Mild-mannered educator and political wife, or deadly covert op?

 

Jill Biden strode to the hook-hung pig carcass, barefoot in her compression shorts and sports bra. She was trailed by Mike McDiarmid, the worthless head of her husband’s Secret Service detail, and by her assistant.

“Rawr,” she yelled as she launched at the carcass, and in the brief moment she was airborne formed her left hand into a rigid blade. She extended her left arm to force her hand to penetrate the soft tissue of the swine’s throat, then encircled the ribbed trachea with her fingers. Next she formed her hand into a fist and grasped the trachea. Gravity caught up with her and she flexed her bicep, pulling against the trachea as she fell.

Her feet touched down on the gym matting, her fist full of porcine viscera. She stuck the landing, albeit wobbily. Her wrinkled little belly with its navel ring continued to jiggle for a brief moment. She looked at her fist and saw about an inch of raggedly terminated trachea protruding from each end.

She threw the trachea at McDiarmid. “You can jerk off with that, if it’s not too big for you. We always wondered why Hunter loved to go to the butcher and always brought a trachea home ‘for Chessie.’”

 

Jill detects the threat on the NH stage and moves toward it.

 

“What the fuck, Mike? Seriously? You idiots can’t even notice and react to a microphone-grabbing vegan, so I have to risk breaking cover and do your job for you?”

McDiarmid looked at her with a mixture of fear and envy, just as she expected. She was older than McDiarmid by a good decade and still kicking butt. She knew that McDiarmid had struggled to meet his last Secret Service physical, and had requested that Joey sign a waiver request form for him. That wouldn’t happen again.

“And it’s like you’ve never heard of diversionary tactics. Oh wait, you have, because I teach that at Rosaryville, and I remember you in my class. Never assume the first threat is the real threat; always be prepared for followups.”

She pivoted on one leg and kicked the carcass. McDiarmid heard the uniquely wet sound of ribs breaking, followed by the uniquely dry sound of old lady joints pushed to their limits.

“And this was the second time. That Berniebot in New Hampshire made it on stage with a clear path to my husband.”

 

Jill intercepts the threat on the NH stage. Isn’t the US Secret Service supposed to be there for things like this?

 

She extended her hand towards her assistant who had the wad of disinfectant wipes ready and placed them in her outstretched, now open palm. Jill wiped her hands.

“Your detail has one job, one job, and that’s to keep my Joey safe.”

“Yes, Mrs. Biden,” said McDiarmid, sheepishly.

 

Threat contained.

 

Mrs. Biden, always “Missus Biden,” never “Miz Biden.” The last Secret Service man who had made that mistake had his eye put out out by the solitaire setting of her engagement ring.

“The next time that happens it will be you on that hook, and you won’t be dead yet. Play the Praetorian Guard at your own risk.” She dropped the wipes and walked off creakily.

“I need a hot tub and a ton of Advil.”