You stare down the hallway until you see the first person step off the elevator, then you try the office door and it opens. You step in and shut it softly behind you.
“Fancy dress,” you hear a slurred voice say.
You turn and see her, nightmare of a thousand Fox exclusives.
“I’m sorry, Madam Speaker,” you say. “Wrong office, ma’am.”
“They sent you to me. Good,” she says and burps long and hard.
“I’ll just see myself out,” you say.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she says and you hear a bolt thud shut in the door.
“Ma’am?” you say.
She sways over you, swinging a bottle of liquor, and winks in a grotesque parody of seduction. She steps in suddenly and smells your neck, pressing in, a full Biden.
“You’re not a Vox reporter,” she says. “Who sent you here?”
You hold up your press pass like a crucifix.
“No, they got close. You look the part, but you don’t smell it. No scent of drywall mold and Gogurt.”
She grabs your right shirt sleeve and pulls it up.
“You even have a tan. You’ve been outside. You’re no journalist.”
She throws the bottle across the room where it shatters.
“M-m-m-ma’am?”
Nancy reaches into her mouth and removes the upper plate of her dentures. Two fanged palps descend, glistening with venom.
You scream. But it is too late.
THE END
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