Obama had become disenchanted with America.

He wasn't sure when it had started. Certainly, he had never idealized it- as he rose higher in the political ranks he had seen enough of the rotten underbelly of this country to haunt his nights for the rest of his life. But he had always faced those cold, disgusting truths with a straightening of his spine- a dedication to being better. He dealt with the slimy snakelike eyes of rotten people with positions high above what they should have by focusing on how he would be different from them. He would be better. He would do good for this country.

And yet, here he was, at the supposed highest position in America and he felt like a figurehead, and worse, a scapegoat. The people did not love him- they blamed him. They blamed him for the recession, for problems he had no control over. They ridiculed him. They called him 'Commander in Briefs.'

He had grown not only disenchanted with America, but disgusted with the American people. And that was making his job, a monstrously stressful position at the best of times, a living nightmare.

Obama had stopped sleeping.

He hadn't done more than toss and turn for a week now, and it was taking its toll on his mental health. Those around him had started to become concerned, but he could only interpret their concern as suspicion that he had to avoid. So he put on the best mask he could- and as the President, it was quite a well-constructed mask- and deflected comments regarding his health with easy laughter and jests.

He wasn't sure how long he could keep it up, though. The lines under his eyes were growing deeper, the vessels in his eyes inflamed, and his hands shook around his morning coffee.

Obama had started seeing things.

Late at night in the oval office, he kept seeing movement out of the corner of his eye. At first he ignored it, but as time went on he couldn't help but glance to the side- nothing. Always nothing. He knew there was nothing there, but as he lost sleep he couldn't help but look just in case. And it was driving him crazy. His paperwork was being interrupted every two seconds by these paranoid delusions and yet he couldn't stop himself from paying them heed. He hated himself for this. He had so much work to do, he had no time to indulge in childish fears and fantasies, but nevertheless his head jerked up and scanned the oval office every five minutes. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

Two weeks after Obama stopped sleeping, he went to a ball game.

It was excruciating. He had to sit here and pretend to love this when the fact was Obama fucking hated baseball. He hated it and he hated every ignorant, filthy American sitting in the stands. But he had to smile for the cameras and pretend to love every second of it, and it was slowly killing him.

And then something strange happened.

Obama bought a hot dog.

He expected himself to feel only mildly nauseated- the lack of sleep had affected his appetite and he had eaten only sparingly over the past couple of weeks. But instead, his stomach growled and he found himself entranced, and hungry. The hot dog was piled high with fresh chopped white onion, sweet pickle relish, a dill pickle, tomato slices, peppers, and seasoned with mustard and celery salt. It looked fucking delicious.

Obama bit down on the hot dog and as the flavors exploded on his tongue like starbursts, his eyes rolled back into his head with pleasure. He swallowed and felt as if warm syrup was pouring into his belly, leaving him tingling all over. It was amazing. He felt reinvigorated.

Obama finished the hot dog and with each bite was reminded of why he had wanted to head this country in the first place. By the end of it he was enjoying the ball game and he felt as if he had rediscovered one of the joys of this place- just going to a game and having a hot dog.

That night, Obama slept like the dead.

Deep in his heart, Obama must have known that such a reprieve would only last so long. After that first night of perfect sleep, he was thrown into insomnia far worse than he had experienced to date- because when he slept, he awoke screaming from night terrors with only a vague memory of a thousand black lenses watching his every move. And the President of the United States could not wake up screaming from nightmares.

So he stopped sleeping again.

It had been three weeks since the ball game and Obama was swiftly losing his mind. He was in the bathroom washing his face at four a.m. because he didn't want to fall asleep and for some reason, the sight of his face, looking a full ten years older since the nightmares started, was hysterically funny to him. He broke out into laughter and immediately clapped a hand over his mouth as the jarring, almost inhumane sound reverberated harshly off the tiled walls.

Above the hand clasped desperately over his mouth, his bloodshot eyes stared terrified out of the mirror and even more worryingly, dark shapes and movement played at the edges of his vision. Obama felt seized by a sense of unreality. Who was this person in the mirror? Who was he? What had happened to the president that had so loved his country, replaced by this shell that was frightened as if it was a child?

