in the neighboring room, Christiane Amanpour has a shirtless Torin Yeater-Wallace by his outstretched spreadeagle wrists pinned to either side of the double posts of the bed. the headboard is rollicking and rolling. her scraped wartorn knees are on top of his nipples.
Christiane: yes. yes i do believe i can milk you.
Torin: *ashenfaced* please, please don't hurt me!
Christiane: *grinning from drooping earlobe to drooping earlobe* let's talk about sex.
Torin: please. what is this? i never thought it'd get this serious!
Christiane: *not letting go and darting her dark pupils all the way round her eyes* let's talk about sex.
Torin: yeet. i won't confess to something i didn't do! we're too-easy targets.
Christiane: *revealing her forked tongie* let's talk about sex.
Torin: okay okay! look, it was fun with the girl at first. we fucked in the snow. it was her first snow. but then we woke up. together. and fucked again at the break of dawn and it wasn't as special. she stormed out of this very room we occupy now and never looked back, i memorized that view. dust for her fingerprints if you don't believe me, try my back first. checkmark! she took all her clothes with her in a huff. you know how fickle teenage girls can be. that's all i know i swear. i don't know where she is! she's probably downstairs in the lobby sipping a café coffee.
Christiane sucks up her worldweary mouth and licks every inch of her lips, four-corner to four-corner like the long hand of a clock. she slips back on her heart-red blouse and snaps back on her dangling black fitbit watch she wears around her neck. no bra in the English tradition.
Christiane: *meekly, accentedly* i wanted to talk about sex. it's different for everyone. this is culture.
in the neighboring neighboring room Molly Qerim's room is anything but boring. her impressive inspiring ass has grown to a volume unseen by man. the contours of the room are no longer visible. Mo from Michigan's eyes are transfixed on her crack. a steady stream of small wooden circles emerge and energize and dance like ants over her sweaty back, droplets glistening in the snow from afar outside.
Molly: *face turned away from her men, deliberately deliberating directions* these are mini-condoms. for your dicks. try them on. for when you go on tour! perfect fit!
Mo: from Michigan, not Missouri. you're right, they are!
Mo brandishes the bay balcony window open to blizzard in the cold. he takes ahold of his penis and starts conducting with it, up and down in a fierce undulate, he feels the music in his head, and soon the penis and the baton are one instrument, one pen. his fair hair is on fire as the strains of Verdi's "Requiem, Dies irae" begin filling the electronic streets of Tokyo. the Japanese tourists look up and take pictures of him with selfies.
Mo: irie. i'm sure my great-grandfather really composed this. it sounds just like him.
Jalen Rose: sheeeet. no matter who you are, there's always someone comes along who's younger.
in the neighboring room opposite, Ashley Parker is twirling the room keys on her wrapped pinkie finger. she was injured on the job. she leans on the doorsill with only the outside hallway light filtering through. this is a rare evening for rosy makeup on her cheeks. she snidely smirks at her beau, James Comey, tied up with black wire on the bed. his long legs needing a pound and pounding of wire. his arms spreadeagle stretched to capacity. two black masks, one for his eyes, one damp one for his mouth.
Ashley: i enjoyed this. where have you been? why were you out so late?
Comey: you're the one who just stepped in. you're the one with the keys.
Ashley: oh i was celebrating my Pulitzer Prize. without my Jim. dammit Jim! i've always wanted to say that.
Comey: do you get a trophy for that? sorry, honey, but i'm on tour. ion the middle of it. well i'm gonna curtail it a bit, i just don't have the will to go on Fox News. i can eat that deduction in income, i've been tossing and turning all night thinking about it. sweating like a top cop.
Ashley: yeah it's like the Stanley Cup. everyone who also won a Pulitzer takes a sip. Kendrick Lamar's and my lips touched at the same time when we both went in for our sip. it was magic. but then the moment was over. jealous?
Comey: of him? yes, absolutely, of course, for many reasons. it affects my sensibilities and is at the core root of the problems in this country. but i can admit this. i am not infallible or a paragon of virtue. i am a model in need of molding.
