Screams came from the room

  where the international journalists had been sent to pay their dues.  The first ones out the door were beaming almost-live images back inside to colleagues. 

  A pair of man's legs in dress pants. 

  The sidewalk. 

  A bush. 

  A woman's torso, one boob in the bra, one boob out. 

  A view of the mall, and what looked like body parts strewn across it.  

  The sound of boots in a rhythm in stairwells.  The now familiar yells, "NOBODY MOVE." 

  "Is this a prank?" 

  "Did I see those lips move?" 

  Carts of monitors and cords carried into the room like stretchers. 

  "As I was saying Mr. President, you're team is going to need good PR." 

  "But the party's always just done it's own.  We have good people."