Flump.

President Flump slept alone, save for the small angel that sat atop his dresser smoking a cigarette. She watched between puffs, her cigarette never shortening, as the fat foreign leeches undulated. They maintained a steady drain of the president's naked body, and never seemed to satiate. He groaned and grumbled as he slept. Occasionally, he would roll to one side, popping a few of the beasts in a burst of dark red, drowning the bedding in his own blood. 

The thin, spectral chain that bound Analiese to the dresser, though rather pathetic in appearance, was unbreachable. Analiese had tried everything. 

She did not have to glance at the digital golden clock that lay on his nightstand, she knew it was not far from five in the morning. She checks every five minutes or so. Flump rises at five in the morning. He needs no alarm. It’s like clockwork. Every night, at one in the morning, President Flump stumbles into his chambers, Every morning, at five, he rises. He crosses the cramped chambers and draws the curtains. It is always a painful experience for Analiese, the sun in her eyes, though it never takes her more than ten seconds to adjust to the change in environment.

The flump likes to take a few moments, staring out that grand window. Analiese marvels at what he could possibly be thinking about. She makes a game of it sometimes. His rigid schedule tends to lose that rigidity after this point, and that’s exactly where Analiese’s day tends to gets interesting. Will Flump head down to the war room, to order his Mr. Donalds for the morning’s breakfast, or will he go back to his bed, to let the leeches feed for a few more hours? Analiese can never decide, though she is slowly learning the tells.

Today is a violent day. He heads towards the wardrobe, upon which Analiese is resting, and draws the doors. He spends many moments gazing at the many identical suits hanging in his closet, not a single moment spared for the angel, whom he knows is sitting there. He finally selects one, on a basis that Analiese still has not figured out. He puts it on slowly, laboriously. Analiese has learned not to laugh at this.

Finally, when the poor fabric has managed to conceal his gruesome figure to the best of its ability, President Flump exits the room, still not acknowledging the angel. It is now that Analiese can devour her largest morsel of perceived freedom, that brief window that exists between the large man’s exit and the arrival of the heretics, who come every morning at seven to retrieve the remaining beastly leeches and destroy them. The bedding, too.