Bill Clinton and the Legendary Wiener

The Wiener of Beginnings

"Bush, where've you been? We're waiting on you to bring the ingredients so we can set up shop!" Clinton snatched the bag of hotdog buns and began slicing them open. 

"Sorry, I forgot my wallet at home so I had to run back and get it." 

Clinton shook his head with a sigh. "It doesn't matter now, come help me set up."

Bush nodded and stepped into the food truck before grabbing a pack of wieners from the freezer. "Where's Obama?" he asked,  noticing the tall man's absence.

"He's getting the condiments. We ran out of ketchup last night and forgot to put it on the shopping list."

Bush's mouth formed a small 'oh.' 

Obama was their secret weapon- their condiment warrior. His mastery of the world of sauces was unrivaled. He made magic with the mustard, cultivated art with the ketchup, relished in the relish. In fact, his skills were so infamous in the world of fast food that their rivals Republican Burger Co. had tried many times to sway him over to their side, but to no avail, for Democrat Hotdog Inc. had something they couldn't offer: recipes.

Clinton hailed from a long line of professional chefs, most of which had shunned him for leaving the esteemed world of fine dining for what they considered to be uncivilized food. However, as the firstborn and only male heir, he was able to take hundreds of years worth of culinary secrets with him, just to be petty. He had notebooks detailing how to make every sauce known to man, including secret recipes that blood had been shed over. Recipes that for a very long time had laid forgotten in the dark. Obama's hunger for dressings had lead him to the Democrats and ensured his loyalty.

Tying a slightly stained blue and white striped apron around his neck, Clinton glanced at the small clock in the corner. Green fluorescent lights flashed the time, 9:28 am. He was about to comment on Obama's absence once more before the metal door slammed open, revealing a battered man panting and clutching a small red bottle against his chest.

"Obama!" Bush gasped, dropping his knife onto the wooden cutting board. "What happened?!"

Obama scowled and reached up to touch a small bruise that marred his left cheek, wincing slightly at the brief contact.

"Republicans," he spat, dropping the ketchup onto the table and strided over to the freezer. With a practiced ease, he grabbed an ice pack and pressed it against his face. "I was heading back from the grocery store when one of Trumps lackeys tried to take me out with a baseball bat."

Obama wrenched open the blinds and peered out the small window at the back. "I handled the problem, though."

Clinton gulped nervously. Although Obama was thoroughly dedicated to a new life as a saucier, he had previously made a name for himself as one of the country's top hitmen, proving himself to be very dangerous when crossed.

Bush's face was unreadable as he nodded, tossing a small floral hand towel towards him. "Don't leave the ice on for too long. I need you in good shape to work today." Bush peered out the window over Obama's shoulder, staring at the rival building down the street.

The glittering blue and red elephant taunted them, its trunk poised as if ready to wave jeeringly.

"They'll pay for what they did to Roosevelt." Bush spoke after a few moments of silence. Clinton spotted a flash of anger in his coworker's eyes before he turned away and returned to the counter.

As if a spell had been lifted from them, Clinton resumed preparing the wieners as Obama started pulling bottles from the cabinets.

Clinton bit his lip softly as he threw out the last of the packaging and turned to face the others.

"I'm ready to open." he declared, recieving minute nods of approval from the other two.

"Alright." Bush sent a crooked grin his way. "Let's show the Republican's what they're messing with."

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Bush swiftly sliced open the hotdog bun, urging his coworker to finish roasting the wieners. "Clinton, we need to hurry up! The customers are growing impatient!" He quickly wiped small beads of sweat from his brow. 

"I'm cooking as fast as I can, George! Get the plate ready!" 

Doing as his coworker asked, Bush grabbed a pink polka dotted plate from his dog's birthday party and laid the bun on it. With a flip of his tongs, Clinton nestled the sausage inside the bun safely.

"The condiments!" he cried, "It's all up to you, Obama!"

The third man appeared from the shadows, armed threateningly with two bottles of ketchup and mustard, respectively. With the skill of a thousand warriors, he dressed the hotdog like never before and sent it out toward the customer. 

A young girl squealed in joy as she recieved her food and placed a five dollar bill on the counter with a wide smile. After giving her thanks, her place was immediately taken by the next hungry customer in an ever growing line that stretched around the block.

Clinton grinned blissfully, imagining the look on Trump's face as he watched so many customers doing business at his rival's food truck. He could visualize it so clearly; flustered orange skin pulled taut  over his skull as he clenched his jaw. Small beady eyes squinted shut, cracked lips forming a dramatic pout-

"Bill, snap out of it!" Bush hissed, slapping him on the back of the head. "We can't lose focus now, the orders are waiting on us!"

Cursing silently to himself, Clinton rotated the hotdogs on the grill, sighing in relief that none of them had burned.

"Order number twenty three!" Obama called out, passing another hot dog into the crowd. "Mustard, pickles, no ketchup!"

"Pass me a bun, will ya!" Clinton called to Bush who was taking another order. After recieving no response, he leaned over to grab one himself.

Suddenly, he spotted a figure clothed in a black hoodie and mask crouched beside the window. Freezing in place, his breath hitched as he spotted the figure grab a handful of wires.

"Stop him!" he cried, pointing at the man. Obama's eyes widened in surprise before he launched himself out the window. The mysterious figure looked up at the commotion just in time to see a large frame come barreling towards him. With one last tug, he ripped the wires out and sprinted away, the democrat chasing after him.

Obama inhaled sharply, pumping his arms as he forced his body to run faster to keep up with saboteur. 

Damn, he's quick!  he thought to himself as he pushed himself, gaining a slight amount of distance. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as the man in front of him glanced back and and met his gaze.

His expression radiated worry, adrenaline and satisfaction, with a pinch of something else Obama couldn't identify. The vandal changed direction rapidly in an attempt to lose him, but Obama was hot on his trail. The chase continued for what felt like hours until they reached the dead end of an alleyway.

"Who are you?" he demanded, striding toward the masked figure who stood tensed, aware of his disadvantage in the situation. "Who sent you?"

The man cried out as Obama grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the brick wall. Without hesitation, Obama ripped the flimsy mask off, exposing his face.

"Nixon," he hissed, "I should have known you'd pull a stunt like this."

Nixon curled his upper lip into a grimace, glaring at the other. "Trump isn't going to stop until he gets what he wants."

Obama chuckled darkly, adjusting his hold on the Republican.

"And what does he want exactly?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"He wants you to join us before he crushes your little truck into the dirt."

The Democrat rolled his eyes. "How many times do I have to tell that boss of yours I'm not interested." 

The corners of Nixon's lips lifted into a slight smirk. "You and I both know that Trump doesn't take no for an answer."