JEFFERSON> am i, as a white man, allowed to say bruh
HAMILTON> you need more black friends
you need more friends
we are not friends
“Thank you, everyone,” Washington said, dismissing those gathered for the weekly Oval Office show A.HAM’S MONEY HOUR. “Actually, just a moment. We’ve forgotten something.”
“Oh my god, of course, our daily dose of Burrspiration,” Hamilton added as he pulled out his phone. “The internet’s a goddamn gift, sir.”
“Sir, I feel for him,” said one of the treasury staffers. “Like, come-to-Jesus feel for him. Would it be so out of line to head over to the Senate and shake his communications person by the shoulders until they come to their senses?”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Hamilton said. “I only live for my family, telling Jefferson to go fuck himself, and Burr's daily inspirational meme.” He turned to Washington and said, “With respect, sir, the day Burr stops tweeting is the day I stage a coup and hand our asses back to England.”
“I’ll let George know,” Washington said, thoughtful for a moment. “It’s nice to know we have an out.”
“Also, no one tell Aaron Burr I sometimes remember he exists,” Hamilton said. “Ah, finally, here is our Daily Burr. Ahem. EVERY DAY IS A GIFT THAT’S WHY THEY CALL IT THE PRESENT.”
They looked up at the door of the Oval opening, but it was Laurens, next in line to meet with the President. “Oh thank god it’s you,” Hamilton said. “Hey, wanna know something?”
“Why your twitter time with the President’s cutting into my meeting?” Laurens asked as he approached.
“You are so CUTE when you’re absolutely never angry with me,” Hamilton said. “I live for you, too, John. Hold up, though, I have something important to tell you.”
“Alexander, don’t you have people to yell at?” Washington asked.
“Baby, listen, I have wisdom for you,” Hamilton said as he pulled Laurens close, an arm wrapped around his waist. “Every day is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.”
“Did you follow my father on Facebook again? Why do you want to hurt yourself with his memes and racism?” Laurens asked as he glanced at the phone. “God, it’s Burr. Alex, leave him alone, his interns don’t know better.”
“I know and I love them for it,” Hamilton said. “Let them never learn any better, okay? Let Burr never learn any better.”
ELIZA> I saw Charles Lee in the city and only nodded at him! VERY coldly!!
Are you proud? I was so mean!
HAMILTON> best of wives
ANGELICA> DRINK IN HIS FACE
like throw a drink in his face not ‘drink it in’
you know what i mean
wait i heard he’s hot now is that true
Angelica felt zero guilt for keeping someone on hold when she knew the person was Thomas Jefferson at his desk via Jefferson’s assistant, because Jefferson would never make a direct phone call to another human being when someone else could do it for him. After a few moments of not answering any email and glancing at the weather outside, she picked up the line.
“Hold for Secretary Jefferson,” answered the voice on the other end.
“Hello, to whom am I speaking?” Jefferson asked.
“Try again, Tom,” Angelica replied.
“Oh good, I’ve reached the Dean’s office, finally,” Jefferson said. “And how are you doing, Mrs. Schuyler?”
“Dr. Schuyler is very well, thank you, Mr. Secretary,” Angelica said. “Are you actually in the country or should I send my regards to Mrs. Cosway?”
“I can be in both,” Jefferson said. “Anyway. I’m calling about the little matter of my nephew’s rejection from Columbia.”
“You know there’s another dean, one specifically for admissions, who you could call about that,” Angelica said as she turned in her chair. “I promise, Tom, I didn’t carefully examine the list of this year’s applicants and immediately check REJECT next to your… nephew’s name. He’s a nephew now, huh?”
“He’s stubbornly set himself on Columbia, for some reason, and we’re such old friends, Angelica.”
“We’re not that old,” Angelica said. “And not that friendly! But it’s sweet of you to call.”
“Doesn’t your campus need a new building that I can provide?”
“Have you been up here lately? I’d have to put it in the Hudson.”