Ashley: right away, sir. i must say i'm jealous. you are the celebrity. you're in this unique position where everyone depises you, you have no friends, you are a true outlaw, that's hot. you're a real regulations rulebreaker. on the down-low regular. that's low. for someone so high. i had no idea some of the things in your book. never knew about your childhood traumas. which makes this bonding session comfortable for you. you never know what secrets shape a person, you can never tell from talking to them or looking at them, you have to read them. you. here. in this position. opening up. being vulnerable. it's making me hot. you are so hot to me right now.
Comey: well i just cleared my schedule. how about an all-nighter? you know, i can still see your freckles when you're smiling at me right now.
Ashley tries to cover up her big goofy smile but can't. she turns off the lights in the hallway...
in the opposite room to Washington, D.C. stands a restaurant. the tourist area of DC anyway. this gives the main players a chance to dine out incognito.
Mueller: so how are you enjoying Chocolate City?
President Bump: very funny. you know that is unfair. i have made great strides with women. one of my best lawyers is a woman. the woman judge allowed me to search for my comic books so rare they won't be in the box after i check them. and the woman pilot hero. or is it heroine. women are like drugs.
Mueller dabs each corner of his mouth with his napkin to maintain his mouth. his napkin that is also his tie, the one he brings from work which comes from home. he lifts a huge big-ass pretzel in midair. and with his other hand he checks the scores on his watch.
Bump: what? what are you watching? please, Bob, give me something! throw a dog a bone. a morsel of a milkbone? this thing is driving me crazy! how long has it been? it's like this interminable surreal nightmare hanging over my neck that never ends! day after day after day...
Mueller holds a tureen of light red sauce over his head.
Mueller: well? i'm waiting. have you made your decision?
Bump: i'm thinking Mayochup. or maybe salsa rosada for my special Lady in Mexico.
Mueller: you had the opportunity to call it Fancy Sauce and you blew it. even Ketchunnaise would have been preferable. or Crussian Dressing, as in Crushing This Russian dressing.
Bump: it goes well on tomato salad. at least i'm eating healthy, my doctor said i had to start. what have you been doing? i saw you on tv.
Mueller: yeah, i did a Saturday Night Live cold open. heaps of fun. never acted before. the standing ovation and roars of sung praises i received when i entered the stage lasted an hour and 30 minutes. they're bonkers over there.
Bump: loads. i dunno, i did the Kids' Choice Awards. it was lame. all the kids ran away when they saw me. i offered them some candy from my personal doctor Candyman and a ride home but they weren't biting. my doctor who just so happens to be Michael Jackson. legends never get confirmed. i didn't think that was in the script, did your skit have a script? and i saw YOU on tv! kiss me awkwardly on both cheeks, Macron!
Macron: it's not the double-cheeks that's the awkward part.
Bump: i love you, Macron. you're my only male friend. i love your wife. she's old and blonde, my exact type. i should take you to McDonald's some time. that joint-session would have made me jittery, i hate doing those, that's why i don't do them, i need a joint to get through them, that's why i have a Candyman.
Macron: that was genuinely touching, monamie, full of French feeling. the American public have never seen you love. i am willing to do whatever is required to save the world.
Bump: legally change your name to McRon. short for McRonald. that will prove you're American.
Macron gulps. Bump finishes his salad.
Bump: *mouth full* OH MY GOD! i'm spying on your mini-tv on your watch, Bob, and WHO IS THAT VIKING MAIDEN PRINCESS WITH THE EMERALD BLUE EYES!!?
Mueller: Valerie Plame.
Bump: I AM SO SORRY. i never knew that's what she looked like! she was always a spy. if i had known. no idea. she's one of those impossible babes who get better-looking as they age! full pardon for her whole family. send her an invite to the Cream House IMMEDIATELY. *fist in the air* Valerie Flame, porn star.
Mueller: sir, did you just turn my wrist around and use my Go Go Gadget watch to get on Instagram and like a picture of your personal lawyer Michael Cohen's hot model daughter?
Bump: wasn't me. must have been my personal assistant like all celebrities do. yeah, see? it was him, look at the comment he wrote under her pic:
Bonfire of the Hannities and a little cute fire emoji