Darkness. A spotlight. Ronald Reagan steps into the light, clutching a Gort plushie, looking confused.
A voice emanates from all quarters of the dark.
"I'm sorry Mr. President, but you'll have to surrender the Gort plushie."
Ronnie nods. A pair of hands reaches into the spotlight, and takes away the Gort plushie.
A second spotlight reveals a chair.
"Mr. President, if you would approach the chair, please? Thank you."
Ronnie nods, steps out of his light, moves through shadows, and emerges inside the second spotlight next to the chair.
"Please be seated, Mr. President."
Ronnie sits down, profound uncertainty playing across his face.
"We've already applied Gorilla Glue to the chair to lock your shit into place, Mr. President. All you have to do is sit there, play the hits."
Ronnie smiles, sadly, mutters to himself, "Bedtime For Bonzo . . ."
"Oh, you won't be getting much sleep, Mr. President. Of that, we can assure you. However, in this place-"
Lights come up to full, revealing an entire stage full of animatronic U.S. Presidents.
"-and in this role, you will achieve something far beyond what you attained in the White House."
Ronnie looks about, distress and confusion playing across his face.
"Immortality. Mythology. Transcendence. Mere facts and figures shall flake away, dandruff on the wind. But this folksy, cornball, catchphrase-spewing automaton of you . . . well, isn't this your truest self?"
Ronnie stares hard into the darkness beyond the stage. He takes it in, nodding his head ever so slightly, and then vigorously.
"Not to worry, Mr. President. We'll have the Angel of History bring the Gort plushie around during maintenance periods."
Ronnie sits bolt upright at that, eyes shining.
"Just so long as you keep playing the hits."
Ronnie, smiling, says, "There you go again!"
Laughter from the shadows.
