“Tulsa? I’m in Oklahoma? I fucking hate Oklahoma,” Joe said.

“We all do, Grandpa,” Finnegan said, wiping off his mouth.

“We should back to working on the speech, sir,” the press intern said.

Joe looked up when the young woman spoke, sniffing the air, catching scent of the raw bar, smiling.

“I’m giving a speech?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sir,” the press intern said. “For the anniversary of the destruction of Black Wall Street?”

“Wall Street? Those crooks? Why isn’t Lizzie Warren here?”

“The Tulsa Race Riot, Grandpa,” Finnegan said steadily.

“Tulsa Race Massacre, sir,” the intern said. “We’re supposed to call it that. Sounds more impactful and dynamic.”

“What’s your name?” Joe asked, dialing his smile up.

“We met on Air Force One, sir,” she said. She fidgeted under his male gaze, his toxic masculinity landing on her in thick, ropy spurts.

“Air Force One is a pretty name for a pretty girl,” he said.

“The speech, sir,” she said.

“You look nineteen in that smart little suit.”

“Why is this white-ass bastard doing this instead of me?” Kamala asked over Zoom–her disembodied scowl floating on an iPad velcroed to the wall of the Presidential Bang Bus and Raw Bar. “I’m the first woman black vice-president lawyer genius in history!”

“You don’t poll well in Oklahoma, ma’am,” the intern said, making Finnegan wince.

“I DON’T POLL WELL?!?” Kamala screamed, the tiny speaker in the iPad crackling.

The intern checked her tablet, “Voters find you confrontational and cold, ma’am. Some of the most commonly used phrases are “monster,” “cop,” and “Blaren.”

“Blaren? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Kamala screeched. She leaned in until her face filled the screen, her Zoom background of the Rodney King beating disappearing entirely.

“Research indicates it is a portmanteau of ‘Black’ and ‘Karen,’ ma’am,” the intern said, oblivious to Finnegan frantically waving her arms out of the view of the iPad’s camera.

The range of colors Kamala turned as she struggled to breathe through her rage was an effective threat display.

“What the fuck is that?!?” Joe asked, pointing at the iPad.

“Nothing, Grandpa,” Finnegan said as she ripped the tablet off the wall and stamped on it several times.

“What are you, honey?” Joe asked the press intern as she watched Finnegan.

“What am I, sir?” she replied. “I am the press intern.”

“No,” he said, pawing at his own face, “What are you.”

“Grandpa!” Finnegan said, shocked.

“I’m Korean, sir,” the intern said, fidgeting.

“Oh, man,” Joe said, “Kamala’s really not going to like that.”