“Wherever you think is best, I really don’t care. In any case, please let my nephew into Columbia. He’d be such an asset.”
“I’ll ask admissions to review the matter, Tom. Thank you for your call.”
“Thank you for taking my call, dear, and please come to town to visit your brother-in-law. He’s in need of your… calming influence.”
“Thanks for the update. Bye, Tom.”
HAMILTON> lol i know you’ve just talked to jefferson bc he hissed your name at me as we passed each other on the street
actually he said REGARDS FROM DR SCHUYLER so maybe it’ll stick this time
ANGELICA> men hissing in the street over me!! love it.
also looks like your calendar’s empty thursday and eliza’s is full. intentional?
HAMILTON> come find out
“Did the guy playing Arthur look right at me during most of his songs, or was it just me?” Washington asked as he rolled up his Playbill.
“I thought he was looking at me,” Angelica said. “I mean, it could have been you, I guess, Mr. President.”
Eliza, Angelica, Hamilton, and Washington, were waiting on the emptied stage to meet the cast of the latest Camelot revival in New York. Eliza typed on her phone while Angelica leaned against Alexander, impatient to leave already. Washington’s Playbill was rolled and crumpled from the three-hour show and now from the waiting.
“I’m the President,” Washington said to them, slowly, like he was still trying out the title after five years in office. “Is it rude to tell him, stop breaking the fourth wall, these tickets were comp’d, I’m really not feeling this thing between us?”
“Yeah, maybe save it for the memoirs,” Hamilton said. “Write it in a diary, we’ll stash it in the back, and maybe a misguided PhD student will find it sixty or seventy years from now.”
“The back?” Angelica asked. “I want the shit-talking diaries on my super-future reading tech, okay? I want a Washington AI to spring out of the internet and perform this moment for me again, in the future, forever.”
“That’s unsettling, Dr. Schuyler,” Washington said. “I’ll be at your service in this life, but I’d like to…” He couldn’t quite articulate it, so he looked to Hamilton and said, “Don’t let me become a hologram.”
“Print only,” Hamilton agreed. “That’s part of my plan. Don’t worry, I thought this through. Something about the integrity of the document or whatever.”
“That’s not no holograms. I said no holograms, Alex,” Washington said. “I don’t want to be a hologram.”
“You gotta give me a price threshold on that,” Hamilton said. “Like right now, in the year of our lord 2015, you say no holograms, but could we sell the rights to your post-life self and for how much?”
Washington shook his head, tightening the Playbill in his grip again. “You’re all perfect for each other.”
“Hold on,” Eliza said and, as everyone held on, she started laughing. “Sorry, Alex, someone in the audience took a picture of you sobbing through Act 2 and it’s all over twitter.”
“Who gives a shit?” Hamilton asked. “Also, it wasn’t through Act 2.”
“No, just If Ever I Would Leave You.” She shot them all a look and said, “Like this fetus could compare to Robert Goulet.” She looked back at her phone, but then remembered something else: “And listen, you sneaky little shit, how did you sob through a musical without me noticing? I was right next to you, for god’s sake.”
“I wasn’t sobbing,” Alexander said.
“I don’t know,” Washington said. “Your sobbing looks a lot like other people’s stonefaced determination to make out of the mall alive on Christmas Eve.”
“Not that it matters if I was crying because it’s the 21st century and—you know what, I need to tell twitter to shut the fuck up—also, taking pictures in a theater, isn’t that illegal in New York?” Hamilton asked. “Don’t they know I have the NSA’s number?”
“The NSA still hates you for that interview about cutting their funding before they morph into HYDRA,” Angelica said.
“Like I give a fuck,” Hamilton said.
“They give a fuck,” Angelica said. “You forgot that sort of thing goes both ways.”
“This is the kind of enterprising, compromising spirit I like to see,” Washington said.
“Alex, let’s take a sad duckface selfie before any more assholes try to make this into a thing,” Eliza said. “Come on, look heartbroken, like I’ve asked you to leave me.”
