“Pussies are bullshit,” Uncle Joe whispered into the child’s hair. Her mouth opened and a wailing gurgle began.

“Oh, I think someone’s a little overexcitabled,” he said, looking up at the parents. An aide whisked the child and parents away as the cameras continued to flash.

“Reminds me, reminds of the time I played the Santa for a bunch of bla-black kids in the barrio, which is what we used to call Starbucks,” Joe said. An aide sat another child in his lap to break off the incipient ramble.

“How are you, young man?” Joe asked the child loudly. The smells of denture glue and Hai Karate enveloped the little boy as Joe snaked both his arm around his thin torso hugged him until his ribs ached.

“Mr. Vice President,” an aide said sternly.

Joe’s eyes opened. “Did you get what you wanted for Channhooka, young man? Do you want to learn to swim?” He kissed the boy on the side of the head. “You don’t taste like you can swim. I have my own pool.”

The boy didn’t say anything. Fat tears were running down his face.

“Mr. Vice President!” another aide said. There were a dozen arrayed on either side of him. All armed with low-powered tasers.

“I love drinking pool water,” he told the reporters as the child was taken away. “Refreshing. I remember summer where I drank nu-nu-nothing but pool water. Hot pool water. Full of vitamins and sunlight!” He smiled his toothy grin, then frowned. He laughed suddenly and loudly. The low warning crackle of a taser could be heard.

“What do you want for Christmas, little girl?” Joe asked, pawing for the mother of the next child. He caught her wrist and pulled her into his lap before her husband could react.

“You’ve got fantastic tits for a 2nd grader,” he told the back of the woman’s neck. He rocked her tailbone against the base of his erection and moaned.

“The Vice President has a very full campaigning schedule,” tallest Secret Service agent barked. He helped the woman in Joe’s lap to her feet, a red flush across her neck and upper chest. The agent passed her to a waiting aide. He never bothered to learn the aide’s names. They rarely lasted more than a week.

“Don’t smoke The Devil’s Lettuce, kid!” Joe called after the visibly distressed woman.

“You either, bucko,” he said, pointing to the next child in line. “Don’t even think about asking Ol’ Saint Joe for intravenous drug bongs. I don’t go in for that sort of stuff, Jack!” The little boy took off running, evading the aide trying to put him on Joe Biden’s lap.

“Look at that little picaninny go,” Joe roared. “We got ourselves a track star!”

“We’ve been over this, sir,” an aide sat urgently into his ear. “You cannot use that word any longer!”

“TRACK STAR?!?” Joe asked loudly. Campaign workers were breaking up the line of waiting children and parents. “I can’t say TRACK STAB! Anymore?!?”

“‘Track star’ is fine, sir,” said the aide. “‘Track stab’ less so. No picaninny. Or mulatto or quadroon or octoroon or Negro or…”

“They love my leg hair, goddammit!” Joe said, pushing the young man away.

“Firebird is sundowning,” the aide said into his wrist. “I repeat, Firebird is sundowning.”

 

In the rendition room, Secret Service agents in clown masks read Trump Tweets to the parents of the children in order to keep their votes.