Note de la author: This is a crackfic. That was a warning. I got a prompt from the Terrible Crossover Fanfiction Idea Generator reading as follows: "Your challenge is to write crossover fanfiction combining Neil Patrick Harris and Barack Obama. The story should use starting a band as a plot device!" So, because I'm not one to back down from a challenge, I sat down and wrote the fanfic like a good girl. :3 Hope you enjoy! (As for the section I placed it in...it does involve Dr. Horrible. Trust me, it does.)

…

"Senator Obama! Senator Obama!"

Barack Obama paused, awkwardly balanced with one leg in the car and one leg out of it, turning back toward the hoard of ravenous reporters with a tired smile on his face. "Okay, okay, one more question…"

A typically fresh-faced, barely-out-of-college journalist shoved her tape recorder toward him excitedly, practically manhandling the security staff out of the way in her frantic attempts to get closer to the newly victorious president-elect. "Senator Obama!" she called again, even as Sam the Security Guy picked her up by her geek-chic sweater vest and placed her back behind the press lines. "Senator—"

"Okay," said Barack Obama quickly, holding up a hand. "You've got my attention, there, uh…"

"Hailey," she said breathlessly, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Right," said Barack Obama.

The reporter smiled, undeterred, and Barack Obama cast one last wistful glance at the inside of his car before hauling himself back out and toward the extended right hand and left tape recorder.

"It's so great to meet you," gushed Hailey, jerking his hand up and down with exaggerated enthusiasm.

"Pleasure's all mine," said Barack Obama.

Hailey smiled earnestly. "In my dreams it is."

"Whoa, okay there," said Barack Obama, yanking his hand back and surreptitiously fishing though his breast pocket for an antiseptic wipe. "You, uh…had a question for me?"

"Oh yes," said Hailey, standing up a little straighter and attempting to look professional. It was a rather difficult feat, what with Sam the Security Guy holding her back by the hem of her sweater vest, but the thought was really what counted in this kind of situation. "I just wanted to ask you, Senator Obama… Now that you've won the 2008 election and are on your way to becoming the President of the United States of America…what are you gonna do next?"

Barack Obama stared at her for a long moment before closing his eyes and silently counting to ten. When he opened them again, the journalist was still holding her tape recorder toward him eagerly, straining against the constraints of her sweater vest with an admirable effort. Barack Obama sighed noisily. Disney World was always an option, but probably too clichéd…

"Now that I've won the election," he said finally, "I don't know…I guess I'm starting a rock band. Good day, everyone."

And with that, Barack Obama slid into his car and dropped into a quick catnap as his driver made off toward wherever they were going.

…

Somewhere across the country, Neil Patrick Harris was sitting alone in his apartment, watching his television set with fingers steepled in front of his face. For some reason or another, he had been feeling the urge lately to wear his Dr. Horrible costume around the house, so he was doing that as well, shifting slightly in the oversized chair he had somehow managed to sneak off the set one day after filming. Neil Patrick Harris wasn't really sure how he had gotten away with it, nor how he had physically manhandled it from his car to his apartment to his living room, but he had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he wasn't going to let it bother him.

He was a little disappointed that he hadn't managed to win more than a handful of votes in the presidential election, certainly not enough to get himself into the political spotlight, but he hadn't thrown in the towel just yet. There had to be some way to get an in with the guy who did win the whole shebang, he figured, which is why Neil Patrick Harris was sitting alone in his apartment, watching his television set with fingers steepled in front of his face and systematically reviewing every public statement made by Barack Obama in the last few days.

And wearing his Dr. Horrible outfit, of course. It was strange, really—Neil Patrick Harris had never had any aspirations toward running a country until maybe halfway through filming that Sing-Along Blog creation of Joss's…

Zap, went Neil Patrick Harris's goggles. Zap, went that random train of thought that had no relevance whatsoever to his plans for world domination.

"I don't know," said Barack Obama from the television screen. "I guess I'm starting a rock band."

"Bingo!" said Neil Patrick Harris, jumping up from his chair with a victory screech and promptly falling to the carpet due to the fact that he had been steadfastly ignoring the indicators that his legs had fallen asleep sometime last week and had not had their circulation restored since.

