Moe Lieden, forty-sixth President of the United States, hoping to be called forty-eighth President on January 20, 2025, daydreams about a sexual encounter he had at age fourteen with Mary Ann Beltravers, a sophisticated pink-cheeked flirt, a year ahead of Moe, terrible at math, asked the Freshman boy for tutoring. General Beak, Chief of Space Force, sits opposite the President, staring at the man, wondering if he'll snap out of his reverie from his own will, or if an interruption or a clearing of the throat might be needed. Beak has aged since first meeting Moe Lieden. Then Vice President Lieden was a sharp man, vicious and dull, with secrets pertaining to his son Happy's shady business ventures in two controversial countries. General Beak did not then regard Vice President Lieden as worthy of attention. Beak appreciates Lieden's willingness, though, to fulfill Beak's space-dreams of future exploration and conquest. The Space Force General has by now convinced Moe Lieden that a race of aliens, called the Gorka plan to attack our Solar System anytime in the next ten to fifteen years.
We must be prepared, Mr. President! Beak thundered.
Moe Lieden goes along with every Beak idea, including the construction of a planet-killing superweapon of mass destruction. Yes, an SMD.
Moe: (Coming out of his reverie) Damn, haven't thought about her in a long time. Ever have a girlfriend, Beak?
Beak: Yes, Mr. President. About G Project--
Moe: What's that again?
Beak: Wormhole creation using an Eaglefist-9 Hydrogenated Aluminum Coil With Industrial Strength Argitt, Sheathing Code 9M-58T.
Moe: Next question. Do we have one of these 9T3755 Rheumatoid Arthritis Coil Code--
Beak: The name doesn't matter to such as you! You don't have to fill out the request form! I had to keep checking what I was writing to make sure I got it down right!
Moe: Why don't they just call it, Somethin Or Other. Hey Somethin or Other, I bet you fit nice in this
Warm Slot. Get in there, you rascal! Doesn't that feel good? Does it remind you of--
Beak: Mr. President. I need more concentration from you. The mash of pills given to you only fogs your brain, I guess. Try only eating yogurt and Grape Nuts for one week. Put a little sand in the cereal. You need to alter your routine. Eat more fruit, beans, and for indulgence, vanilla milk shakes.
Moe: No candy bars?
Beak: No.
Moe: Licorice?
Beak: You must shun sugar.
Moe: Bubblegum?
Beak: Sugar, Mr. President!
Moe: Cookies?
Beak: If the cookie has no sugar, yes.
Moe: Beak, I order you to get me some sugarless cookies, pronto. Come on, get to it!
Foggy Bottom. Perpetual fog without motion outside Secretary of State Arthur "Artie" Sneffen's office. He sits with Hector Farrbarrhuber, jack of all trades man, including snuffing out people for pay.
Sneffen: Your hair is even greasier than the last time I saw you.
Hector: A new product I'm trying out.
Sneffen: Is it animal fat based?
Hector: Fuck if I know.
Sneffen: I want you to kill a man.
Hector: Tell me more.
Sneffen: He's an important man--
Hector: Stop right there. How important?
Sneffen: Rising politician important, but most importantly, he's a burr in a certain VIP's bottom.
Hector: The VIP wants this done, you're not having it done for yourself?
Sneffen: Does that matter?
Hector: If it's for you I'll charge more.
Sneffen: How much more?
Hector: Who is it?
Sneffen: Congressman Jarv Mitchell-Strong, Democrat, Oregon.
Hector: A tall order. Give me a million dollars. It'll get done, though not be me. I'll hire someone to do it who will do it and pay him from the million.
Sneffen: That's too much. Half a million.
Hector: Forget it. I'm not gonna budge. Kill him yourself for free if you have to. Find a meth head, give him a hatchet and some cash for a bunch of fixes.
Sneffen: I'll gather the million. I want this professionally done, with patsy included.
Hector: I suggest you find someone high up in government to be the patsy. That will distract the news media. They'll overlook Jarv Mitchell-Strong's yacht parties. Maybe blame it on the Blades.
Sneffen: You know about the yacht parties?
Hector: We all do. It's like with Terry Stein. When you hear about a guy who fucks twelve year olds you figure the people he's seen with, like Billy Boy Blade and Don Richman, also fuck twelve year olds, or at least they know Stein does and they don't do anything about it.
Sneffen: This talk has nothing to do with your assignment.
Hector: It does. Are you part of the yachting group?
