“Where are we?” Joe asked Dr. Jill Wife Lady.

“Buffalo, New York,” she hissed. “Look sad.”

“Why?” he asked, his paralyzed brow trying to crease.

“Some people were murdered,” the First Dr. Biden said.

“What kind of people? Asians? They’ve been bitching a lot lately.”

“Black people,” she said.

“Black people love me!” Joe said, brightening, ratcheting up to his full height.

“Just be careful,” Jill Ed.D said.

“Careful? Nonsense,” he said, his stiff-legged walk speeding up under his adoration. “I freed them from the chains Romney put them in.”

Fat hands and wailing engulfed him.

 


 

“How does he do it?” Kamala asked, stalking across the banks of monitors.

“What, ma’am?” Astrid asked.

“This,” Kamala said, pointing at the screens. “Look how comfortable he is.”

“They shoot him full of Adderall and barbiturates. Look at his pupils when he’s out in public.”

“I know that,” Kamala snapped. “But look how they love him, how easy he is with them. I’m Black and they all hate me.”

“Polling isn’t clear on this point,” Astrid said. She didn’t show Kamala any of the polls that would have answered her question. Her approval rating among American Descendants of Slavery hovered barely above Derek Chauvin.

“I’m Blacker than him, dammit!” She brayed out nervous laughter.

“Let’s lobby for you to go to the next mass shooter event instead of Biden,” Astrid suggested. “There is another one scheduled in early June. Should be tasty.”

“Would I have to touch them?” Kamala asked, disgust rippling across her face.

“Hugging and a certain level of hand-holding is expected.”

“Ew. Look at them,” Kamala said, leaning to the monitors. “They look like they smell like canned corn. And all the blubbering.”

“Yes,” Astrid said, tightly controlling herself. “People often cry when they are grieving the loss of a loved one.”

“Get me all the tapes you can of this performative grief. I want to study it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Astrid said, backing out of the room.