buffyx: (literally no one in the world)
[personal profile] buffyx
Title: Major Leagues
Fandom: RAHMDOM. Political RPF. Oh yeah.
Rating: R for language, nothing sexy. I have limits. Maybe.
Notes: Hahahahahahahaha. Yeah. This will probably be locked in a few days. Amy & Tom = imaginary aides to Rahm Emanuel, as originally thought up by someone on [livejournal.com profile] rahmbamarama.

"The thing with Rahm," Tom said, when he offered her the job, "is that you have to know how to stay out of his way."

Amy had thought that wouldn't be too difficult. And then about two hours and eighteen minutes into her first day on the job, she realized Tom meant for her to take that literally, a revelation which struck her the moment Rahm threw a coffee mug at the wall not two feet from her head and demanded to know why no one could "fucking make a fucking cup of coffee that doesn't taste like goddamn cat piss with a shot of turpentine."

It wasn't long after that when she realized why Tom had taken such an interest in her during the interview process once she off-handedly divulged having played softball for Bryn Mawr, until she was permanently sidelined by a pesky elbow injury, anyway.

"What position?" Tom had asked.

"Shortstop," she'd answered, after a moment of confusion.

He'd smiled wide and jotted down a note on his legal pad. "Excellent."

Her experience on the field comes in useful because Rahm likes to throw things. A lot. Sometimes he wants these things to hit targets, like, say, the wall, or the minority whip's head, but sometimes he does want them to be caught, and it's Amy's job to play catcher. It's a skill she's honed. Like a sixth sense. One that would not be useful in any other job position aside from professional athlete or catcher in the damn rye.

Amy knows she has an impressive resume. She graduated summa cum laude from Bryn Mawr with a master's in political science and wrote a dissertation on the development of bicameral resolution procedures in Congress. She interned with the ACLU before working with the DCCC, where she helped head up the Yarmuth campaign even before he'd won the primaries. It was after his win that she received the call from Tom saying Rahm was interested in having her come on board as an aide.

At the time it'd been an exciting opportunity. The DCCC chairman wanted her, the guy who was on a fast track to becoming Speaker and known for his insanely aggressive and genius political tactics. Sure, she'd heard the horror stories, but she brushed them off and accepted the job anyway, because surely they were just urban legends. Except, of course, they all turned out to be totally true. And now her greatest asset is her time playing college-level softball.

God, she really should've gone to work for a nonprofit instead.

"Listen to me, you fuckface," Rahm growls into his phone. Amy trails behind him, breaking into a half-jog to keep up with his brisk pace. She can tell he's gearing up for the big finish; it's that change of pitch, like an orchestra conductor calling for the final crescendo. "Tell Johnny boy he better not pull any bullshit in this meeting. No whining about being passed on for Secretary of State-- how the fuck did he ever think that would happen, is he that fucking stupid? No, I don't want you to answer that, what the fuck is the matter with you? Oh, and let him know that if he mentions one word about Bill Ayers, I will come down on him so hard it'll make his stint in Hanoi look like a five-star spa vacation, dysentary and all. And then I'll skullfuck him, his mother, dig up his daddy's corpse and skullfuck him, too. Understood?"

Rahm snaps the phone shut without waiting for a response and tosses it carelessly over his shoulder. As always, Amy is there to snatch it out of the air one-handed.

"Do you speak to your mother with that mouth, sir?" she asks casually. Normally she wouldn't tread in such conversational waters, even jokingly, but she's been getting more comfortable around Rahm lately, and he's in a good mood today. Someone brought in bagels this morning.

"You kidding?" he scoffs. "My mom used to threaten to skullfuck me if I wouldn't eat my green beans. That was me playing nice." He adjusts his tie and glances at her over his shoulder. "I want you to call Plouffe and set up a meeting. I'm sick of Palin eating up our news cycles. This is our fucking time and everyone needs to know that. Dreams realized, change on the horizon, all that pussy bullshit we ran on. Palin needs to shut the fuck up, crawl back to her igloo, and then set herself on fire. My foreskin has more relevance than that pageant queen grandma."

"Would you like me to arrange some sort of gift-wrapped decapitated animal carcass be shipped to her residence?"

"No, she'd enjoy it too much. Probably make a goddamn stew."

"How about a skullfucking?"

"She'd enjoy that, too. She'd beg for it."

"Ah. Who wouldn't?"

Rahm stops outside of the door where his next meeting is supposed to take place and turns to face Amy. "All right, now I gotta go in here and fuck some people's shit up for awhile. When I get back out, that meeting with Plouffe better be set. And tell that motherfucker Tom if he doesn't have the changes to that fiscal report done in an hour, he can suck my cock."

"Tom might use that as incentive to procrastinate, sir."

"You bet your sweet ass he would."

Rahm grabs his Blackberry from her hand, flashes her a wolfish grin, and disappears into the room. Amy turns to head back to her desk, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile.

Sometimes she really loves her job.

A/N: I need to mention [livejournal.com profile] rahmbamarama, aka, the greatest community in the existence of ever. You have to join to see the posts, but it is so worth it for these two drabble posts alone.


Barack walked into the room just as Rahm was levelling the gun down at the aide, and spilled hot coffee all down the front of his Armani shirt. It was the third time today, all Rahm-related incidents.

He cleared his throat mildly.

Rahm looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes, grinned evilly, and pulled the trigger.

Thirty seconds later the flames from the destroyed computer were still crackling with electricity and Rahm's voice could be heard clearly from down the West corrider where legal was situated.

"I want those cocksucking little motherfuckers down at Myspace subsumed into Facebook by tomorrow morning or you're all fired! Did I, or did I not ask you to destroy those bastards at least three hours ago?"

It is seriously some of the funniest shit I've ever read. You will think so too, regardless of your politican persuasion/stance on RPF.

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