Sneffen: Absolutely not.
Hector: That's a yes?
Sneffen: Get back to me soon, as in tomorrow or the day after about your progress. The subject must perish by Saturday.
Hector: See? A million dollar assignment, with a time limit. How do you and the President know Jarv doesn't have a deadman's switch?
Sneffen: We've considered it--wait a minute, who said anything about President Parris?
Hector: We just did. If Jarv has the deadman's switch he's rumored to have, the world will know about your perversions on a boat where the rich and famous get their rocks off raping teenagers and not even teenagers.
Sneffen: It's not rape. They're well-compensated.
Hector: Don't tell me anymore. When I have to testify at your trial I'd rather not be on the witness stand for a whole afternoon.
Sneffen: People like me don't stand trial.
Hector: While people like me get shot while in police custody?
Sneffen: Exactly, Mr. Oswald.
Billy Boy Blade sits in an armchair before the President's desk. President Parris wears her most expensive pants suit, a blue one with a red stripe at the bottom with white five pointed stars, an alteration on how the American flag is laid out.
Billy Boy: My intelligence network caught wind of your plot to eliminate Jarv Mitchell-Strong.
Parris: You have an intelligence network? Why am I finding about it just now? What else have I not been briefed on!?
Billy Boy: You're not going after Jarv. Jarv has a deadman's switch.
Parris: Nobody's gonna care where you put your pecker, Billy Boy.
Billy Boy: You cared when it was in you.
Parris: Just the one time. Doesn't count. I was mad at Doug.
Billy Boy: You're always mad at Doug.
Parris: He drives me crazy sometimes, but he's lovable. He worships me. He wrote a twenty page poem praising my breasts.
Billy Boy: They are nice.
Parris: He's already working on his book about being the first First Gentleman.
Billy Boy: What's it called?
Parris: First Man in the Nation by Douglas Gard, with whoever writes the book.
Billy Boy: I wrote mine.
Parris: Nobody read it all the way through. It's sixteen hundred pages.
Billy Boy: Only fifteen hundred and twenty.
Parris: You must've thought you deserve so much ink.
Billy Boy: And more. Why don't you take your clothes off and come sit beside me?
Parris: I refuse, Mr. President. I've decided to take my marriage vows seriously. No more men. Only one man. Sure, a flawed man, a bit on the crazy side, but he's my man, not yours, not anyone's! Doug Gard, my man! My Herman Munster to my Lily. My Mike to my Carol Brady. My Zeus to my Hera!
Billy Boy: Hera, yeah. Ursula Andress in Clash of the Titans. Never got to be with her. Doctor No, boy, when she comes out of the ocean in that bikini. I nearly blew my load when I saw her on the screen at the 3rd Avenue Bijou back in sixty-one. I worshipped John Kennedy. I miss that role model. He made enemies. They acted. Boy, did they act. Officially I'm supposed to keep my mouth shut about what I know about that day in Dallas. Well, someday I'll blab it out, maybe on The View. "Hey Whoopi, would you like to hear about what really happened with the JFK assassination and the killing of Lee Harvey Oswald? No? Your producers won't let you hear the truth?"
Parris: What are you mumbling about?
Billy Boy: Daydreaming, little lady.
Parris: Don't call me that.
Billy Boy: I wasn't talking about your ass.
Parris: Pig.
Billy Boy: A little bad Billy Boy never hurt anyone. You'll beg for it with me again. Your devotion to Doug won't last. The adrenalin rush of banging someone after bombing another country or ordering the destruction of a cult's headquarters and everyone inside is inescapably alluring. Give in. Give Billy another try. One more indiscretion before going on the Doug wagon.
Parris: Exit my office.
Billy Boy: Okay, I'll leave. Know this. If harm comes to Congressman Mitchell-Strong there will be serious consequences. The Senate and House will look like a Swiss cheese with so many members retiring in disgrace, maybe doing time. Your husband, you know, frequented Jarv's yacht on at least two occasions.
Parris: So did Artie Sneffen, and probably every horny rich motherfucker in D.C., New York, and Hollywood. I'm tired of this kind of thing, Billy Boy. I intend to expose it, to eliminate a thorn in America's side.
Billy Boy: You're confessing to a crime.
Parris: Go be horny elsewhere.
Billy Boy Blade on secure (probably) phone with Arthur Sneffen, the latter at home entertaining the Gabonese Ambassador to the United States. Sneffen takes the call in his bedroom.
