Barack Obama was sleeping soundly in his bed when the scratching noise began. At first, he paid it no mind, too taken by the warmth and comfort of his bed. However, when the scratching persisted, worry and paranoia shook him awake. He climbed out of his bed, his bare feet causing a soft creek as they connected with the floor. He followed the noise and found himself standing in front of the portrait of an old president. The moment he stretched his hand to inspect that piece of art, the noise suddenly ceased and a red liquid started pouring out of the frame. Terrified, he leaped back and let out a sharp yell. The guards rushed into his bedroom, ready to fight whatever had scared him. However, all they found was their president kneeling on the floor, inhaling hysterical breaths and mumbling jumbled words. Aware that he was in no state to explain what had taken place, he tried to point at the portrait only to find that it was completely clean. Confusion took over him. Had he imagined it all? Perhaps being a president had much more repercussions on one’s health than admitted. He apologized to his guards for the inconvenience and climbed back into his bed, trying to calm his racing heart down. Soon enough, the rush of adrenaline faded and what happened became nothing but a bad memory. However, what he missed as he fell asleep was the smirk that grazed the lips of the man in the portrait and the realization that all hell was soon going to break loose.
