“No?” she screams. “You’re turning me down?!?”

“I just, the President is just, like, right there,” you stammer, pointing at the bathroom.

She moves closer and hisses, “Flyover faggot!” and swipes at your face with vicious salon nails, burning lines across your cheek and jaw. She jumps away before you can react, pausing at the door to hiss again before disappearing.

You take out your phone and turn on the selfie camera to check your face. Four bright red lines, just beginning to bleed. “Medic!” you cry. “Medic!”

A Secret Service agent executes a forward-roll into the Oval Office and comes up with his weapon drawn. “What is the President’s condition?!?” he demands.

“I called for a medic,” you tell him. “The President is in the bathroom.”

The agent launches himself across the room, puts his shoulder into the bathroom door, and bursts through it.

“Hey, I’m taking a shit in here!” you hear the President yell.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President!” the agent says.

“Look what you did, the door’s all fucked up now,” you hear him say. “Just go, get out.”

“Yes, sir!” the agent yells and does three forward rolls around the room and then cartwheels out the Oval Office door.

“Kyle!” the President calls. “Are you OK? That idiot didn’t shoot you did he?”

“No, Mr. President, he didn’t shoot me. But a woman scratched my face.”

“A woman scratched your face? Who scratched your face?”

“Tall, pretty, a whole lot of make-up?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s Hope,” the President said. “She’ll scratch you all right. Did she get an eye? She’ll take an eye right out.”

“No, Mr. President. She missed my eye.”

“That’s good.”

You hear some grunting and cursing through the shattered bathroom door. Then flush after flush after flush and more cursing.

The President comes out of the bathroom, shirt untucked, no shoes, and peers down at your face. “She got you good, but it will heal up.”

He takes off his hair, and you sit back startled, the bald President looming over you. He leans you, catches you by the back of the head, and begins rubbing his hair all over your face. “Get it, boy, get it. Get the scent. Good boy. Who’s a good boy?”

“Safety measure,” he says when he pulls away. He puts the blonde mop of hair back on his head. “If you go missing, I can track you down.” He points at his scalp. “Nose like a bloodhound, I tell you. He’s got your scent now.”

He crosses back behind his desk and sits. “OK, Kyle, what is it going to be? Which location do you want to check out? I have someone standing by to take you to either the sorting center or the DNC headquarters.”

“What about the DEEP STATE, sir?”

“First things first. That’s a weird phrase. Do you think that’s a weird phrase? I think that’s weird.”

DO YOU go to the spooky abandoned Postal Service processing center? TURN TO PAGE 15

DO YOU go to DNC headquarters for a stealthy stealth mission? TURN TO PAGE 35