After the Vitamix orgy and sacrificial mango virgin episode, I was at a loss. Nine dead, and nothing to show for it other than a t-shirt, and a candelabra Secretary Sassypants appropriately named ‘Douglas.’ We got back on the jet, and I called the Vice President (again) to ask for a billion dollars and another cure for AIDS. He sent his wife to wait for me in my office with the delivery, and shortly after I arrived we had sex under the banana tree. I was still insecure about my face-sized head mole, but she just laughed at it this time, thankfully.
The Vice President’s wife left a Ugandan yaya lime for my collection of rare limes, and the bellow of pains erupting from my turbinado withdrawals were silenced under sighs of joy. I was growing up, and growing increasingly sturdy under the pressures of being leader of the former Soviet Union. Juice was no longer what it used to be, it was something more. It was my drink of choice and my lover. I emoted this feeling, kicking a hole through the Mondrian hanging on my wall.
I called the Vice President into my office a little later, and we played NFL Blitz on the Royal Soviet N64 well into the next morning. I cut us down a banana for breakfast, and we laughed with mouths full of fruit until it was time to bathe.