Realistic RP. Real people. It is important to remember that portrayal of real people is a serious act for any writer. Let us act accordingly.
Some suggestions:
Keanu Reeves
Putin
Dr. Phil
The Rock
JK Rowling
Other female characters are encouraged, but must be passed through me.
Deep in his laboratory he moved. His dead looking eyes, eyes that knew nothing of mercy and love, reflected the harsh white light of his computer screen. After years of planning, millennia of preparation, the time was right. Early 2016 was indeed his winter of discontent. But now. Now he could finally, finally, end his mission. His time on earth had been fruitful indeed. Many had volunteered for the mission. But only he had been chosen above all his fellows. The only operative with enough skill to sneak right through the human’s radar. Of course, some suspected. But he had learned not to worry. Humans were a suspicious species. They had to be. But all their vigilance had failed.
A servant approached his chair, throne really, albeit upholstered.
“My lord Z.” He bowed his face to the ground.
Lord Z spoke. “The time is ripe. Go after the first target. Use the trolls. Make sure it cannot be traced back to us.”
The servant hurried away, and the man in the chair smiled.
“All humanity is a weakling race,” he murmured aloud. “Who can protect them now?”
In his leather throne he twitched. With a grimace or irritation he scratched his left butt cheek. Covered by khakis his signature tattoo sat.
A singe, blue letter.
A lowercase f.
In the Oval Office, the president sat, considering the universe.
“If dead men sleep,” he mused, “what do they dream?”
He was distracted from his thoughts by the quick clacking of computer keys. He turned. “What do you think Michelle?”
“Hmm?” She thought for a moment. “Popsicles. But as if they were in beer commercials. The ones they play in the Super Bowl.”
“How’s your book coming?” Obama asked.
Michelle smiled a little guiltily. “I stopped forty minutes ago. It’s just been Facebook since then. It always brings up my spirits to read the PMs from girls inspired by me.”
“And it has nothing to do with the fact that they now surpass Hillary’s in number?”
She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Of course not.”
They would have made passionate love right then, in the Oval Office, had it not been for a notification popping up with an especially loud ding. Michelle sighed. “It’s for you.”
Obama took the laptop and flicked to his Facebook on the other tab. A messenger notification. As he opened it he could only sit still in horror, his eyes large. His grip on the computer faltered, sending the machine crashing to the floor. Michelle shook him.
“Obama! Obama!” she screamed.
“Obama means family,” he murmured, eyes flickering. Michelle saw a bottle of vodka on the Oval Desk that was really a square. Vodka was clear like water. She’s grabbed it and turned back to the couch where Obama lay slumped, like a man struck. Probably by a drunk driver or something. If she’s didn’t act quickly, Michelle knew his life might leave him like a woman leaves a simp on read. She knew she had only one shot. Luckily, she was the greatest tennis player in the world. With a perfect serve, she sent the bottle crashing into his scull with the force of a bullet.
With a gasp Obama revived.
“Obama!” Michelle shrieked, “you’re alive!”
“I am a god,” he said simply. But then his expression skyrocketed downwards.
“The message,” he said, pointing a quaking finger at the terrible device that had delivered and equally terrible message. With trepidation, Michelle picked up the laptop, its screen cracked from the fall. The message was short, and to the point. Two words. Two simple words.
succ it
Michelle Obama fainted.
Obama paced restlessly, a habit he had picked up to compensate for not using his treadmill. With a great sigh, he felt the weight of the world settling on him with the same pressure as the cart of a rich madman who sees watermelons on sale for twenty five cents each.
From a painting behind the wall he withdrew the Oval Phone which no one had bothered to tell him was in fact, a rectangle. Something to bring up to Congress. Brushing off his disappointment, he stared at the bottom corner of the Oval Phone. On it sat a small, red, shiny button that would have been inconspicuous if there had been any other buttons for it to hide between. But there weren’t so it was pretty easy to find it. Taking a deep breath, Obama jabbed his finger at it and didn’t miss.
It felt like it rang for an eternity, though it was more like forty seconds. Michelle muttered about rainbow goldfish. Finally, the call came through.
“It has finally happened,” Obama said. “I need you. All of you.”