A framed photograph of the President lies face down on her desk, his lascivious smirk buried in green felt. It is not enough to be found guilty of unwarranted solicitation, she thinks, the children must be warned, especially the ones the carrier pigeons will never reach, whatever century they arrive in. The man in the other room (not her beloved husband who resides in a vacuum sealed vault) dreams the vanquished will no longer be required to mount their sallow heads above the crowded mantelpiece, a gallery of forgettable visages. What survives of anyone and for how long is a subject priests and priestesses have argued over since the invention of the water clock. Alligators wait to dine on the losers, of which there are many. Under hypnosis, the prison guard decides to exchange places with the janitor. Both have discovered the other’s desire to be involved in the permanence of cleansing, the erasing of traces, the crumbling and melting of names. This is the world the President left behind, convinced he had made immeasurable improvements for those who deserved it.