“I’ll hit him with a left, he won’t see that coming, and then an uppercut with the right!” Joe said, shadowboxing feebly around the Oval Office, joints popping like gnawed gristle.

Kamala, Finnegan, and Jen, huddled together in the corner, clucked and tutted.

“He called for regime change in Russia! Twice!” Kamala quietly screeched.

“He went off script,” Jen said. “And we set him up to walk it back and he refused to read his talking points.”

“You two shouldn’t have sent him to Europe,” Finnegan said nastily. “You know what changes in air pressure do to him.”

“We needed him to calm things down,” Kamala replied.

“Well, that really worked out great,” Finnegan shot back.

“Regime changes back Putin into a corner. He literally has nothing to lose now,” Jen said.

“I know that!” Kamala said, her adenoidal voice climbing through the upper octaves.

Rocky IV!” Joe yelled. “I’m going to take those damn Rooskies down.” He picked up a stapler and threw it down on the carpet.

“He remembers Rocky IV, but not who I am half the time,” Finnegan groused.

“We guaranteed you get to keep..” Kamala began.

“Don’t say his name!” Finnegan interrupted.

“We guaranteed you get to keep your father’s money–no matter what happens–if you did this job,” Kamala said.

“I am doing my job, goddammit,” Finnegan said.

“He won’t use nukes!” Joe shouted. “Drago wouldn’t dare! We can take Ukraine back over a long weekend, the Russians will be welcomed as liberators, the Soviet Union will crumble, I can carry a huge log in the snow!”

“Jesus Christ,” Finnegan shouted, pointing at Joe’s erection. “We have got to get him a sedative!”

Jen threw her hands out to say something and struck Kamala in her left breast.

“Madam President, I am so sorry,” Jen said, horrified, looking at her own hand.

“I know what you are into these days,” Kamala said with a smirk. “You wanna see ‘em?”

Jen turned and vomited smoothly on the floor, efficient like a high school bulimic.

“I am not cleaning that up,” Finnegan said before Jen was even finished.