In a daze Obama walked back to the oval office, ignoring the stirring dark forms he sensed in his peripherals all the time now. He was exhausted beyond measure and at a loss. How could he perform in this state? How could he once again discover his love for America?

Obama slid into the dim oval office like a ghost and then stopped short, all the breath rushing out of him as if from a blow to the stomach.

There, on the oval office desk, lay a hot dog, a perfect replica of the one he had eaten at that ball game what seemed like eons ago.

In that moment, Obama knew what he had to do.

He had to make love to the hot dog.

Obama drifted towards the desk as if in a dream, fists clenched at his side, fingernails digging half-moons into his palms. He only stopped walking when the desk was pressing into his stomach and he was gazing down at the sparkling beauty that was the hot dog. His fists shook. Would this hot dog disappear when he tried to touch it, as so many of his dreams did?

Obama relaxed his fists with effort and raised a trembling hand, extending a finger to delicately stroke the hotdog's single dill pickle. The hot dog did not disappear, the pickle's skin cold under his finger pads, and a soft joy flickered to life in Obama's heart. He stroked the pickle again, reveling in the goosebumps that spread up his arm. He raised the finger to his mouth and tasted- pickle juice. Tangy, delicious. He needed more.

Obama's hands returned to the hot dog, reverently cupping its buns and stroking its length. "You're so beautiful," Obama whispered, and feathered a thumb over a tomato slice. He bent down and reveled in the warm heady scent of a Chicago-style hot dog while his hands grew bolder, rougher, until he could wait no longer. Obama cradled the hot dog in his hands and brought it to his lips, kissing it with the fervor of a man lost in a hot dog less desert for two months and then suddenly presented with a hot dog.

At first, he tried to spare the hot dog the brunt of his passion, his lips pressing tenderly again and again against that all-beef frankfurter, but he knew he could not resist for long. As he parted his lips and had his first taste of mustard, Obama groaned and lost some of his control. His hands clenched harder around the hot dog as his tongue slipped out to flick against the dog, and he found himself crawling onto the desk as he held the hot dog desperately to his face. He rolled over, hot dog on top, and began pulling at his shirt. He was wearing far too many clothes.

The shirt hit the floor and Obama clutched the hot dog to his chest. Mustard, onions and relish smeared across his chest and he whimpered as all the blood in his body rushed south. He didn't have time to play nice anymore. This hot dog was going to get it fast and rough.

Obama brought the hot dog to his lips again, the force of his hands around it causing a tomato slice to fall onto his stomach with a plop. "You're so wet," he growled into the hot dog, and knew he could take it no longer. Obama needed this hot dog in him. NOW.

Obama placed the hot dog back on the desk so he could continue to pepper it with insistent kisses while he flipped himself over, bent over the desk now, and fight furiously with his belt. He managed to get his pants down just far enough and wet his fingers with delicious pickle relish before reaching behind him, gasping at the cold sensation at his most sensitive of places.

"Are you ready?" he asked the hot dog breathlessly, not waiting for an answer. He tore the hot dog from its bun, heedless of any embarrassment the hot dog might feel, and buried his face in the desk as he positioned it behind him.

He began pressing it forward, slowly, torturously, the beginning of that wonderful pressure, and-


Obama whipped his head around to see a secret service agent, all the blood drained from his face as he beheld the president bent over his own desk, pants falling to his ankles.


"S-sorry sir!" The door shut with a slam, and Obama was about to return to his hot dog loving… but something was wrong.

His hands were empty.

"No… NO!" Obama frantically cast about the oval office but it was no use. His clothes lay on the floor, but there was no hot dog, no sweet pickle relish smeared across his chest, no tomato seeds between his teeth and no remnants of a poppy seed bun on his desk.

The hot dog, like so much else, had gone from Obama's life.

He dropped to his knees, heedless of the pain that shot up his legs at the impact, and shouted out his anguish over his lost love. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Obama screamed, but no hot dog came in the night to comfort him.

Obama lowered his head to his hands and wept.