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Barack J. Obama liked to pretend he was your average 61 year old man, but the truth was, he lied.
He was not 61. He could hardly remember if he ever was.
He was older than you or I, older than the oldest tree or the oldest chunk of dirt or the oldest
star in the sky.
He was around before then, and he would be around after, until this eon ended and the next began, so on and so forth into an oblivion that he would never have the privilege to face.
In Obama's long life, he'd never once fallen in love. Even Michelle felt more like a dear, dear friend than a lover. But he didn't feel he needed to feel such a thing, and was perfectly fulfilled without it.
I mean, he'd stared God in the face and lived to tell the tale.
He'd raised empires and destroyed them. He'd seen the first fish try to crawl it's way on land. He'd seen the world be formed like clay in the hands of God.
He'd seen others be annihilated by something out of anybody's control.
And yet, he was lonely. His friends had lived and died, and after so long, their lives seemed like only seconds. One blink and his companion's lives went from adolescents to elders.
If only there was another like him.
————
Obama stood in a swamp outside a hut, talking to the man with no name.
He was tall, and green, and beautiful as a boat.
His breath smelled like garlic salt. His eyes were the color of fresh walnuts. His hands were soft, like sandpaper covered in peanut butter. His voice was deep, and his accent reminded Obama of someone he'd met long ago.
The nameless man spoke, looking down at Obama in a way he felt he'd never been looked at before.
As if he were equal.
"Who're you?" asked the nameless man, a smirk playing on his lips.
"I've gone by many names," Obama said just as slyly.
"What do you use now?" He raised his eyebrows, smirk widening into a grin.
"Legally, I am Barack Obama, but many just call me Obama."
The nameless nodded, satisfied.
"Well, Obama," he emphasized the man's name, "you can call me Shrek."
"I think I will." He nodded sharply, but not seriously. His eyes held a mischievous glint.
Shrek gestured to the hut.
"Would you like to stay for dinner?" he asked.
"I'd like that." Obama walked to the door, his strides long, purposeful.
Shrek grinned, and although Obama's back was turned, he knew. He was near omniscient. He could read people just as easily as you'd read the morning news, or maybe a reciept, so long as both weren't printed by anything faulty.
The shack smelled like garlic salt, poultry, and egg.
"It's very nice in here," Obama commented, lying through his teeth.
"Cleaned it up myself," Shrek said, also lying.
Obama nodded, glancing at the pot, bubbling over the stove.
"Made soup," he uselessly pointed out.
"Sure did. Carrots and donkey, mixed with salt water." Shrek stood, grabbed a pair wood-carved bowls, then prepared their dinner.
Now, at first, Obama was skeptical. He'd never eaten donkey, and he figured salt water would be nasty.
He had a sip, and was proven wrong.
His eyes widened, and he ate quickly, thoroughly draining the bowl, in spite of his wish to savour it.
"Good, right?" Shrek said, his own bowl empty as well.
"Amazing!" Obama smiled genuinely. "How did you know that would be so... so..."
Shrek chuckled, although Obama could sense a hint of melancholy in his voice.
"I've been around a real long time, Obama."
He got the feeling Shrek didn't really want to talk about it, so instead he asked about the recipe.
Before either of them knew it, it had gotten dark. The half-moon glowed like a faulty lightbulb, and as Obama got in to bed that night, he realized two things.
The first, in only an afternoon, Obama felt closer to Shrek then he'd felt towards anybody else.
And the second...
Shrek's handwriting was illegible. That recipe... What did it even say? And did he write it in charcoal?
————
After a few months, the pair saw each other every day, for hours at a time. Sometimes, they'd even stay overnight, always giggling and talking about other Presidents.
"Oh my goodness," Obama said, mid-laugh. They were huddled under a pink blanket in Obama's bed, flashlight illuminating them poorly. "Biden, though, right?"
"Top ten, easily," Shrek agreed. They'd never specified what they were ranking for. "Trump?"
Obama shook his head.
"Lower forties."
Shrek shrugged.
Suddenly, the light in the room flicked on, and Michelle pulled the blanket from over their heads.
"You're keeping the whole house awake," she said. "Go to bed."
