Sean Spicer stood in his office. Or, rather, his former office. It was small and dark and he’d always hated it. But now, as all of his decisions from the past few days rattled around in his brain, he loved it more than anywhere in the world. More than his boyhood bedroom, more than the confessional at his church where he’d once snuck a nap as a kid. He’d confessed and atoned for that, of course. He was a good Catholic boy. He couldn’t think too much about God today.
A shadow appeared on his desk. He heard a sigh and matched it, assuming it was Priebus, coming to rebuke him. It was just his way of saying thank you. There was so much unspoken between them…. maybe once the dust had settled….
Of course, what Sean didn’t know was how soon Reince would be showing up on his doorstep with a bottle of whiskey, unemployment forms, and a wry smile.
Spicer turned around and started. It was Scaramucci. The Mooch. Goddamnit. GodDAMNit.
“Moocher,” he said. The Mooch didn’t flinch.
“Spicey.” Sean flinched. He hoped not visibly.
“Well. I guess this is it,” said the Mooch.
“I guess,” said Spicer. He knew he sounded like a child.
“Look-” started Spicer.
“Let me stop you right there. The Mooch is going to gut this department.”
What a presumptuous prick. As if Sean cared about any of this rotating cast of sycophants. He wasn’t even sure how he felt about the President anymore. Everything was so complicated now but it had all been so simple: Make America Great Again.
“Why do you let them call you the Mooch?”
“The Mooch calls himself that. I beat them to it. Then they can’t use it against me. I don’t give a fuck, Spicey. That’s your problem. Too many fucks.”
As he talked, Scaramucci got closer and closer to Sean. He tasted the breath from the Mooch’s mouth as he’d said the word, “fucks.” He’d practically spit it at him. Fucks.
“Do..do you kiss your wife with that mouth?” He asked, almost coyly. What had come over him?!
“Ex-wife,” said Anthony.
They were the same height. Eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. Spicer felt a stirring within himself. The Mooch licked his lips and smiled as Sean looked away. It felt like he’d lost a game he didn’t understand.
“What will you do now?”
Jesus. As if he knew. “Keep on the five year plan,” he said confidently.
“You should go into the private sector. Stay out of the limelight. I could make a few calls.”
“Fuck you.” As soon as it was out of Sean’s mouth, he felt like a new man. “Fuck you,” he said again.
The Mooch was unfazed. What did it take?! “Don’t be stupid, Spicey. I could set you up to make more money than you’d even know what to do with. Fuck this governmental salary. Buy yourself a suit that fits.”
Why that was the thing that broke him, Sean couldn’t say. He realized that Scaramucci had been following him as he inched around the desk. Now he slumped on it and almost sobbed. “You unimaginative asshole. I don’t give a shit about money. This is all I ever cared about. America and God. I don’t want your fucking money.”
Scaramucci came up behind him. Sean let him. Anthony whispered in his ear, “yes. You do.”
The Mooch spun him around and started undressing him. His suit just fell away, like dry husks on a dead corncob. Scaramucci’s suit was harder to take off. The quality tailoring clung to his hard body, and Sean fumbled with his fine, leather, suspender hooks.
“You better not fucking leak this,” said the Mooch as he bent his conquest over the desk.
“YOU better not fucking leak this,” gasped Spicer as he took his replacement inside of himself
They repeated that back and forth for a while, a hateful mantra. Suddenly, Anthony pulled out, spun him around and bent him to his knees.
“I’m not trying to suck my own cock here.”
‘What an odd phrase,’ thought Spicer as he opened his mouth. It was wide…but short. Spicer felt his own length in his hand. It was like the Monster energy drinks he and Priebus used to sneak on late night. He marveled that all of Scaramucci’s money couldn’t buy him a bigger dick.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been in it, but it was the first time he’d truly appreciated the power of his current position. He took all of the other man in and didn’t even gag. Then he stood up and smiled. It enraged Scaramucci who spun him around again.
“You better take this like an American,” he said. Spicer kept smiling. As he felt Anthony’s strong, confident hands reach around him, he could feel the moment the Mooch knew that his own dick was smaller than the one in his hand now.
They came together. Sean was back in his ill fitting suit within seconds as Anthony struggled with his tasteful buttons. He picked up his box of things and turned for the door.
“Wait-” said the Mooch.
“No,” said Sean and closed the door behind him.
Sarah Hartshorne is a comedian, producer and writer in NYC. A former plus-size model, Sarah competed on Cycle 9 of America's Next Top Model. Since then, she's performed at clubs all over NYC as well as at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.