Sneffen: Yes, Mr. President?
Billy Boy: You sound so obsequious, your go-to when you know the purpose of the call, but wish to seem adaptable and obedient.
Sneffen: You have more to lose than I if Jarv Mitchell-Strong's audiovisual evidence drops upon the entertainment news world.
Billy Boy: Prison sentences for such as ourselves, although we live in a world where justice doesn't apply to the great.
Sneffen: Amen. Mr. President, and I mean that this time, this Jarv Mitchell-Strong is a rising star. The longer he's around, the more endangered our position becomes, for what he possesses gives him leverage. Let's not let him enjoy his power over us.
Billy Boy: Sounds reasonable. You've got it covered?
Sneffen: You're looking at the man who helped the Woman in the Polka Dot Dress escape the country.
Billy Boy: Don't want to know.
Sneffen: You changed your mind on this rather quickly.
Billy Boy: I'm untouchable. Look at the Terry Klein situation. I was on his plane twenty-six times. People think I'm a dirty old man, how the hell does that affect me?
Lieden Campaign Headquarters, Scranton, Pennsylvania. Moe Lieden sits at his desk with Sherm Gladhand, marketing wiz, and General Beak, special advisor to former President Lieden. Beak wears full uniform, jaw cut from steel, eyes holding steady, unready to forgive incompetence during crucial moments.
Beak: Mr. President. I implore you to withhold your announcement of your candidacy for the twenty-four election, at least until after Don Richman announces his.
Lieden: He already has, Beak! Didn't you hear the news?
Beak: Richman's running? He said so?
Lieden: Words came out of his mouth to that effect, yes.
Sherm Gladhand: A very inspiring speech. He's the Comeback Kid.
Beak: (To Gladhand) Are you serious? President Lieden will destroy your billionaire comeback kid on the debate stage.
Lieden: I intend to find a lavatory before I go on another debate stage. Last time with Shronk Blanders, that last debate when we were afraid a virus was going to kill everybody on the planet, except the bats, I guess. Anyway--
Beak: Mr. President. Will you set back the date of your announcement?
Lieden: What announcement?
Beak: Your announcing of seeking the Democratic nomination.
Lieden: I'm doing what now?
Beak: YOU'RE RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT, MAN!!!!!!!!
Lieden: President. Now that's a good idea. I'm going to announce this Friday at the rally in Wilmington. My mind is set, like a trap. Horse caught his hoof in a bear trap. Bad scene, had to kill the horse. My Dad made me witness this. I was three. Explains my psychopathy, I guess.
Sherm Gladhand: (To Beak) Let me try, General. Mr. President, you're the kinda fella who makes friends easily, am I right? Of course I am. Just between you and me, I've never been wrong.
Lieden: You don't say.
Sherm: Not only do I say, I do. I have set up for you 927 billboards across this great state of Pennsylvania. "Moe Lieden Is Back!" "MOE!" "See Moe Run!!!" "Moe 24." And, to confuse and cause a rush of time wasting on Twitter, a billboard saying "Moe 42." Enigmatic, right? Or do you want straightforward? You seem like a straightforward guy, you remind me of Eisenhower--
Lieden: Damn right I am!
Sherm: A straightforward guy! Moe--may I call you Moe? Or is that presumptuous?
Lieden: Call me Moe, you wildcat (grins at Beak). Where did you dig up this entertaining--hey, are you a jester?
Sherm: No, sir, I'm your marketing man, you hired me five months ago.
Lieden: Hey Beak! Shuffle this guy to Buffalo, I don't like the way he squints at me! He's acting like he knows me! Wants to put up billboards of my scaly wrinkly mug, puh! I'll do my own marketing. I'll work the phones, I'll roll up my sleeves, I'll bring my deodorant, Ambrosia Stick, you use that, Sherm?
Sherm: I don't use deodorant.
Lieden: Why not, Hippy, why not? I'm startin to want to slap you silly, long-hair peace freak!
Sherm: I don't understand your sudden hostility, Moe.
Lieden: (Stands, veins bulging) That's Mr. President to you!
Sherm: Mr. President, sorry.
Lieden: Kiss my shoe.
Sherm: What?
Lieden: Do it or you're dead to me!
