This morning was one of those. It had struck him that it ought to be 'Leader Of The Whole World', and he couldn't shake the notion. His mind worried at it like Barney with a bone, right through his shaving hour, a bad time to be hit by a Thought Attack.
Shaving was one of the few things he still had to do solo. His Secret Service had come up empty in its hunt for a barber who could be trusted with a razor in the same room as the Presidential throat. One rash impulse, and kaboom --- it's Armageddon, way ahead of schedule.
So there he was, personally going scrape, scrape, with narrowed gaze and intense concentration. Not a good moment to suddenly find himself pondering his place in history. He'd finish up with patches of stubble, a couple of oozing nicks, shortly welcoming the scheduled visitors from the Church Of Christ The Fetus looking like a hungover Bowery bum in a ripped-off suit.
