Jack Donaghy took another drink of scotch and narrowed his eyes at the NBC page standing before him. "I may not like that overgrown sock-puppet masquerading as an Irishman," he rasped in answer to the question he'd been asked, "but I respect him. And I think we both know I don't owe you any explanations, Kenneth. Now hurry up and get your pants off too."
Jonathan pursed his lips to keep the pain-filled scream from escaping and dutifully held out an arm for Kenneth to flop the hideous pants and jacket of his page uniform over. He recoiled as tacky khaki whisked against the side of his face. "Sir, I'm not sure-"
"Jonathan, don't you have some stapling to do?"
"Yes, sir, Mr Donaghy, sir," he said, miserable in a trap of his own making. If only he hadn't made the mistake of giggling at a Leno monologue with the office door improperly secured!
As he shuffled through to his outer office, head hanging low, pulling the heavy door closed behind him, Jonathan balled up his fists and whispered, "As God is my witness, Conan O'Brien, you'll never host late night again!"
A voice from the depths of Hell growled, "Who are you talking to?"
Jonathan flung the page uniform at it and screamed. When Liz Lemon emerged from under the 100% polyester monstrosity in her own wool and flannel monstrosity, he screamed again, then curled his fingers into claws and hissed.
She hissed back, revealing her disgustingly cheese-powder-stained teeth and receding old-lady gums. Jonathan kicked out at her shins, the tip of his immaculately polished wingtip connecting with her bony chicken leg.
She doubled over and snarled, "What is wrong with you?"
"I know you're behind it! You and that, that, that giant leprechaun!"
"What are you talking about? Does Jack know you've gone completely insane?"
"Don't you speak his name!" he shrieked in a register only dogs could hear. Present company included. "What that man has to do because of you-!"
Jonathan broke off into high, reedy, wheezy sobs and fumbled for his inhaler. Shamed by the show of weakness in front of his thin-lipped old maid nemesis, he choked back another scream and ran for the secret Executive Assistants Only elevator tucked away behind a ficus. Not even the pages knew it existed. No one would find him there. No one!
He barricaded himself inside and jammed all the buttons to give him time to get himself under control. He had to think fast. Jack and Kenneth would be leaving any moment for the Blue Oyster Bar to spring the second part of Jack's elaborate trap, the sole objective to catch Devon Banks red-handed: with one hand on the hip of a good-looking young Republican trust fund baby (or, failing that, Kenneth) and the other elbow-deep in late night talk show machinations.
Jack would tear Devon to pieces.
He allowed himself a minute to shiver with delight over the mental image, then squared his shoulders. He couldn't let Jack do this. He couldn't let Kenneth get away with it. It was bad enough that the little hillbilly upstart had usurped his place at Jack's side in Boston, taking Jonathan's rightful place as assistant in all kinds of secret, intimate projects.
Jonathan swung open the discreet panel under the floor call buttons and picked up the gold-plated emergency phone, the one that connected him directly to the secret Assistants League Communications Network. "This is Mr Mr-Jack-Donaghy at NBC. I need four male models, a bucket of gold paint, and the pink slips for seven pre-World War II classic cars," he told the voice on the other end.
"Seven... pre-World War- Oh my God, are you going after Leno?" the voice asked. "No one's told us which side to take yet!"
"I'll do whatever it takes," Jonathan vowed, staring down his reflection. His determined eyes were getting better and better with every crisis.
There was a scratch on the line, then some clattering, then a heavily accented voice said, "What will you do about Herr Weinberg's secret Canadian family? They cannot rely on Herr Geiss's secret Canadian family's good will forever."
"That's not my problem, Miss Herr-Max-Weinberg." Jonathan sniffed. "Someone's trying to steal my executive!"
After a long pause, the first voice returned and said, "Whatever you require, the Assistants League will provide."
"Miss Herr-Max-Weinberg won't make trouble?"
"She understands what's at stake. Be strong, Mr Mr-Jack-Donaghy."
"I will," Jonathan said. He hung up the phone, then smoothed back his hair and punched the floor button for Jeff Zucker's office. "Oh, I will."