Beak: Mr. President, please stop this. Mr. Gladhand, you're dismissed. Please forgive the President for--
Lieden: For what, Beak? For not liking this loquacious thing sitting before me, polluting my office space? I'll need all the secretaries to come in here to enliven the room's tainted environment with their lovely feminine presence. The hair, Beak, you know what I'm saying? Meanwhile, exit this feces out of my office, indeed, out of these campaign headquarters, unless he'd like to volunteer his services for the campaign?
Sherm: Sir, that is what I've been doing, but with irregular pay.
Lieden: So it's a matter of money, huh? You want a living wage, is that it?
Sherm: Of course, but, you never fired me and I never intended to quit.
Lieden: What kind of malarky is this?
Beak: Your afternoon nap should have begun twenty minutes ago, Mr. President.
Lieden: Thank you, Beak. Always on the ball.
Sherm: May I return to the noble duty of serving you with my billboards?
Lieden: Who are you?
President Dinah Parris in the Oval Office. On the couch are two important men. The President of France, Napoleon Vyvivarondo and an unnamed representative of C.O.I.T.U.S., Combat Operational Intelligence and Tactics Under Surveillance, a branch of the Army created in 2013 by President Bongo to try out psychological warfare techniques in Syria. This man, known simply as F, wears a rubber mask covering his face. He hasn't covered his pale blue eyes. The skin around his eyes is pale. He looks strong, big shoulders, thick thighs, a muscled demigod, President Parris muses, admiring the man's physique, longing to explore it at her leisure.
Napoleon: I think we can agree, Madame President, that we will stand by Ukraine no matter what.
Parris: Even if it's a cinder, absolutely, one hundred percent.
F: Madame President, is there anything to drink?
Parris: What would you like, dear?
F: Cocoa, with a splash of brandy.
Parris: Mmm! That sounds good! I'll join you!
Napoleon: I would like a glass of champagne. The whole bottle, maybe.
Parris buzzes her secretary.
Parris: Esther? I've got two thirsty men in here and this gal here is parched, too, so why don't you just get the kitchen to send up two hot cocoas with a bottle of brandy, make it Napoleon, and a bottle, no, two bottles of Dom Perignon.
Esther: A magnum, then.
Parris: A what? No! Two bottles of Dom Perignon, is that difficult to understand? Do I need to fire your ass after only three days working for me? Doing a pretty shitty job, too. Okay, you got that order?
Esther: Yes, Madame President.
Parris: Only call me that if you mean it. (Disconnects). Whooo! Some aggression adrenalin!
F: I can get by without refreshment. I didn't mean to cause a fuss.
Parris: Fuss! (Slaps his arm gently) Listen to this lunk! Thinks he's a big problem, sitting on my couch, wearing a rubber face mask, looking pretty weird, frankly, but that's okay, I'm tolerant. I love your muscles! Napoleon, you are coming to the party tonight?
Napoleon: I'm the guest of honor, so, yes.
Parris: We celebrate two-hundred-fifty years of friendship, coming to each other's aid in need. Friendship, it feels kinda good. France, America's oldest ally. America's mentor. America's--hey, tell me why Frenchies like Jerry Lewis?
Napoleon: He's like a silent film comedian but for a modern, as in fifties and sixties, audience. The Nutty Professor, in my opinion, is his masterpiece.
F: Boeing, Boeing.
Napoleon: Quels sont ces mots? (What words are these?)
F: It's the name of the movie. It's his best one.
Parris: I saw one he did with Marilyn Monroe. He lives below her in the hot New York summer. He has air conditioning, she doesn't. They spend time together. Sweet.
Napoleon: That's The Seven Year Itch. Marilyn Monroe, yes, but Tom Ewell plays the man with the air conditioning.
Parris: I'm pretty sure that was Jerry Lewis.
Napoleon: No, absolutely not. Tom Ewell.
Parris: Ah well, if I weren't employed in such a difficult and time-consuming job, I'd Google it and prove you wrong, Monsieur...What's your name again?
Napoleon: Vyvivarando.
Parris: Five syllables, wow.
Jarv Mitchell-Strong walking to get a slice of Rocky Rococo sausage and mushroom pizza at the Congressional Campus Rocky Rococo, starting pay $8.95 per hour, consider signing up for our five year plan for you to become a Manager!
Hector Farrbarrhuber intercepts Congressman Mitchell-Strong.
Hector: Congressman, a word?
Jarv: Which word? Freedom? One of my favorites, but I've heard it. What do you want, man? I'm on my way to fill the emptiness inside my stomach. I've spent three of the last five hours in that nest of vipers called the Capitol Building and I'm mighty starved!