“Mince it a little finer, Eliza,” Angelica laughed.
“That’s the POINT of the SONG,” Alexander said as Eliza held out her phone and fit them together in frame. “How could Guinevere even ASK THAT, like he’d say anything else.”
“That’s the magic of theater. I’m sorry they made you feel things,” Eliza said. She kissed his cheek and strolled off to upload the picture. “And where the hell are these actors? I told myself I would catch up on Madam Secretary tonight.”
Angelica burst out laughing. “I love you, you’re my favorite white lady cliche.” Eliza blew a kiss at her and turned back to her phone.
Hamilton turned at the sound of people laughing and emerging from backstage—led by Aaron Burr, because this city was roughly the size of a fucking thimble.
“You kept the President waiting?” shot out of Hamilton’s mouth immediately.
“Hamilton,” Washington warned.
“Mr. President!” Burr said as he approached them, blissfully unaffected. “I’m sorry, the cast and I were getting a picture together.”
“Oh, is that all?” Hamilton asked. “Senator?”
“Well, we won’t impose on you all much longer,” Washington said to the cast gathering around him. “Just wanted to tell you all that we enjoyed your excellent performance tonight.”
“Do you want a selfie, Mr. President?” asked the Arthur-actor. “I definitely want one and if you have your phone I’ll take one for you, too. I can use both hands.”
“How about I take the picture,” Hamilton said, taking a step forward. “And you keep your hands where I can see them.”
“You’ve all had background checks, right?” Eliza asked. She stood next to Alexander and smiled at him, her mouth all sweetness and her eyes on this side of I would help you throw any of them into traffic. Angelica, meanwhile, climbed into the picture with Washington, her sharp elbows a guarantee to give the president his space in the crowded cast picture.
“I should get in there, too,” Burr announced.
“Why the hell not,” Hamilton said. “Oh, shit, I took the picture already.”
“That’s all right, you can take another one,” Burr said. “Don’t be so mean with your resources, Mr. Treasurer.”
“Ooh, he just told me how to do my job,” Hamilton whispered to Eliza.
She turned and whispered in his ear, “Just take the picture so we can go home and they can stop reading your really obvious lips.”
“You guys look great,” Hamilton said as he turned the phone off and handed it back to the Arthur-actor. “And yeah, good show, I loved it.”
“Did you really cry during my song?” asked the Lancelot-actor. The actor turned to Washington and said, “It’s my Broadway debut, sir, I don’t know if you saw that in the Playbill!”
“Congratulations,” Washington said. “We should go now, before the motorcade traffic causes an international incident. Great show, everyone. So inspiring.”
The Lancelot-actor persisted, though, and asked, “But did you cry during—”
Hamilton clapped his hands and announced, “Okay, listen up, kids, we have to talk about the bullshit performative aspects of masculinity. Now, back in the day—”
“Actually, we can’t,” Eliza interrupted. “Alexander has forgotten he has some really important Netflix to tend to before his 15 minutes of sleep tonight, but I promise, it was very emotional.”
“I have important things, too,” Washington said.
Just like that, Eliza announced goodbyes for them all and dragged them out, her tiny bag on her shoulder, one hand in Alexander’s and one in Angelica’s.
“How do you do that?” Angelica asked.
“Easily,” Eliza said, and nothing else.
JEFFERSON> FYI when I’m President and throw your dumb ass out of the Treasury, I’m releasing a series of Heritage Legacy Bills with the real patriots you’re taking off our currency.
HAMILTON> I love your salty reactionary politics but also DAMMIT
I HATE YOU
I CAN DO SO MUCH MORE WITH MY TIME
Aaron Burr’s Twitter account was inactive for the first three years of its existence.
Then, by the miracle of becoming the Attorney General for New York, he became a Public Figure with a Verified Account.
He still didn’t tweet.
A couple of years into Washington’s first term, Burr defeated Eliza and Angelica’s father in the New York Senate race, and that was some shit.
