“The Russians were supposed to shoot the drone down, Z,” Hunter purred into his satellite phone. “I had the drone in place, and Pootie wouldn’t take the shot.”

“I know you’ve paid me a lot of money,” he continued. “I’m doing what I can.” Hunter ended the call and fed the phone into a shredder.

“Short, tedious man,” Hunter sighed. He smoked a rock of crack, masterbated, showered, masterbated again, got dressed, and drove to his office in his electric rickshaw.

“Palms to grease,” he said, letting himself into his strip mall office front, windows papered over, and CLOSED FOR COVID written on the plate glass in soap. Dark and musty, he picked his way through art projects and duffle bags full of cash to his computer which hummed and thrummed in the dark like a sleeping beast.

Hunter masterbated again, the rush of pornographic images of himself flashing across the computer screen. He wiped himself off with a handful of yuan and took a nap, smoked another rock of crack when he awoke, chipped off a couple of days worth from a crack boulder that took up most of the bathroom and jetted off with a backpack stuffed with cash.

He paid off X and then paid off Y and then paid off Z and then met their daughters in a hotel room, ejaculated once, twice, and thrice more, his aching penis weeping blood.

“I am Hunter Biden!” he announced in a 7/11 and bought all the Takis. He threw them over the fence of a grade school until he heard sirens approaching and zoomed away.

“Daddy!” he cried as he climbed out of the hatch set in the floor of the Presidential Shitter.

“Those tunnels were filled in with concrete!” his daughter Finnegan cried. “I am concrete!” Hunter replied.

“My son, my beautiful son,” Joe said, weeping, gummy yellow tears plopping to his cheeks.

“CASH PARTY!” Hunter screamed and the lights in the Oval Office began to flash and a throbbing beat began. Hunter made it rain in the Oval Office until his backpack was empty. He squeezed Finnegan’s ass when he swooped in to kiss her goodbye and he vanished, a sparkling fart smell lingering.

Pissing against a wall in Anacostia, Hunter said to himself, “Life is good.”

As dawn broke over DC, he laughed and masterbated again.