The President's Djinn — Part 1
Paid Series — Ever since Roosevelt wrangled the Djinn, each President has gets 3 wishes. When Herbert Whalen sees his predecessor’s warning as a challenge, his greatest desire may doom the world
The freshly minted president knew about the traditional “Letter to the Successor.” But nothing could’ve prepared him for the warning he found sitting on the Resolute Desk.
He’d just loosened his tie after a whirlwind inauguration and hard fought election, relieved to finally be alone in the Oval Office.
His office.
The President sank into the soft leather chair, reading his predecessor’s lazy cursive with a smug satisfaction. He’d expected the one term loser to pen some kind of begrudging congratulations, sprinkled over some guff about the resilience of the American spirit.
But with each line he read, his smirk faded, and his pulse quickened.
Hey W,
Congratulations on a hard fought victory; I’m sure right now you’re feeling like the most powerful man in the world. You have no idea how right you are.
I’m going to skip the pleasantries, and give you the advice I wish I had on day one. Of course, I’m talking about the bottle. For more than a century, our office has been served by an almost all-powerful Djinn. Legend goes, Roosevelt found it during his Amazon expedition. For freeing the spirit, he swung some kind of deal where every President gets three wishes. That includes you.
Trust me: you don't want to use them. I spent half my time cleaning up the trouble they caused. If Teddy had known how this would've turned out, he would've thrown that bastard back in the river.
There's a hidden compartment in the bottom left drawer. You'll find the Djinn's bottle there. I'm obligated by oath to tell you that much. Do what you've gotta do. Just don't say I didn't warn you.
-M
The president laughed out loud in the quiet solitude of the office. As he set the note down on the desk, his gaze fell on the bottom drawer, ever-so-slightly ajar. Curiosity quickly got the best of him.
Sure enough, after a bit of rummaging around, he found a hidden latch, and a false bottom. Tucked inside stood a stout clay pot, roughly the size and shape of a lumpy grapefruit. A silver seal plugged the opening. He found it cool to the touch. It had an unnatural weight and feel, as if filled with sloshing liquid lead.
Electricity tickled the president's fingers as he wrapped them around the tip of the seal, twisted, and pulled. Frigid air rushed from the opening, knocking his hand, and the lid, aside. He dropped the vessel onto the carpet with a thunk, where it spewed billowing plumes of storm-gray smoke.
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