He still didn’t tweet.
“You don’t want people to get sick of you,” Burr advised Hamilton as they waited in line at the same deli near Eliza’s Manhattan office. Somehow they worked in the same city ten months out of the year and never ran into each other, but the one day Hamilton took Amtrak up to Manhattan, they ended up ordering sandwiches together thanks to the motherfucking hand of fate. “Gotta really think about what you put out there, what it says about you.”
Personally, Alexander had always been confused by the phrase their eyes glazed over. He had seen eyes well up with tears, eyes stop moving as the life left a body, but glaze over? Shitty writing, he thought.
And then Burr said that dumb fucking shit about tweeting (BRANDING, IT’S CALLED BRANDING, AND IT’S THE STUPIDEST THING HE HAS EVER COME ACROSS IN HIS LIFE, WHEN BRANDING WAS SOMETHING THAT ONCE HAPPENED, LITERALLY, TO HUMAN BEINGS ON THEIR ACTUAL FLESH) and Alexander felt what it was to glaze over. He could feel his carefully controlled face relax a little and his eyes unfocus, and something come over him like a protective covering, shielding him from any more bullshit landing anywhere near the last shreds of sanity he kept tucked away in his brain.
“Right,” Hamilton said. “You figure all that out on your own?”
“You’re not the only one out there, Hamilton,” Burr said.
“Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight,” he said.
“I think that’s our order,” Burr said. “Not ours. Unfortunately, I can’t stay, Mr. Secretary. I have something right after lunch.”
“Right,” Hamilton said, considering that he didn’t ask. “I’m meeting Eliza at her office.”
“That’s nice,” Burr said. “We should get a selfie before I leave.”
“Why not,” Hamilton said.
“You’ll be my first tweet,” Burr said as he grabbed his bag from the counter and left Hamilton’s there. Hamilton glanced at him, made sure Burr was just going to leave the other bag there despite this pretense at amiability, and then walked up to the counter and took the bag with his and Eliza’s orders. When he returned, Burr had the phone out. “It’s great,” Burr said. “A lunch picture but not a lunch picture. My assistant showed me examples on Instagram.”
“Yeah, that’s. Solid,” Hamilton said. Burr took the picture and oh, the glaze was comforting. It was so comforting.
“So good seeing you again, Mr. Secretary,” Burr said loudly as he left.
“Mr. Senator,” Hamilton called out. “Make sure you caption it WHO LET THIS MOTHERFUCKER OUTTA THE VAULT.”
Burr stared at him across the deli for a long moment, then laughed.
“Or I won’t know it’s you,” Hamilton clarified.
“Talk less,” Burr said. The smile was gone in a very sudden, very obvious, way, and then so was Burr.
PALACE FUCKER> HRM expresses his anticipation to have yourself and President Washington in London.
HAMILTON> Ok just so we’re clear: G knows he can’t get his ministers in on a murder mystery, fake a murder, try to frame us for it, get someone from the UN to play along and TRY TO ARREST US, then do his shrieking dolphin laugh and tell us it was a joke. RIGHT?
PALACE FUCKER> HRM expresses his shock that Mr. Secretary thinks he would host the same themed party twice in a row.
“I do hope you’re pleased,” George said as they slowly processed through the palace to the second floor. “On the balcony of this palace, we’ve presented new kings and queens, princes and princesses, for longer than your little nation has existed in the eyes of God. We don’t often present our allies here, but for the sake of our relationship, I wanted to extend this offer.”
“One we appreciate,” said the President. “Don’t we, Alexander?”
“Sure do,” Hamilton said.
The King was in the middle of Washington and Hamilton and as they walked, George took Hamilton’s elbow, his hand resting on Hamilton’s forearm. “Do they not do this in America, Mr. Secretary?” George asked in his strangely dated diction taught to every goddamn British monarch by a legion of undead 18th century tutors. “One of my dearest pleasures as a young man was to walk along a shady garden path with a close, intimate acquaintance like this.”