Zap, went the goggles. Zap, it wasn't important anymore. With renewed enthusiasm, Neil Patrick Harris began dragging himself toward the apartment door, pleased with his amazing new plan and the impressiveness of his upper body strength. Heave-ho!

…

By the time Barack Obama finally managed to battle his way through the many well-wishers and celebratory drunken homeless folk who had accumulated within a ten-mile radius of his house, it was all he could do to grab a quick beer and drop onto the couch with exhaustion. Thank goodness that his wife and kids were off visiting a distant aunt or grandmother or cousin or something, keeping them conveniently out of the house in case anything strange were to happen. Sometimes being Barack Obama was a tough job, and right now he just wanted to kick off his shoes and relax.

Just then, though, a strange sound came floating from the garage. "What the hell was that?" wondered Barack Obama, cocking his head toward the direction from which the noise had originated.

"Twaaaaaaang," said the sound from his garage, before working itself into a splendid do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.

"I'm tired," complained Barack Obama, setting down his beer all the same. "Why do things like this keep happening to me?"

The sound, which was beginning to seem more and more suspiciously like a guitar, started playing Hit Me With Your Best Shot.

Barack Obama had never been one to back down from a challenge—take that, McCain-Palin—so he heaved himself up from the couch with an almighty groan and opened the door to the attached garage. Then he closed the door, blinked a few times, glanced at the beer on the coffee table, and opened the door again.

Neil Patrick Harris was sitting in his garage, playing the guitar and doing a pretty decent impression of Pat Benatar, except for the part where he was dressed like some sort of mad scientist. Scattered around him was a variety of instruments, including a drum set, a bass guitar, a tambourine, a saxophone, several maracas, an enormous cello, and a didgeridoo. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, closing, and opening again, blinking bright-if-slightly-crazed eyes at the owner of the garage he was currently inhabiting. "Hello," said Neil Patrick Harris.

"…Hello," said Barack Obama. "What are you doing in my garage?"

"I heard on the news that you wanted to start a rock band."

Barack Obama shifted slightly in the doorway, glancing once more at his beer. The bottle was still at least three-fourths filled, so he really just couldn't be drunk… Miffed, he turned back toward the guy in his garage, brow furrowing. "I wasn't really being serious. I just wanted that reporter to go away."

"You wouldn't have said it if it weren't at least a little bit true," said Neil Patrick Harris, holding up his forefinger and thumb to demonstrate his point. "Come on…look at all these cool instruments."

"I have always wanted to learn the didgeridoo," admitted Barack Obama.

"That's the spirit!" said Neil Patrick Harris.

Slow Ride, said the guitar, eager to be a part of things, take it ea-say.

…

Neil Patrick Harris was feeling pleasantly high on the music, which was currently a pretty kickass rendition of the old Guns N Roses song Welcome to the Jungle, as hijacked by a battered old electric guitar, a didgeridoo of unknown origins, an actor-slash-mad-scientist, and the president-elect of the United States of America. It was so amazing that he almost didn't want to get into Part Two of his plan, which involved a lot more scheming and a lot less classic rock.

Zap, went Neil Patrick Harris's goggles. Zap, he was suddenly vigorously motivated.

"Say, Barack, my man," he said suddenly, abandoning the vocals, "this is a pretty good time we're having, right?"

"You know it," said Barack Obama, who was thinking of changing his name to Barack And Roll, just for the hell of it.

"And I feel like we've gotten to know each other pretty well in the…last hour and a half," he continued, glancing down at his watch.

"Very true," conceded Barack Obama, busting out a wicked didgeridoo solo.

"So I was thinking…maybe you should drop this Joe Biden character and pick me up for the VP position."

Barack Obama paused, looking slightly uncertain. "I don't know about that, Neil Patrick. I did promise that he could have the job, after all. He'd be pretty mad at me."

"Call me Billy," said Neil Patrick Harris, lips forming into a pout. "And come on! I'd be perfect for the job! I bet Joe Biden doesn't rock out as hardcore as I do."

"Not even close, Billy," said Barack Obama.

