9/4/13: I awoke in the dimly-lit general cabin of Air Force One, with someone shaking my shoulder. It was Valerie Jarrett. "Ssssshhhh!" she said. putting a finger to her lips "Doctor Rink, we need you up front." I stepped over the lanky figure of Marvin Nicholson, Patient's trip director who was in the aisle seat and I made my way forward. Jarrett opened a bulkhead door. I had seen this compartment before in photographs, but the usual leather chair behind the desk was not there. In its place was another chair, a bizarre assembly of gold leaf, semi-precious stones and peacock feathers, a design so unutterably hideous as to make any normal person want to rip out their own eyes. "It's his throne," Jarrett, explained in an an awed whisper. "It boosts his self-esteem when he is traveling to meet other leaders." Patient was slumped in the throne, a cold sweat on his forehead, pulse racing, eyes rolling wildly. "You were right to call me," I told Jarrett. "Vladiphobia again." I took a syringe of Ativan from my medical kit, and Patient flinched as I sank the needle into his upper arm and I waited for the panic to subside---Dictated by S.H. Rink, MD.
