“I knew we could count on you, Kyle.”

The President gets up and begins pacing back and forth behind his desk.

“Our intelligence resources have narrowed the location of the ballots to three places here in Washington.

“Location One is an abandoned Post Office sorting center. Perfect place to hide mail. I looked it up on the Google Maps. Spooky-looking place. Heavy Scooby-Doo vibe. Do you have a dog? No? Well, maybe that’s for the best. Talking dogs are bad business. They killed a friend of mine in Vietnam. John Rambo. Bravest man I ever knew. Torn to pieces. It was horrible, Kyle.”

The President stops pacing and snaps at the hat on his desk, “I’m getting there!”

The President continues: “Location Two is the belly of the beast and that belly is wrinkly and loose and supergross. It’s the DNC headquarters. All of our enemies in one place. I’d send in the Navy Seals, but it’s on land. Land, Kyle! They can’t do anything on land. They breathe water!”

The President stops again and scratches his head vigorously, flakes of dandruff raining down.

“Very dangerous, Kyle,” he tells you. “You can’t go for a full-frontal assault. It’s a stealth level! I have black turtleneck ready for you!”

“And Location Three might be the trickiest of them all,” the President says. “It’s the White House, Kyle. The very building you are sitting in! They might have hidden them here, in plain sight! We know there are DEEP STATE operatives everywhere, and this place is riddled with secret passages and hidden rooms, revolving fireplaces, and stairs to nowhere. Every President has secretly changed this place to suit himself. There are walled-up slaves and mistress bones all over the place! It’s horrible. Just horrible!”

The President utters a cry and runs from the Oval Office. “I gotta shit, Kyle! I gotta.” He is holding the back of his suit pants as he slams the door to the office bathroom behind himself.

You sit and wait for the President to return, humming over the groans and splashes that come through the walls.

A woman rushes in, tall and beautiful, wearing a clownwhore level of make-up. She spears a long, sharp fingernail at you.

“Where is the President?” she demands.

Aroused and frightened, you point to the bathroom door.

“Well, fuck,” she says. “Who knows how long he’s going to be in there.”

She looks you up and down. “Who are you?” she asks.

“K-K-Kyle,” you stutter.

“You want a handjob while we wait for him, K-K-Kyle?” she asks cruelly.

DO YOU accept the lady’s kind offer of a handjob in the Oval Office while the President is shitting out half his considerable bodyweight? TURN TO PAGE 95

DO YOU decide discretion is called for and politely turn down the offer of an Oval Office handjob while the President is shitting half out his considerable bodyweight in the next room? TURN TO PAGE 10