“I am a historic figure. People who meet me start crying,” Karine sobbed. Her pantyhose had numerous long rips and she scratched at her leg as she wandered The Oval Office. One of her fingernails had fallen off and tears stained her face.

“Karine’s got into the tranny fluid again,” Hunter said, laughing.

“It’s not funny,” Finnegan snapped. “It’s 2023, we can’t have drunk a press secretary. The days of Dee Dee Myers snorting coke off her White House ID badge are over.”

“Karine still lies very well when she’s drinking,” Hunter said. “She even told me my penis was tiny with a straight face.”

“You’re certainly in a good mood,” Finnegan said sourly.

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Hunter asked, doing a brief pirouette. “Daddy made those silly charges go away. Talking to lawyers is so boring.”

Karine’s empty can of Bud Light slipped from her fingers and fell to the fouled carpet. She fished in her purse and brought out another can.

“Where does she even keep getting it?” Finnegan asked. “She’s not bringing it in, I have her searched.”

“Bud Light sent us, like, a hundred cases of stuff with that little faggot’s face on it,” Hunter said and yawned.

“Dylan identifies as a woman and that means she’s a woman,” Finnegan said coldly. “Misgendering is violence.”

“Dylan? Dylan Mulvaney? That’s my homegirl, dawg. I love her. I’m talking about Ben Shapiro,” Hunter said.

“Bud Light put Ben Shapiro on a can?” Finnegan asked.

“The picture looks just like him,” Hunter said.

“I’m representing the Black community, the Caribbean community, the LGBTQ+ community, and it is important I do that well,” Karine muttered. Hunter walked up behind her and snatched the can away. She didn’t seem to notice.

“See?” Hunter asked, holding the can out to Finnegan.

 

 

“That’s Dylan Mulvaney,” Finnegan said witheringly.

Hunter twisted the can around and looked at it. “Are you sure? It looks a helluva lot like Ben Shapiro. Those are his beady little Jew eyes.”

“She’s wearing pearls and lipstick; Ben Shapiro never goes out in public like that,” Finnegan said.

“I’ve had many firsts, it’s always very different,” Karine said, suddenly animated and clawing at Hunter, swaying, reaching for the can.

“You want it back?” Hunter asked playfully. “I’ll trade you for a kiss.”

“No,” Karine said. “That’s gross, you’re gross.”

“Wait, where’s Grandpa?” Finnegan asked.

“I thought he was with you,” Hunter said.

“I thought he was with Grandma Jill,” Finnegan said.

“You’ve lost him, you’ve lost him!” Hunter said, clapping with glee. “I win the pool!”

Karine belched, her growing beer fupa protruding angrily. Half-lidded, her eyes were blank.

Joe came shuffling out of the bathroom and Finnegan sighed with relief.

“There-there-there’s a really nice toilet in there,” Joe said.

“Oh, thank God,” Finnegan said.

“It flushes like a, like a, like a, you know the thing, It spins around and kills hillbillies,” Joe said.

“A tornado, Grandpa,” Finnegan said as she guided him back to his desk.

“And loud, real loud flush,” Joe stammered. “Do you think you can get it in your purse so we can take it home?” He cupped her left breast and gave his Death’s Head smile. She could see the rot behind his capped teeth. “Think about taking an-a-an-a-a-a epic shit and then making love. You’d feel so free.”

“That’s called a blumpkin, Dad,” Hunter said, gently taking Joe’s arm and sitting him down. “And if that’s what you want, I can make it happen.” He smoothed the hair over Joe’s liver-spotted head and kissed him loudly on the ear. “Anything for the man kept me out of jail.”

“You were in jail?” Joe asked, his eyebrows struggling to rise in surprise.

“Not anymore,” Hunter said.