Hector: Your life is in danger. President Parris wants you offed.
Jarv: Don't be ridiculous. Is this a prank?
Hector: You're to die by Saturday.
Jarv: Who are you?
Hector: Someone who's been paid to tip you off about your impending death.
Jarv: You're serious.
Hector: I don't joke about death, sir. I'll buy you a slice at Rocky Rococo. My favorite is the pineapple pizza. I like pineapple by itself. Why wouldn't I like it on pizza? Oh, and there's a certain window in this Rocky Rococo I like to sit next to.
Jarv: Fine.
Jarv and Hector, window seat near the drinks dispenser in Rocky Rococo, slices before them with sodas and bread sticks. Half the customers are Congressmen and -women as well as Senator Hacker Bigman (Republican, Florida), expected to become Senate Majority Whip in January 2023. Bigman reads a paperback, Heretics of Dune by Frank Herbert.
Hector: You should expose this plot against you; also, do you have a way of revealing your extensive blackmail information in case of your death?
Jarv: You know about that? You must be a spook.
Hector: I operate in their circles, I guess.
Jarv: A man of mystery. I feel special. Let's eat our pizza, cogitate, then resume the conversation. It's a nice day for November.
Hector: I do feel a little vulnerable sitting at the same table with you.
Jarv: No one's going to off me, Hector. I'm untouchable. The most dangerous man in America--I don't know you well enough to say why, but Invincible is my middle name, or it would be if it weren't Alvin.
Hector: Like the guitarist from Ten Years After.
Jarv: Yes. Who?
Glass shatters, a bullet blows off the top of Congressman Jarvis Alvin Mitchell-Strong's head. Brains, blood, bone, the usual. Screams, a little girl and her mother covered in the Congressman's blood and brains. Blood pumping from the head wound. The man has given his last speech, gaveled his last committee hearing. Hector eases out of the booth, slips out the nearby back door. Crossing the parking lot he takes out a burner phone.
Hector: Arthur, that was a bit close to my head.
Arthur Sneffen: You're talking about what?
Hector: Mitchell-Strong. He's dead. Turn on the news, it'll probably get reported soon.
Arthur: I'll inform the President.
Hector: Tell her blowing a politician away in a restaurant is a clever thing to do. The other politicians in there might think they were targeted, too.
Arthur: Let them feel the fear.
Hector: (Laughs) You should hear the sirens.
Oval Office. Dinah Parris sharpens fifty pencils. Arthur Sneffen is shown in.
Sneffen: Your order has been fulfilled, Madame President.
Parris: Which one?
Sneffen: Pertaining to a certain Congressman from the state where Chicago is the largest city.
Parris: Illinois.
Sneffen: Yes. Do you need another clue?
Parris: Try me.
Sneffen: Popularly known as JMS.
Parris: Jarv Mitchell-Strong? What about him?
Sneffen: He's been eliminated.
Parris: By whom?
Sneffen: Someone I...know, hired someone he knows.
Parris: Oh, you're keeping this hush hush?
Sneffen: You don't need to know the names.
Parris: Ooh, I'm curious, though. Who did something to Jarv?
Sneffen: I will not say, I cannot say, but I will say your Jarv problem has been nullified, though Jarv may haunt many.
Parris: Oh yeah, the alleged evidence of sexual transgressions. Men, a few women, too, behaving badly? Look, nobody cares about this. They're interested in jobs, in building the wall, in fighting for trans rights, in arming Ukraine until there are no weapons and ammo left to give.
Sneffen: In any case, Jarv is no more, per your order.
Parris: Don't spread it around, Mister. I can have you eliminated, too. I'm beyond the feelers of justice. I am the most powerful. Artie, can you show me how to change my font size in Pages? I've begun work on my memoir. No ghost writer for this gal!
Lieden Campaign Headquarters, Scranton, Pennsylvania. General Beak and former President Lieden shoot the shit about the assassination of Congressman Mitchell-Strong.
Lieden: Who did it, Beak? More important: why?
Beak: I detect the brushstrokes of Hector Farrbarrhuber.
Lieden: That greasy little fucker works for us exclusively I believed!
Beak: He's a freelance, Mr. President. He has no morals, no ethics, no value for human life.
Lieden: (Resentfully Boasting) Neither do I!!!
Beak: The fact remains that the Congressman's death will create a shake-up.