“We’re a little low on garden paths in Manhattan,” Hamilton said. He wished he could catch Eliza or Angelica’s eyes, but they were behind him and that was definitely Angelica snorting. “But I get what you’re saying.”
“Rather fast and loose with the honorifics, aren’t we, Mr. Secretary?” George asked.
“Not at all, Your Majesty,” Hamilton said.
“And how is it,” George asked, directed to Washington but with his eyes still fixed on Hamilton. “That your Secretary of the Treasury accompanied you on this trip, rather than your—whatever you call Mr. Jefferson? Your titles are so amusing.”
“Secretary of State,” Hamilton corrected. “Your Majesty.”
“Very good,” George said.
Washington saved him by clearing his throat and replying, “I would have asked Secretary Jefferson, but he’s occupied elsewhere at the moment. Anyway, Hamilton’s the one with a brother-in-law who has a place to crash here.”
The King laughed that manic shrieking dolphin laugh that haunted Hamilton’s nightmares, and he wrapped his hand tighter around Hamilton’s elbow. “Is that what you call it? A place to crash? God in Heaven, I could have thrown a cot for you in any room of any house in England if you only asked. You could have crashed all you like.”
“The offer’s appreciated, Majesty,” Hamilton said. “But we wanted to stay with family. Angelica’s husband has rooms to spare in his house, and actual beds for us, so.”
“You are so WRY,” the King screamed. “You wonderful, enterprising, slapdash, salt-of-the-earth Americans.”
“Dear Mr. Hamilton,” George continued, low, his hand traveling along Hamilton’s arm. “Have you never considered a second home, an English home, and someone to... keep it for you?”
“Not recently,” Hamilton said. “Though we keep sending Jefferson over to check out your real estate listings. Maybe we’ll reconsider if something good comes up.”
The King laughed again and if it hadn’t been for their group finally arriving at the balcony and the decorative guards, he might never have let Alexander go. A Duchess positioned them for their procession onto the balcony and Alexander returned to Eliza and Angelica.
“Well now I know why you never studied abroad,” Eliza said. “British dudes love you.”
“Do you think the King will ask you for Alex’s hand?” Angelica whispered behind Alexander’s back.
“I suppose that’s up to Mr. Secretary, isn’t it,” Eliza sighed. “Best of men, while I had him.”
“We’ve just witnessed the blossoming love story of the century. I gotta call up the Hallmark Channel and Lifetime and make them bid on some movie rights,” Angelica said.
“Girl, cut me in and I’ll make sure we all get a happy ending,” Alexander added.
Eliza mused aloud, “The King wouldn’t like—have me executed—if he really got attached to Alexander?”
“Just don’t play hardball for his virtue,” Angelica said. “Whatever’s left of it. Don’t think of it as losing a husband, but like a trade-in towards your upgrade.”
“Keep laughing,” Alexander said. “Just wait until you see My Highness on some money.”
LAURENS> hey hey hey
ELIZA SAYS YOU AND G3 HAD A ROARING OLDE TIME IN LONDINIUM CHAP
HAMILTON> he just wanted to put me up in a castle and shave me sometimes
LAURENS> wait really
HAMILTON> JOHN I DIDNT FUCKING ASK FOR SPECIFICS
LAURENS> come with me to this bullshit hrc gala so we can yell at people about our trans youth housing bill and you can show me where the king touched you
HAMILTON> you just
you just get me
Hercules Mulligan was their man inside the HRC, which sounded way more exciting than it actually was. Mulligan was high up in the organization and loathed their boards’ wealthy, white focus on issues that would best benefit their wealthiest, whitest donors. The three of them, Hamilton and Laurens and Mulligan, intersected nicely, both in their shared interests and professional status: Hamilton in the government, Laurens a partner in a national law firm, and Mulligan deeply invested in nonprofit advocacy, making it his business to know it inside and out.