"See! I mean, we're practically brothers now. You owe me this, Barack-star. I made your didgeridoo dreams a reality."

"That is very true, also," said Barack Obama. "Okay, tell you what. Let me just give Joe a call, and I'll see what he thinks. Can I borrow your cell phone?"

"Sure," said Neil Patrick Harris, standing up to fish the cell phone out of his labcoat. "Here you go—whoops!"

"Neil Patrick Harris! I mean, Billy!" cried Barack Obama, lunging forward to save his new best friend from smashing his head into the concrete. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to take the maracas into account, and they took advantage of his moment of weakness to take him down like a mob of small, brightly painted Mexican wrestlers. He stumbled for a moment, hands groping at the air, before going down hard on top of the tambourine, which knocked the breath right out of him.

"Ouch," groaned Neil Patrick Harris, passing out.

"I know, right?" said Barack Obama as darkness blurred his vision into nothing.

…

When Barack Obama woke up, the first thing he noticed was that he was lying in a hospital bed, entrenched in the semi-familiar scent of antibacterial everything. The second thing he noticed was that Neil Patrick Harris was lying in the bed beside his, head bandaged with his bright blond hair sticking up comically every which way. "Good morning, Barack-star," he said upon noticing that the other had awoken.

"Good morning," said Barack Obama. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm great. They took my goggles away, though. I'm not sure what they did with them." Neil Patrick Harris looked slightly saddened by this turn of events, poking at his Jell-o cup with a little more force than necessary.

"That's a shame," said Barack Obama.

"I know, right? They made me feel so…ambitious. And sexy. Speaking of, though," he said suddenly, pushing the Jell-o off to the side. "You don't need to call Joe Biden anymore. I've been thinking about it, and I realized that VP just isn't for me. I don't know why I even thought it was in the first place."

Barack Obama sighed in relief. He really hadn't wanted Joe to get mad at him, after all. "That's okay, Neil Patrick. I bet I can find an even better place for you. Maybe I'll even make our band into an official government office!"

"That would be sweet!" gushed Neil Patrick Harris, squealing into his hospital sheets. "Dude, for reals, this is like the best day ever."

"It totally is," agreed Barack Obama, digging into his own cup of cherry Jell-o with a grin.

…

Sarah Palin had just finished putting the last batch of caribou-kabobs into the oven when a knock sounded at the front door, ringing through the house. Since her husband and children were off visiting a distant aunt or grandmother or cousin or something, keeping them conveniently out of the house in case anything strange were to happen, she wiped her hands on her all-American apron and click-clacked down the hall to answer the door.

There was nobody there, which was strange, and there were no footprints in the fresh Alaskan snow, either, which was stranger. But there was a cardboard box with a note attached, which she picked up after a moment and carried into the house.

Sarah Palin, said the note. Just thought you might want these. They'd look totally awesome with your new $150,000 wardrobe.

There was no signature, but it sounded like the box had been intended as a present, so Sarah Palin ripped it open. Inside, buried beneath the packing peanuts, was a pair of nifty-looking goggles. With a shrug, she lifted them out and slipped them onto her head, then went to check on her caribou-kabobs.

When the phone rang twenty minutes later, she had all but forgotten the goggles in favor of reading up on the lives of famous dictators from around the world, just for the hell of it. Startled out of the life story of Fidel Castro, she lifted the cordless to her ear and clicked the button. "Hello?"

"Sa-rah! Hey, it's John McCain, just callin' to see what's up with you tonight."

"Oh, nothing really," she said. "I was busy realizing that the world is a mess, and I just need to rule it, is all."

"Sarah?" asked John McCain, clearly confused. "Are you feeling okay? You know you don't know anything about politics."

"Yeah, that's the weird part—"

Zap, went Sarah Palin's goggles. Zap, went that irrelevant train of thought.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that. I've got it covered. Oh, and John?"

"Yes, Sarah?"

"Call me Dr. Horrible."

John McCain chuckled. "You wily scamp," he said, and he hung up the phone in order to get back to partying with his Republican homies so he could forget about the fact that he had lost the presidential election only a few days earlier.

The goggles chuckled as well. Everything was going according to plan…

…

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