Air Force One's engines never started.
By the time Amo had finished his second steak—offering the solemn critique, "Not bad. Just needs more salt."—Kyle and the general had practically begged, bribed, and finally lured him back into the SUV convoy (mainly by promising a bigger grill and a wider selection of meat at the next stop).
Destination: Washington, D.C.
The motorcade never hit traffic. Every road into the capital had been cleared at the highest level. They flew down the empty asphalt and, at frightening speed, arrived at the most famous lawn in the world.
The White House glowed in the golden light of sunset, peaceful and grand—if one ignored the massive surge of Secret Service agents swarming around it, or the sniper scopes glittering faintly from the treeline and rooftops.
The convoy didn't stop at the gates. It drove straight onto the South Lawn, tires crushing the perfectly manicured, absurdly expensive grass, and rolled up to a giant white canopy tent hastily erected on the spot.
Underneath it? Not fine European garden furniture. No, just a battered picnic table and a few cheap white plastic lawn chairs, like something dragged out of a suburban backyard. On the table sat bottles of water, a fruit bowl, and—most importantly—a massive grill, still hissing with smoke and meat juices. Clearly, someone had airlifted in a professional team just to set it up.
The President himself was already there, flanked by core cabinet members and the top brass of the military. They stood stiff in their pressed suits and uniforms, faces a cocktail of anxiety, curiosity, and forced composure. When the convoy rolled to a stop, every back straightened in unison.
Amo stepped out. He barely glanced at the famous white building. His eyes went straight to the grill—and the chef manning it.
The President drew a deep breath, plastered on his most charming statesman's smile, and stepped forward. "Your Excellency! Welcome to the White House! I'm—"
Amo brushed past him, walked directly to the grill, and eyed the enormous rack of ribs sizzling over the fire. He nodded once. "Smells decent."
The President's hand froze midair. His smile stuck like drying plaster. Behind him, the Secretary of State nearly choked on his own spit.
Kyle shut his eyes in quiet agony. He was already used to this.
The chef nearly dropped the ribs into the coals.
Amo dragged out a plastic chair, plopped down with a creak, and pointed at the meat. "That piece looks done. Slice it off. Not too much fat."
The lawn went dead silent. Only the crackle of the coals and the hiss of dripping fat broke the air.
To his credit, the President recovered fast. The man hadn't clawed his way to the top for nothing. He smoothly lowered his hand, turned toward the table, and kept smiling. "Of course! Please, Your Excellency, sit. The food will be ready in a moment! In the meantime, perhaps we can… talk."
An aide scrambled to fetch a chair for the President (nobody else got one). He sat opposite Amo, leaning forward with practiced gravitas, hands folded on the table.
"First, on behalf of the nation, allow me once more to thank you—"
"Where's the scale?" Amo cut in.
"…The scale?" The President blinked.
"The one for weighing scrap." Amo sounded annoyed at the obviousness. "Didn't you say you're opening a recycling station? Electronic. Accurate. None of that old Jon nonsense where he fiddles with the dial."
The Secretary of Defense twitched, glancing at the luxury watch on his wrist.
The President's lips strained to hold their smile. "…Of course. We'll provide the finest equipment. State of the art. No cheating. But perhaps, before that, we might discuss… global stability?"
The chef, sweating bullets, finally served the first plate: a mountain of steaming ribs, with a dish of coarse sea salt on the side. Someone had clearly remembered Amo's earlier complaint.
Amo immediately picked up a fork (at least he used cutlery this time), stabbed a hunk of rib, dipped it in salt, and tore into it. Chewing happily, his mood seemed to improve. He deigned to glance up at the President.
"Global situation? Looks fine to me. They're all busy picking up bottles."
The Secretary of State couldn't hold it anymore. He stepped forward, voice urgent. "Your Excellency, their so-called 'Recycling Initiative' is a ruse! They've not truly disarmed—just pulled back temporarily. Once they gauge your… limits, or devise a countermeasure, they'll attack again! We need a lasting, absolute safeguard!"
Amo chewed, swallowed, took a sip of water. "Safeguard?" he repeated, tasting the word like it was something exotic.
"Yes, exactly!" the National Security Advisor piped up, voice sharp with desperation. "Perhaps… perhaps your deterrence could be institutionalized? Or even… shared? If you might grant us partial control—so we can, ah, remind them when necessary?"
No one dared breathe. This was it. The future of the world hinged on his answer.
Amo set down his fork. He studied them for a few seconds—their tailored suits, their polished shoes, their desperate eyes, all waiting like schoolchildren begging for candy.
Then he proposed his solution.
"Oh, simple. You guys buy too." He tapped the plastic table with a greasy finger.
"…Buy?" the President asked warily.
"Yeah. Buy their stuff." Amo looked at him like it was obvious. "They collect bottles and cans, right? They gotta sell somewhere. You open stations. Big ones. Worldwide chain. And the price—" He grinned, flashing his genius. "You pay a cent more than anyone else. They'll sell to you every time."
To him, it was brilliant. Solved the problem, promoted trade, everybody wins.
"This way," he explained, "they'll be too busy scrounging and selling to think about fighting. Anyone steps out of line? You just stop buying from their turf."
The evening breeze drifted across the South Lawn, carrying the smell of ribs.
The highest powers of the United States stood frozen, contemplating how to monopolize the global scrap market—how to wield a one-cent price differential in aluminum cans as a weapon of peace and national security.
The Secretary of Defense was already doing mental math: daily global can output, multiplied by a cent, converted into budget lines.
The Secretary of State was mentally drafting how to phrase "scrap embargo" in the next round of sanctions.
The President looked from his colleagues' blank faces to Amo, who was gnawing happily at another rib. And in that moment, he understood what it truly meant to "think outside the box."
"…An excellent suggestion, Your Excellency," he managed at last, voice thin and drifting. "We will… study its feasibility."
Amo nodded, satisfied. Another world-class problem solved. Feeling generous, he pointed at the last rib on his plate.
"This piece is pretty good. You try it."
The President looked at the half-gnawed, saliva-streaked rib offered across the plastic table.
His smile finally froze for good.