The men looked at each other and sighed.
"Okay, Michelle," they conceded, and rolled away from each other on the bed. Shrek pouted like an idiot. Obama fount it endearing.
As they drifted off to sleep, he heard Shrek say one last thing:
"Australopithecus was a solid ten."
————
The next morning, when Obama woke up, Shrek was gone.
The window was open, and the curtains ruffled in the wind.
Obama didn't need to be immortal and omniscient to understand that Shrek was gone.
He tried to rationalize it by saying, Hey, maybe he's just busy. But that day with no contact and neglected calls and an empty hut turned into weeks, and when a month went by, Obama knew in his heart something was wrong.
He thought hard. Who wouldn't like Shrek?
Well, with his rough exterior and constant snarky attitude...
Everybody. Everybody wouldn't like him.
But one person came to mind. Somebody just as snarky and just as tall as Shrek, though that's where their similarities ended. This person was more evil than Obama had ever seen in his long, long life.
Gargamel.
A quick Google search showed his lair to be in Inverness, Scotland.
Obama couldn't waste any time.
Despite the failing economy, he fueled up his private jet, set the speed dial to "Sonic," and flew.
The world smeared away until the blinking on the dashboard showed him he was nearing Inverness.
He slowed down his jet, then landed in an abandoned field somewhere. In the distance, there was a huge castle, surrounded by a forest.
The place was eerily silent. The air was still, and Obama's footsteps on the grass seemed almost too loud.
The forest was still, too, as if it was holding his breath.
Obama had only ever felt this type of silence once before; it was the silence of suspense. The Earth itself was holding it's breath. Something was going to happen, something big.
Obama felt a prickly of fear, and he doubted his mission. But then... there was a sound.
Quiet footsteps, so soft Obama doubted they were even there. But then he saw a girl.
Her hair was long, golden, contrasting with her cool blue skin. Her eyes were large and blue as well, although she seemed afraid.
Behind her emerged a man, similarly blue, but his skin was wrinkled with age. His hair was white and so was his beard, and stark white, just like his cap.
Also, they were maybe three inches tall. A blade of grass was taller than them.
The pair looked up at Obama, not saying a word.
"Where is Gargamel?" he asked them, cringing as his voice rang throughout the forest.
"In his castle," the blue woman said softly. "We will show you the way."
"No need," Obama told them. He smiled slightly. His feet lifted off the ground and he tilted his head up. The air seemed to move around him, there was no wind but still, the smurfs could sense a disturbance.
Obama hovered about a foot above the ground.
"Be safe on your journey," the elderly man said, and Obama nodded before floating higher up.
His head poked through the foliage, and he could see Gargamel's castle. The whole thing seemed to be crooked. The towers were twisted and thin, surrounding a main one, so tall it's peak was hidden among the clouds.
Obama raised higher, annoyed by how long flying would take in comparison to his private jet.
But he flew anyways, the speed creating a rainbow trail behind him.
In about a minute, he was at a gated window of the main tower.
Shrek was there, but... so was Gargamel.
They were talking, and Gargamel stroked Azrael the cat absentmindedly.
It was quiet, and their faces were serious. Obama couldn't just call out to Shrek.
He waited until Gargamel left.
In a flicker of light, he was in the room, having teleported through the walls. Shrek gasped. He stood up in shock.
"O-Obama?" he asked, reaching out a hand hesitantly. "Is it really you?"
Obama stepped towards Shrek, his face serious, but kind.
He smiled as Shrek embraced him, and they hugged each other tight.
"You came to save me," Shrek said, his accent still Scottish.
Obama nodded.
"Of course," he said. "You're my best friend."
Because he was omniscient, he could tell Shrek didn't really like being called a best friend, but he didn't know why.
The door creaked, and Obama stepped away quickly, looking to it expectantly.
Gargamel walked through, looking at the wooden bowl he had in his hand.
"I made soup," he said, looking up.
As he saw Obama, his grip on the bowl loosened, and it fell to the floor with a thud. Soup spattered all over the floor, and it got on Gargamel's cloak.
But he paid no attention to the ruined dinner. His eyes were focused only on Obama.
"What are you doing here?" Gargamel said through grit teeth. His voice shook in anger.