“I paid $7500 for a plate of fish covered in cream sauce so you could tell me number one on my list of legislative priorities is ranked third from the bottom on yours,” Hamilton said to Mulligan. “I just want to make sure we’re both seeing the same shitty crooked row of ducks here.”
“I’m also seeing an overworked metaphor that doesn’t make as much visual sense as you’d like,” Mulligan replied. “A vertical list, a horizontal row, that sorta—”
“I’M AN OVERWORKED METAPHOR THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY VISUAL SENSE,” Hamilton said. “Seeing as my goddamn head should have exploded thirty fucking seconds ago!”
“The baby,” Laurens added to Hamilton. “Baby John can arrange those ducks better and he just learned to pull himself up on his own two feet.”
“It’s true,” Hamilton said. “Baby John has excellent hand-eye coordination and also actual moral priorities.”
“Remember, I’m just the deeply outraged messenger who would love to replace the entire board of directors with your army of children,” Mulligan said.
“Just for that, now you gotta look at pictures of my kids!” Hamilton yelled. “Look! Little Angelica is ten and she’s a GODDAMN ANGEL inheriting a terrible and unjust world!” He scrolled through his family album, all of them strictly kept from the internet. “Here’s Philip! He was just elected secretary of his middle school student council because the other kids were too scared not to include him after he lost the presidency!”
“Your twelve-year-old was going to stage a coup of his middle school student council?” Mulligan asked. “Yeah, I buy that, actually.”
Mulligan leaned a hand on Alexander’s arm to distract him from the infinite scrolling grid of his children. “Look. You know how this works: I tell you how hard this year’s gonna be, then you and John hole up somewhere and write some fucking Doctor Zhivago soaring operatic shit that manipulates the wallets in charge to realize they’re keeping children/future voters in a cycle of homelessness and helplessness. Then maybe, maybe, by next year’s shitty fish dinner we’ve made a fucking centimeter of progress.”
“I know,” Hamilton said. He clapped Mulligan on the shoulder and leaned on him. “I know.” He looked aside at Laurens and asked, “Why's it gotta be this hard?”
“I’ll quit when you quit,” Laurens said, like he always said.
“Not yet,” Hamilton promised. "We have so much work to do."
“Oh, good, it’s Aaron Burr,” Mulligan said suddenly.
“Oh, good,” Hamilton repeated. “You know he was my first friend when I got to this country? I was his first tweet.”
“Yeah, you two always reminded me of Streisand and Redford in The Way We Were,” Mulligan said.
“Are you also on the programming board for TCM?” Laurens asked. “Just for the record, I take offense to your insinuation that The Way We Were could top Doctor Zhivago.”
“Am I Streisand?” Hamilton asked, intrigued.
Laurens roughly grabbed one of Hamilton’s lapels and said, “Don’t forget Julie Christie’s waiting for you at home, motherfucker.”
“And with that,” Mulligan said. “Let me greet Senator Burr and say one nice ass-kissing thing to him before he notices you’re here and you two start some shit.”
Hamilton looked away from Laurens’s very close, very intent face. “What? What possible shit could I start with Aaron Burr?”
TWELVE MINUTES LATER
“Watch yourself,” Burr said, a deadly quiet come over him in a way Hamilton couldn’t understand, couldn’t mimic, even if he wanted to with a single fibre of his being. (He didn’t.) “This isn’t passivity, this is prudence. You ever heard the word, Hamilton? Used it in a sentence? It means to have a careful eye on the distribution of resources, Mister Treasurer.”
“Burr, I love prudence,” Hamilton said. “You’re right, prudence is great, a solid value to have—when you have resources in the first place. Literally the first thing homeless youth don’t have are resources, though I get that when you say “resources” you mean specifically the resources to keep you in your Senate seat until you drop dead.”
“Where’s your plan, Hamilton? Your plan, infrastructure, leadership, a goal for this, as you call it, vulnerable population.”
“The goal?” Hamilton yelled. “The goal is to bring homeless youth out of economic vulnerability—”
“You haven’t demonstrated the need,” Burr said.
