building was owned by Channel 7, a local D.C.
news channel. The small 1,200 square foot office at the end of the hall on the top floor
was completely gutted, with a plywood floor and wires hanging from the ceiling. The
building owner‘s plan was to rent the space out to a small law firm or accounting firm,
and then renovate it once a lease was signed, but so far, this office was part of a glut of
open commercial office space in Washington D.C. El Faya had told the commercial real
estate agent that he was planning on establishing his own law practice. The real estate
agent was more than eager to show the space to this lawyer. The agent bragged about the
beautiful view from the southern wall, and western wall, which was all glass, from floor
to ceiling. The agent has assured El Faya that their architect was very easy to work with
and the building owner could provide a substantial contribution towards renovation of the
space. At the end of the meeting, El Faya had asked the agent for an extra key to be able
to come back with his law partner and his decorator to inspect the space. The agent
probably shouldn‘t have done it, but this had been a very lean year, and he was desperate
for a commission, so he gave the extra key to El Faya.
The view from this office provided a perfect view of the target. El Faya was dressed
in jeans, tennis shoes, a black turtleneck and black knit cap. He took off his tan jacket
and laid it on the floor. Out of his black Nike canvas bag he took out the same type of
Arctic Warfare sniper rifle he had used unsuccessfully against Saddam Husein in Iraq
thirty years ago. He was certain that his time he would not miss his target. He set up the
tripod and mounted the rifle. Then he unscrewed the scope from the rifle, and, standing
in front of the wall of glass, put the scope to his eye like a pirate captain surveying the
ocean, and surveyed the scene while he held a hot mug of coffee in the other hand. His
sight line was perfect. There was no way he could miss. And this time he would not be
battling a kidney stone.
El Faya sat against the wall, drinking his coffee and reflecting on the last thirty years.
It was strange how he had arrived at this point in his life and in history. He had never
had any grudge against America, never had a reason to kill one of America‘s favorite
sons. But that was before his incarceration. He would never forgive those bastards for
how he was treated. He had done nothing wrong. In fact, he was on their side. Yet these
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