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The President's Cup

Chapter Text

Barack stood outside the front door, banging once again. 

“Bill!” he called, exasperated as he checked his watch.  Not getting an answer, he paced back and forth.  “Forty-four fucking minutes late,” he mumbled, kicking the gravel.

He banged again.

“Bill!”

<><> 

Out of breath inside, Bill imagined dismounting Hillary.

“That was great, baby.  Clittie may not be in town, but she sure knows how to make the greatest president who’s ever lived feel special.”  He wiped his brow, staring at his phone.

“Good,” she cooed, kissing her screen. 

“Hill?”

“Yeah?”

He took a deep breath.  “Where’re you headed next?”

She stood.  “Toronto.”  She stretched out her hand, already feeling the ache from the book signings.

“Fuck,” Bill said, watching her button her blouse.  “I hate the patriarchy!”

Hillary grinned.  “What?”

Miffed, Bill leaned back.  “Oprah and Gayle are locked away because some fucker in the 1600s made tits sexual.”

“You don’t find them sexual?”

“Of course, I do, Hillary!  I just don’t think it’s fair that I can’t look at them whenever I want!”

<><> 

KNOCK, KNOCK

“Bill!” Barack called again, banging to no avail.  He turned around.  “Mother fucking always fucking late,” he mumbled, punching the air as he walked back to the van.

“What’s the rush?” W asked, adjusting his gray wig in the rearview mirror.

Barack turned around.  “It’s called the ‘President’s Cup’, and all of us need to be there—you know, after we attend the official one and have our private cup when the crowds leave.”

W removed his mascara with a baby wipe.  “What do you think?” he asked, turning around.

“About what?”

W furrowed his brow.  “My wig.  It covers the rainbow dye,” he said, patting it.  “Does it look real?”

Exasperated, Barack chuckled.  “Sure, but you still have your fucking piercings in.  What the fucking…” Barack mumbled again, miffed.

W’s lip quivered before he burst into tears.

“W?”

“You’re just like Forty-one!”

“What?”

“You think I’m a freak!  That I’m not a good enough son!”

Barack held his hands up, nervous.

“What do I have to do to please you, daddy?!”

“What the fuck,” Bill said, chuckling as he strolled towards the van.  “I chat with Hillary for two, maybe three minutes, and you fuckers start acting like Joe does around fat guys.”

Barack clenched his fist, chuckling to calm down.  “Not today, satan.”

Bill yanked off W’s wig, giggling as he threw it at him.  Content, he got in the van and took a deep breath, before buckling up and spreading his knees.

Barack was stunned.  “Don’t you have a watch?”

“Yep,” Bill said, showing off his Rolex.  “Had this one made when I thought Junior and Chelso were conceived.”  He kissed it.  “Nothing like having a time piece that counts down from conception.”

Barack held his fist to his mouth.

“Dude,” Paul mustered, carrying Bill’s golf bag.  “What the fuck do you have in here?”

“The usual, son.”

Paul dropped the carrier, squinting as he looked inside.

“Putters, irons, wedges,” Bill drawled.

“Sounds like wedgies, dude.”

Bill nodded.  “Hey, did you pack my special bag?”

Paul took it from around his neck.  “Playboys from ’94-’96.”

“Ahh, my travel collection.”

Barack rolled his eyes. 

“I also threw in a few gifts for you guys,” Bill said.  “Forty-four, I know you’re not into porno mags, so I’m giving you my recently delivered Sharper Image catalog.  If you place an order by October 2nd, you’ll get reduced price, standard shipping on any item that costs $600 or more.”

Barack chuckled again, trying not to punch Bill.

“And W,” Bill said, reaching into the bag.  “I got you these.”

W furrowed his brow.  “Synder’s Pretzels?”

Bill grinned.  “They’re the driest available.  Don’t pass out now,” Bill said, laughing as he and Barack fist-bumped.

W’s lip quivered.

“Fuck,” Barack yelled, seeing W’s change.

Confused, Bill furrowed his brow.

W ripped his shirt in two, sobbing uncontrollably.  “I needed water!” he screamed, banging his chest.

Amazed by the display, Bill leaned towards Paul.  “Son?” he whispered.

“Yeah, Forty-two?”

Bill swallowed.  “Hand me one of my magazines.”

Paul reached into Bill’s bag and pulled out a Playboy.

Bill nodded.  “Uh, W?”

The sobbing man looked up, wig nearly off his head. 

“Here,” he said, handing him the magazine.  “If you turn to page 42, you can see boobs.”

Calming, W took the magazine, transfixed by the glossy pages.

“Whew,” Bill said, wiping his brow.  “Thank God.”

“For what?” Barack asked, checking his watch again. 

Bill looked down.  “There’s still a man in him.”  The men glanced at W.  “Forty-one would be proud.”