“Cracky isn’t real!” Dr. Biden screamed.

Hunter, suspended from the ceiling, let out an agonized howl.

“Le-le-leave the boy alone, Jill,” Joe said.

“He has to learn!” Dr. Biden growled, poking at Hunter with a broomstick. “He can’t keep living in rafters and fuck tunnels and ducking subpoenas.”

“Cracky!” Hunter cried, “CRACKY!”

“He hasn’t smoked crack in nearly six hours, Grandma,” Finnegan said. “Maybe we should let him have just a little bit.”

“A little dab’ll do ya!” Hunter said in his Cracky voice. Projected, it sounded like it was coming from inside Dr. Biden’s hideous purse.

“More!” Hunter said.

“More!” Cracky said.

“More!” Karine said, pissing herself, drunk on the Oval Office settee.

“More?” Joe asked, his face smeared with oat milk ice cream.

Jill sighed and dumped Cracky out onto Joe’s desk. “We have an election to run,” she said tiredly and walked out of the room.

Hunter descended from the ceiling, ropes and pulleys creaking, and snatched up his beloved Cracky, crying.