The air in the Kennedy Fuck Tunnels had been stale and muggy and Rudy pulled out his compact to check his make-up for the fifth time. It felt like his mascara was running but his mascara wasn’t running. He hated being smuggled into the White House like a common whore, like a shameful secret.

“He says he still loves me,” Rudy whispered into the tiny mirror. “I believe him. I have to believe him.” He used a red-lacquered nail to start the ancient cage elevator. It rumbled and shook as it dragged him up into the light.

“Good evening, sir,” Rudy said breathily to the Secret Service agent that open the elevator door for him. He offered a hand to the agent but the large man in the sunglasses and earpiece stared at it until Rudy dropped it to his side.

“No manners,” Rudy muttered to himself. “No manners whatsoever.” He touched his hair self-consciously as he followed the agent to the Oval Office.

“Knock first,” the agent said when they reached the door. He had a sneer on his face as he stood to the side.

Rudy straightened his blouse where it had slipped off the hump forming on his back and took a deep breath to steady himself. “He loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me,” he whispered as he knocked. The door buzzed and unlocked with the dull thud of a bolt drawing back. He stepped through as the door opened.

“Friend Rudy,” Donald said, loud and heartily and completely fake even to his hopeful ears. The door shut itself behind him.

The smell hit him first, piss and jizz and the warm animal reek of unwashed bodies. Rudy put a hand up to cover his nose and mouth.

“Come in, come in,” Donald said. He was in a bathrobe untied at the waist and nothing else. Rudy couldn’t help but look at the greasy white hair of his pubic mound and the angry red stub of a penis sticking out of it. He tore his eyes away to look at the President’s face: the narrowed eyes, the thin lips, the broken blood vessels in his cheek and nose.

“Mr. President,” Rudy said. He tried not to let his eyes widen in shock as the President’s hair reared up as if blowing in a nonexistent breeze and settled itself back down, kneading the President’s head like a cat trying to get comfortable.

“What’s this about pleading the 5th?” Donald asked. “I can’t plead the 5th. Mobsters plead the 5th. Gangsters plead the 5th. Guys who sleep with porn stars plead the 5th. I can’t plead the 5th.”

“Mr. President,” Rudy began, “I misspoke. I’ll clean it up. I’ll make it all better.”

Donald held up his right hand. A Make America Great hat was sitting on his fist.

“He says this is really uncomfortable,” Donald said.

“Who, Mr. President?”

“What?” Donald said like a deafened concertgoer.

“Who says it’s uncomfortable, Mr. President?” Rudy asked. The heat in the Oval Office was turned up jungle hot. Rudy could feel the gusset of his support panties getting wet.

“The hat. The hat says sitting on my fist is really uncomfortable. He says it’s like getting fisted,” Donald said.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Rudy said. He hugged himself under his stuffed bra.

“Say hello to my hat,” Donald said thrusting the fisted hat forwards. “He is my most trusted adviser.”

Rudy backed away from the filthy hat involuntarily and Donald took a step forward.

“Uh, hello Mr. Hat,” Rudy said. “I’m Rudy Giuliani. Nice to meet you.”

“He wants to know why you are dressed up like a cheap tranny hooker,” Donald said. He reached out with his free hand and caressed Rudy’s breasts.

“You told me to come in disguise, Mr. President,” Rudy stammered. “And you’ve always liked this dress.”

Donald turned the hat’s front toward his face and they both laughed.