“This is a good burger, ketchup,” Joe mumbled, food falling out of his mouth onto his tie, plate and some eventually to the floor.

“You want me to pass the ketchup? Or are you calling me Ketchup?” Kamala asked indignantly. “I’m not the house slave, you know. And there ain’t no ketchup.”

Joe rolled his eyes as she glared at him and then he took another bite. Red meat, they never let him have red meat.

“This should have an egg on it,” Joe said. “I love a burger with a nice fried egg on it.”

“Too expensive,” Kamala groused. “Bad optics. You could have a turkey egg.”

“I don’t want a turkey egg,” Joe said petulantly as the click-whirr of the press cameras nearly drowned out his voice.

“Then why are those two you pardoned at Thanksgiving still here, shitting all over the Lincoln bedroom?”

“Those are are are our guests, Michelle,” Joe said, visibly straining to open his eyes wide in shock.

“I AM NOT MICHELLE OBAMA!” Kamala screamed.

“Lid!” one said. “We’re calling a lid. No more reporting today. Karine will tell you what to think later!” There was a scuffled stampede as press aides herded the photographers out of the room.

“I just wanted some ketchup,” Joe said in his little boy voice.

“There is no ketchup. I banned it from the building when we took over.”

“No ketchup?”

“He liked ketchup. You don’t want to be like Him, do you?”

Joe had no idea of whom she was speaking, but nodded his head anyway.

Karine came into the room, breathless, with a frown.

“What’s the matter, Michelle?” Joe asked her, more chunks of bread and meat falling from his mouth. He worried Finnegan would make him take a bath tonight.

“They found more documents,” she said.

“More? What the damn hell fuck, Joe?” Kamala demanded.

“What documents?” Joe asked, continuing to worry at his burger before someone thought to take it away.

“Classified documents!” Kamala said. “It’s all anyone has been talking about!”

“I haven’t read the paper today yet,” Joe said defensively. He hadn’t read a newspaper in three years.

“They were in your garage, with your fucking Corvette,” Kamala said.

“These new ones were in the house itself,” Karine said.

“Ah, fuck,” Kamala replied tiredly. “Where?”

“Hunter’s old bedroom,” Karine said.

“NOOOO! Don’t say his name!” Kamala screeched.

“Daddy!” Hunter said, as he crawled from a panel in the wainscotting.