Lieden: Must've been shocking for the families just wanting to enjoy a slice of delicious pizza. Who would want to interrupt a nice family enjoying their pizza? Interrupt them with an explosion of blood, brain, bone, skin, yuck! "Is that a sausage on my pizza slice, Mommy?" "No, honey, it's a piece of a man's cerebrum!" When I'm President, Beak, I'm going to launch an investigation into this assassination of a Democratic politician, a supporter of mine, at least until he went along with my removal from my rightful job, that two-faced fucker! Come to think of it, I'm glad his head did a JFK! Fuck that motherfucker!
Beak: Speaking ill of the recently deceased, Mr. President, isn't a good look.
Lieden: Recently? I mean JFK! Fuck him! Totally overrated! Didn't even fill out one term, what a Millard Fillmore type! Did you ever hear the theory that Kennedy's death was the result of Spontaneous Cranial Combustion?
Beak: Nobody killed him, then? His head just exploded by itself?
Lieden: So many thoughts in there. So many broads' phone numbers to keep straight in his memory. A lot on his mind; being President makes your brain hurt.
Beak: I'm certain President Kennedy was killed with good old rifle fire.
Lieden: Yeah, that's more likely. Hey, do you like waffles?
Beak: When I've had them I've liked them.
Lieden: There's an IHOP by the highway. I'll buy. We'll take two of the secretaries with us.
Beak: I'll go, but let's leave the secretaries. I don't want you to be seen in public with pretty young women with long shiny hair.
Lieden: I saw a psychologist about that alleged fetish problem! He assured me it's not a big deal! He agreed with me that female hair is lovely to the touch--
Beak: You should not touch it!!!
Lieden: I'm eighty years old, Beak! I'm harmless, just a little old man who takes nine hours to get it up.
Beak: Your sex life should take backseat to the Campaign, backseat to leaving a good impression on voters who wonder about your morals.
Lieden: My morals are impeccable! I cried when Rhett Butler ditched Scarlett O'Hara!
Beak: Are you sure you never paid a visit to Jarv Mitchell-Strong's yacht?
Lieden: My memory says I never went there. I also sometimes can't recall my ex-wife's name.
Beak: Amanda, Mr. President.
Lieden: That's right. Not Mandy?
Beak: You sometimes call her Mandy.
Lieden: Like Mandy Moore. I always thought she was the best of the four pop chick singers of the late nineties: Simpson, Spears, Aguilera. Did you see the "Dirty" video by Aguilera, Beak?
Beak: No, I prefer the classier Supremes.
Lieden: Not a bad choice, but give me the "Dirty" video and the "Womanizer" video by Britney Spears, and anything with that Beyonce.
Beak: Mr. President. Your billboards go up today statewide. One of them is entirely black, except for the words, in white, "Lieden Two Four, Better Than Nothing."
Lieden: I am better than nothing, what's the problem?
Beak: It could be stronger. "Lieden 24, Return to Sanity."
Lieden: Dinah Parris is insane, I see what you're saying.
Beak: I'm not saying President Parris is insane. Corrupt, yes, though don't tell her I said that.
Lieden: (Laughs) You think I speak with her? Oh, the occasional phone call. I wrote her a long single-spaced unreadable letter in blue pen complaining about her not campaigning hard enough for senatorial candidates. That incompetent so-and-so lost the Senate.
Beak: She didn't lose it.
Lieden: President Parris is for all intents and purposes head of the Democratic Party. She shapes its putty. Her word is influence, pure and simple.
Beak: It could be some Senators will be disgraced if Middleton-Strong's alleged evidence of illegal sexual activities on his yacht comes to light. A new Senate may come about within a year.
Lieden: I intend on shaming every pervert who went on that yacht.
Beak: Including your son, Happy?
Lieden: Don't talk about my son!
Beak: He's one of the rumored yacht guests, especially in 2019 when you were commencing your presidential run.
Lieden: Lies.
Beak: Some solid journalism backgrounds it, Mr. President.
Lieden: Happy's been through a lot! His drug problem has made him not only a great man, but someone beyond criticism. My son is off-limits!
Beak: Not to the law, if it turns out he dallied with underage girls.
Lieden: Shut your trap!
Beak: I will drop it if you promise me you'll be open-minded if the truth turns out to be unfavorable to your son.
Lieden: My son never did anything wrong! He's perfect! Who else can make a video of himself weighing crack and not get investigated by the DEA?
Beak: A son of a President?
Vic Neptune
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