“I p-p-p-pass an infrastructure bill and still no one likes me,” Hunter says, sitting in his father’s fake office chair in the fake Oval Office the White House staff had built for Joe to be filmed in.

A girl with scabs on her face walks in, teetering on stripper heels, straightening her red wig and saying, “I tolds them not complain about ya at the press cwonfrance.”

“Thank you, Jen, my juicy Strawberry,” Hunter said.

“Am I suppose to take my clothes off now?” she asked, picking at her face with long fake nails.

“The script says to wait until the copy repair guy comes in,” Hunter hissed.

“Aren’t you the copy repair guy?” she asked. She begins to cough, a wet, rattling in her chest. A glob of phlegm, greenish in the klieg lights, flys across the set.

“No, I’m The President,” Hunter says. “Didn’t you read the script?”

“I can’t read,” she says. “I have dysmorphia.”

“You mean dyslexia?”

“I’m am not defined by my disease,” she says robotically, a rehearsed response. “I am a victim of society’s failure to help the downtrodden.”

“OK, back to one!’ Hunter says.

A make-up artist scurries out of the shadows and begins to powder his face lightly. A production assistant wearing gloves herds the fake Jen back to her mark.

“More rouge on my cock,” he says.

“It already looks like a dog erection,” the make-up artist murmurs.

“Redder, goddammit! I want it to look like a flaming sword of justice!”

“It’ll all just come off in her.”

“Then she’ll have a flaming vagina of justice!”

“I need ta take a shit!” fake Jen screams off stage.

“Hold it for Act II!” Hunter screams back and waves the make-up girl away.

“Hurry!” she says. “You said I needed ta be ready ta go!”

“Fuck,” Hunter says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” And then: “Where’s Rodney?!?”

A skinny little hillbilly comes running up, looking around. He asks, “Hey, I ain’t on camera, am I? You said I didn’t have to be on no camera.”

“Give it to me,” Hunter said.

Rodney makes an elaborate show of checking his cheap little watch. “Now you said not to no give you none before lunch. And we gots at least half-hour ‘fore lunch.”

“Now, dammit, now,” Hunter says.

“OK, but don’t you go getting all mad at me later on. I don’ts want to hear no hollar’n.” Rodney brings out the glass pipe and a baggie of filthy yellow meth chunks.

Hunter leans back as Rodney gets the pipe ready. The actress playing his niece Finnegan is laughing somewhere in the press area and practicing her Delaware accent. She is dressed in a tear-away Japanese schoolgirl outfit.

“OK, big man,” Rodney says. Hunter doesn’t open his eyes until the pipe is in his mouth and the butane torch begins to hiss.

Inhalation, little fireworks going off, his lungs hitching once, twice in rebellion. He exhales slowly, bathing his erection in smoke. Bliss.

“I still gotta shit, ya know!” scabby Jen yells.

“I know!” Hunter roars, his rouged cock bobbing to a beat only he can hear.