“Oh my GOD, the need?” Hamilton asked. “"The need" was my son’s age, outside that deli where we got lunch, begging for change before a cop shoved them somewhere that the junior Senator from New York couldn’t see them.”
“That’s touching,” Burr said. “That isn’t enough to justify to my constituents, or anyone else’s, why they should be responsible for someone else’s problem.”
“This is their nation, we are their government, they are our people, they are our problem.”
Just over his shoulder, Hamilton heard Jefferson and Madison arrive with the subtlety of a bull shark smashing into the side of a dinghy.
“OH SHIT, it’s a Burr and Hamilton fight,” Jefferson announced. “Bless you, sweet baby Jesus, whose existence I find extremely dubious except in moments like these when a divine hand has come down and arranged everything just to my liking.”
“I got drinks,” Madison said. Champagne flutes clinked.
“I don’t even know who I’m cheering for,” Jefferson laughed. “Fuck them both, am I right?”
“I don’t know if I would,” Madison considered. “Seeing as it would be a cold day in hell before Hamilton would shut up long enough to let himself be seduced.”
“I didn’t mean it literally, but now I can’t stop thinking about it,” Jefferson said. “I’ve heard things, like how Alex in the sack is a goddamn animal.”
Someone whistled sharply. Jefferson, Madison, and a BuzzFeed reporter all turned in the direction of the whistle and found John Laurens. The reporter turned his phone away from Burr and Hamilton just in time to record all 5’8” of Laurens leap and smash his forehead against Jefferson’s forehead half a foot above him.
“THAT IS A SILK SHIRT,” Madison yelled as the blood suddenly dripped down onto Jefferson’s shirt.
“Alex I need a ride to a hospital maybe?” Laurens said as he staggered to Hamilton. “I love you. Tell my father—”
“What?” Hamilton asked as he caught Laurens.
“He’s a motherfucker,” Laurens sighed as he passed out.
ANGELICA> YOU ARE BOTH LAWYERS YOU IDIOTS
HAMILTON> john’s fine thanks
ANGELICA> YOU, SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY, FOUGHT A NY SENATOR
YOUR BOYFRIEND HEADBUTT THE SECRETARY OF STATE
Now I definitely have to let Jefferson’s stupid nephew into Columbia, and probably every “nephew” he fucks into someone for the next three generations
Thanks for not hitting Burr or we’d have to grease that wheel too
CAN YOU SERIOUSLY NOT GO ANYWHERE WITHOUT US?
HAMILTON> i was just arguing with burr
THATS WHAT WE DO
i didn’t know john was gonna get all protective and shit
it was really hot when he wasn’t concussed anymore
ANGELICA> let me ask you this under the veil of attorney-client privilege
did tom bleed
HAMILTON> ALLLLLLLL OOOOOOOOOVERRRRRRRRRRR
ANGELICA> remind yourself of that when he brings a really expensive civil suit against you two
ELIZA> Tell John he’s staying with us.
HAMILTON> it wasn’t that serious
ELIZA> TELL JOHN
HE IS STAYING
DA CHIEF (OF STAFF)> POTUS wants you in the Oval at earliest convenience.
HAMILTON> should be wed. they want him here two nights just in case
POTUS say anything?
DA CHIEF (OF STAFF)> “Really?”
Also don’t read this morning’s comments from Adams
He’s calling this a Boston Christmas
HAMILTON> SIT THE FUCK DOWN JOHN
DA CHIEF (OF STAFF)> FYI I laughed POTUS didn’t
HAMILTON> you’re killing me
MULLIGAN> Laurens got the Board’s attention
MULLIGAN> You’re now after immigration
HAMILTON> i’ll take it
HAMILTON> text was blank
DID YOU WANT TO APOLOGIZE FOR BEING A TOILET SNAKE OUT OF AN URBAN LEGEND
BURR> new phone who is this
HAMILTON> THE FUCK