His appearance set the mood, suit rumpled, eyes glazed with exhaustion. He had the stiff movements of a man who’d worked through the night, catching only a nap at his desk.
He took a breath. “We express our deepest sympathy for those affected by this storm. Rest assured we’re working tirelessly to -quack- reasons why the hurricane failed to -quack- on our monitoring systems.”
The press stole puzzled looks at one another, attempting to work out whether they’d heard him properly.
“We have established relief stations in each town centre. Anyone in need of aid should -quack- locally.” He blinked, cleared his throat and drank some water.
The press, now wide-eyed, hung on every word.
“Questions.”
The room exploded with sound and movement, each reporter clamouring to know what the hell was happening.
“Sir, Sir!” a voice rose above the din. “Are you taking this hurricane seriously?”
He cleared his throat. “That’s a very –quack-quack-…” He shook his head, eyes focusing briefly and picked up the pitcher. Instead of filling his glass, though, he dipped his face into the pitcher then jerked his chin upward to swallow the water.
A horrified aide appeared at his side, handkerchief in hand for his dripping chin. He nipped her hand and dipped for more water. She yelped in pain and tumbled off the dais. At her signal, two security agents took him firmly by the elbows. He jerked from their grasp, bloodying their noses as he flapped his arms wildly.
Before a stunned press corps, he hopped off the dais and, feet splayed inward, waddled away. Fifty pairs of eyes stared unblinking as his pin-striped bum swayed back and forth in tail-feather fashion. The hypnotic effect ended after he disappeared out the door, bloodied security agents and staff members scurrying after him. Crashes, shouts and angry quacking echoed from the hall; then a cry of alarm brought everyone out of their seats to the windows for a look. Every photographer in the room made certain that they got a shot of the Junior Minister submerged in a nearby fountain, his feet waving in the air. As the assembly gaped behind glass, agents hauled the quacking and thrashing minister out of the fountain by his waistband and stuffed him into a waiting Rolls.
“He-hem!” all eyes focused on the podium again. “Junior Minister Chorley finds himself… unwell… after making his point about the loss of water-fowl habitat since the recent hurricane...”
Thanks to Sugarquills23 and Kelleypen for beta-ing so quickly. This is un-britpicked because the wonderful Antonia East is still submerged in holiday-camp hell, trying to make sure teenagers aren't lost in the depths of Bath.