“Send me over there,” Hunter said lazily. “I’ll sort out the whole Israel stuff in like, I dunno, maybe three weeks.”

“You sure could, buddy,” Cracky said, slurring his words. Most of his mouth had been broken-off and smoked.

“занадто м’який,” the bottle-blonde muttered. She was his royalty check from Burisma for the last quarter of the year.

“Keep working, honey,” Hunter said, pushing her head back down, using the international language of whores. He smeared his spit-flecked half-hard penis across her face until she opened her mouth.

“Seriously,” Hunter said to Cracky. “I’d kick some fucking raghead ass.”

“You sure would, buddy! Like Rambo cleaning up New Jack City. Rata-tat-tat! Rata-tat!”

“I love you, Cracky. You always know what I need to hear.”

The prostitute spat out his flaccid penis and muttered, “Він божевільний.”

“You keep going until the mayo comes out,” Hunter said, smacking the side of her head.

“I love the way you keep whores in line, Hunter,” Cracky said.

“Lazy bitches,” Hunter yawned. “You don’t keep a firm hand and they get to thinking they are human beings.”

Cracky and Hunter laughed and laughed.

“But she’s right,” Hunter admitted. “The White House is really cramping my Hunter vibe. I can barely get it up, even for the supple pleasures of a professional’s windpipe.”

Cracky smiled and more of his mouth fell off.

“You’ve got quite a chunk taken out of you there,” Hunter said dreamily.

“Hunter?” Cracky asked shakily.

He pushed the prostitute off his penis and grabbed Cracky, running his finger thoughtfully along the broken mouthparts.

“I’m sorry, Cracky,” Hunter said.

“What do you mean, buddy?”

Hunter began to rub Cracky on his limp, spit-sticky penis. Cracky started crying quietly as Hunter penis skin drank vital cocaine nutrients directly from Cracky’s craggy surface.

“Hunter,” Cracky sobbed. “I never thought it would be like this.”

The bruise-eyed giftwhore watched hungrily.