Barry rubbed his temples. Advisers flitted about, arguing, and jockeying for his attention. Barry's head felt like it was about to explode. "alright, Alright, ALRIGHT!!! Everyone out! I'll get back to you individually." The advisers exchanged butt-hurt glances, gathered sheafs of papers, and left in a muffled swish of Brooks Brother's suits. Barry's head down, loosening the tie that was choking his life out of him, the tie that went with the suit that went with the job that he no longer wanted. He stared at the Rasmussen polls, his popularity was in the crapper. He reached under the desk, ah, the pack of Kools taped under the drawer. He lit one up. A deep drag, he crumpled up the poll sheet, rapped to himself, Kurtis Blow's "Basketball". He had a wastebasket at the other side of the office, practiced his three pointers from the desk. He turned away, began his commentary. "Barry's deep, oh he faked out Jordan, he spins at the three point line, and he..." As he spun, he saw an old man sitting at the desk. He stopped in mid shot. "Who the Hell are you? I said everyone out!" He looked closer, and recognized the face of Ronald Wilson Reagan.