The lights and sounds and press of people hit Joe like a mail truck.

“Barry is here? Barry?” he asked one person and then another. He tried to look over the heads of all the other people to see his friend’s smooth brown features.

“Barry? Have you seen Barry?” he asked. The room was close and hot but he was cold. He was always cold. He pawed the air. No one took his arm. No one guided him to a chair.

“Barry? I don’t want to be Vice President no more. I’m really tired,” Joe said to a confused aide.

And then there he was. Tall and handsome and grinning. Joe reached out for him.

“Mr. President,” Kamala said to Barry, stepping in front of Joe, hitting “President” hard in her delivery. Joe saluted the back of her head and wandered off.

“MSNBC,” he heard someone say. “Jen,” someone else said. He looked around. He was sure he knew someone named Jen.

“The DNC is placing her at MSNBC in advance of the mid-terms,” a stately woman said. Joe got closer, bumped into her, farted, spun around, saluted no one in particular. “God knows we need the help.”

“Barry?” Joe called.

Someone took his arm and guided him over to stand in front of a bank of cameras. He began to amble toward the lectern and he was pulled back into place. Barry walked up to the microphone as Kamala stepped away and joined Joe.

“Michelle?” Joe said to Kamala, “You’re looking great, babe. Maybe a little shorter.” Kamala’s grin cracked a bit but she otherwise ignored him.

“Vice President Biden…” Barry said smoothly. He grinned at the fawning press corps and they all got a little wet, even the masculine-presenting ones.

“That was a joke,” Barry said, looking over at Joe. He turned back and grinned again.

One of the press corps fainted dead away. Two press interns dragged them out of view.

“It’s not much of a joke,” Joe muttered. “I hate being Vice President.” He flashed his DNC chompers and saluted Barry.

“Stop saluting everyone,” Kamala said through clenched teeth.

Kamala inched toward Barry as he spoke, the smell of cigarettes and cocobutter drawing her toward Barry’s hybrid vigor and oozing charisma. Kamala made a growling noise in the back of her throat/ She wanted to tear him apart, to consume him. Her dead clitoris swelled and she pressed her legs together and squirmed.

“Do you have to pee?” Joe asked loudly.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Kamala hissed. “I’m almost there.”

“Are we going somewhere?” Joe asked. “Can I have a glass of milk?”

Kamala snorted and grimaced.

“I really like milk. And drinking it supports the American farmer. I love farmers. I once slept with a farmer’s daughter. You wouldn’t believe the skills milking a cow gave that girl.”

Kamala screeched silently, her incipit orgasm fading to a grey dot–like turning off an old TV.

Barry stopped talking finally and Joe stopped pretending to know what he was talking about. He just wanted a moment with Barry. He just wanted to resign the Vice Presidency. Some people shook his hand. He smelled piss. Joe wanted to sit down. He was so tired. People swarmed Barry and there was no way to get to him.

“Barry?” he cried and it was lost in the din of adoration.