I got a call from my longtime friend and personal attorney, E. Hobart Calhoun, majority shareholder of Poli-Prompts, Inc., a NASDAQ-traded company providing teleprompter technology to politicians.

He asked me to help him work a high-profile sales and demo meeting with two potential clients, both public service heavyweights.

“Be glad to,” I said.

We arrived at a heavily fortified Delaware vacation home on Rehobehemoth Beach where E. said the primary potential client spent most of his lucid intervals.

After grueling strip searches by heavily armed security guards, we set up in the basement, where E. said the prospect felt most comfortable. Copies of a Doctor of Education dissertation crudely written in crayon were strewn about.

E. and I set up the big Poli-Prompts screen. We loaded the Poli-Prompts software demo and waited. After a few minutes, a confused-looking elderly man was led into the room by someone in a large Easter Bunny costume. The bunny sat the old guy behind a large desk.

“He looks like Hunter Biden’s father,” I whispered to E.

“It is,” E. said.

Old Joe flashed his million-dollar smile at us and winked. “You ought to smell her hair,” he said, pointing to the departing bunny. “I told her ‘no serious boyfriend ‘til you’re thirty’, but she told me, “Nobody f###s with a Biden.” He laughed loudly for a moment, then slowly grew somber.

“The bunny’s hair?” I whispered to E., but he waved me off.

“Now,” old Joe said to E. and me. “Where were we?”

E. was about to respond when the basement door flew open.

A giant of a man in a dirty, short-sleeved hoodie loped in and sat down.

“John Fetterman,” E. whispered to me.

I watched as E. loaded the Poli-Prompts software on Fetterman’s laptop.

“Nice tats,” the President said to Fetterman. “I got inked like that when I was in the merchant marine living on an abandoned garbage scow in Cam Ranh Bay with Corn Pop before my son and I were blown up by an IUD in Iraq during Desert Scrum.”

Fetterman was trying to read his screen. “No popcorn for me,” Fetterman said.

“Shall we begin, gentlemen?” E. said.

“Sure,” the President said. “Enough tall tales.”

Fetterman squinted at his screen. “6’8”,” he said.

“When I was growing up in Puerto Rico,” the President said to Fetterman, “I was tall like you. And I’d get real tan in the summer, and the little kids would wet down the hair on my legs and watch it spring back up because my legs were so long that…,”

“Uh, Mr. President,” E. said after a long moment. “Mr. President?”

“What?” the elderly man said, snarling at E. “I’ll put you back in chains,” in an awful Southern accent. “You better remember, pal, this is a big f#$%ing deal.”

Fetterman looked up from his laptop. “My deal? Where are the cards?”

“I ought to knock the hell out of you, you dog-faced pony soldier,” Biden said to Fetterman.

Fetterman studied his laptop screen for a moment, closed it, and stood to leave.

“I didn’t know we were going to talk about the military and soldiers and crap,” he said. “I thought we were going to talk about criminals.”

Old Joe’s eyes grew wide. He stumbled as he jumped up from his chair. He tried to get up, then fell again. Finally stabilizing on unsteady feet, he took an arthritic swing at Fetterman, striking him lightly on his chest.

“You keep my boy out of this, you Lurch-looking….”

Old Joe’s words trailed off as Fetterman lumbered out of the basement.

The President appeared deep in thought for a moment.

“Sir, whatever you’re contemplating, I’m willing to help,” E said.

The President grabbed E. and shook him.

“Armageddon,” he whispered.