It's 3:30 a.m. on the 26th floor of Trump Tower and President-elect Donald Trump is hunched over his desk.
To his left, a mostly consumed taco salad from lunch. To his right, his iPhone. On the floor, piles of untouched intelligence briefings.
Most importantly, in front of him, is a pile of high-grade crystal meth. Trump snorts a line, the third he's inhaled in the last 20 minutes, and turns his attention to Twitter.
Cerebral cortex awash in speed, he scrolls through his favorite hashtags (#AltWhitePride, #MakeAmericaGrabAgain, #TheBestInFakeNews) before finding just the tweet from a C-minus high-school student in California.
It's fucking brilliant. The kid fucking nailed it. Trump fishes in his mealy taco salad for a fingerful of half-dry refried beans.
He retweets the kid the old-fashioned way, cutting and pasting and editing to his liking, getting bean remnants all over his touchscreen. He snorts another line of meth and licks the screen, then reflexively grabs his groin. He hasn't had an erection in years, but old habits die hard.
He blurts out a rapid-fire burst of forced maniacal laughter. A snot bubble pops from his left nostril.
The phone rings. Caller ID tells him it's Putin. "Gotta take this," he mutters as he licks the mucus from his lip.
All in a night's work.