"I want to save my friend," Obama said calmly, though his apathy was only a facade.
Without warning, Gargamel's sclerae turned black, and he began floating about an inch above the ground.
Obama began to float, too, and his eyes glowed a darkness almost more powerful than Gargamel's.
At the same time, they disappeared and reappeared outside, floating hundreds of feet above the treetops.
Purple energy collected in Gargamel's hands, and his eyes glowed the same color.
Obama flexed his fingers, and from under his skin emerged long, black claws. His teeth sharpened into gleaming fangs, and he grinned cockily.
"Shrek will be saved."
With those words, the men lunged at each other.
Gargamel hit Obama in the face with the mass of energy. He was propelled back, cheek burning.
He flew at Gargamel, claws out. He grabbed his collar and scratched him in the eye.
Gargamel shouted in pain, and a purple light glowed from his wound.
Obama tried to scratch him again, but Gargamel grabbed his wrist, the energy burning Obama's skin once again.
He flew away, and where he'd been hit, his skin glowed with a purplish hue.
They flew at each other. Obama grabbed Gargamel by the shoulders and threw him downwards, into the forest.
He hit the ground with such strength that the earth cracked, and a giant crater formed, knocking trees over and scaring birds.
He sat up, then began floating again, until he was right in front of Obama.
He punched him in the jaw and sent him flying upwards, the clouds parting in a perfect circle.
As Obama fell, he thought of Shrek.
The ground came up fast.
He hit it with the force of a massive meteor. A mushroom of dust flew from the crater he created, and wind blew even the trees back and scared more birds.
The wind pushed Gargamel into the tower, through a person-sized hole in the wall.
Shrek was kneeling over him, and Obama entered through the window, dazed and injured.
"Shrek..."
Gargamel sat up, and Obama raised his claws, but Shrek stood.
"STOP IT," he roared. Obama retracted his fangs and claws, and Gargamel put out his hands and eyes.
"Obama," he said. "Gargamel..."
They looked at each other.
"Gargamel is my father."
Obama was dumbfounded, but before he could ask any questions or laugh in their faces, Shrek spoke again.
"And... I need to tell you something."
Obama nodded quietly, and Shrek stepped forward, clasping Obama's hands in his own.
They were soft, like sandpaper covered in peanut butter.
"Since the day I met you, I could tell you were like me. Like... my father."
Gargamel put up a peace sign.
"You're immortal. You've lived a thousand lives, played a thousand parts." Shrek looked to the ground, then in Obama's eyes, gaze so intense he thought it might set fire.
"Since I've met you, I've learned that you're amazing, and that you're the kindest, most cool person I've ever met."
Shrek took a deep breath.
"This is to say, Barack Obama, that I am in love with you."
Obama swallowed, and suddenly, it all clicked.
Why he felt so happy with Shrek around.
Why he laughed at all his jokes, even the bad ones, and why he just felt... at home.
"I think..." Obama began. He smiled. "No, I believe... that I love you too."
And then they kissed each other.
It felt nice, but Obama shuddered afterwards.
His breath smelled like garlic salt.
————
Obama stood tall.
He wore a suit with a rose pinned to it, standing in the front of a lake. Loch Morar.
He looked down the aisle, which was actually a red carpet surrounded with chairs.
In them sat Michelle, who was crying, Papa Smurf and Smurfette, Obama's kids, Trump (who was not invited), Azrael, and some others.
Gargamel stood behind the red carpet with his hand on Shrek's shoulder.
They walked down together, the melancholy organ music playing in the background.
Upon reaching Obama, Gargamel let go of Shrek and smiled.
Shrek stepped before Obama, and they stared at each other.
"I would say a lot of things," the minister, Joe Biden, said. "But I'm not a minister. Kiss now, or forever hold your peace."
They kissed, and it was actually enjoyable this time.
Shrek brushed his teeth.
Cheers rang out from the crowd. The pair held hands and walked down the aisle, signing autographs and consoling ex-wives.
————
They were old. Older than the dirt you breathe and the air you walk on, older than the oldest baby and the youngest rock.
And their oblivion would never come, because their lives would go on for as long as time would take them.