Heads nod with great solemnity and handshakes are funereal, hands clasped over hands. Earl’s nephew, who owns the place now, brings out each member’s usual poison but leaves the bottles on the table, sensing it might be a long evening.

Forty-four is ready for that. But first he needs to get something off his chest. “I just wanted to state for the record that as for the results of the election, as with most things in life, it’s all too easy to be a genius in hindsight. I know that each and every one of you did the best you could with the hand we were dealt, and even though we might have some lingering disagreements, to be the most effective shadow tool for the continuation of the American Experiment, we would do well to learn what we can from the loss, then put it in the rear view as we move forward.”

“And if you can’t,” Forty-three-and-a-half says, “I know a place where we can smash stuff. Glass, dishes, pictures of him. Anything you want.”

“Thank you,” Forty-four offers. “I know MVP has been at one of those axe-throwing-therapy things and Doug said she’s doing much better. She can form complete sentences again.”

“Axes,” Forty-three-and-a-half muses. “I gotta check that out.” Forty-two’s face turns somber as he touches the scar on his forehead from one of his wife’s well-aimed high-heeled shoes.

“Who’s going to the inauguration?” Forty-four asks, eager to change the subject.

“I’d rather gouge out my eyeballs with a rusty spoon,” Forty-three-and-a-half says. “But I think it’s important to reinforce the concept of a peaceful transition.” Everyone agrees.

“Jill and I will be there,” says Forty-six somberly, about to become the newest official member of the Council. But then his eyes light with a flash of merriment. “I got a plan, though.”

All eyes go to him. “Listen, folks,” he continued, “I’m still officially the president until noon on January 20, and thanks to the Supremes, I can get away with a lot more shit than I used to. Let’s give that tangerine dumbass an unofficial welcome.”

Forty-four gives his former vice president and soon to be ex-president the side-eye. The man from Delaware and Forty-three-and-a-half engage in a sidebar about the extrajudicially-adjacent and some outright illegal methods they can employ to neutralize the incoming administration, including some untraceable substances claimed to be available from Putin. “If I may I interject,” Forty-four says, “it’s all fun and games until the inauguration, after which who knows what may happen, how long we’ll be tied up in witch hunt after witch hunt.”

“Let him try,” Forty-three-and-a-half says. “I could do another Benghazi standing on my head.”

A wispy voice in a Southern accent comes from Forty-four’s phone, where Thirty-nine is participating via secure video chat from his hospice room in Georgia.

“Yes, sir. Go ahead.”

“Can y’all hear me?”

Forty-four moved the phone to the middle of the table. “Loud and clear, sir.”

“Aside from serving as president and Rosalyn’s husband, being in your company has been one of the greatest honors of my life. Given that, I’d hate to see any of you get called to account for an act of political passion.”

Silence falls around the assembly.

“So,” he continues, “I’ve already set a plan in motion.”

Even more silence. Looks shoot from one to the other.

“Thirty-nine. Jimmy, you don’t have to—I mean, think of your legacy.”

A smile creases his already well-creased face. “I am thinking of it,” he says. “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands lately to think about it. Call it the last wish of a dying man. After the life I’ve led, I think my savior would do me a solid, as the kids say.”

“What are you—”

“The less said, the better. Carry on, and have a blessed day.”

And he’s gone. Again, the looks.

“He can’t be serious,” Forty-three-and-a-half says. “It’s gotta be the morphine talking.”

“No,” Forty-two says. “I have known that man for a lot of years. He means every word of it.”

Forty-four frowns. “We have to stop him.”

“I don’t even know what there is to stop,” Forty-six says.

“The bigger question,” says Forty-three, who until now had been very quiet, “is should we stop him?” All eyes land on the man from Texas, who continues. “There’s gonna be some weird shit going down. If we’re about to be silenced, we might as well make some noise first.”

Again, a hush falls over the table.

“I don’t know that I’m altogether good with this,” Forty-four says.

“I’m good,” Forty-two says. “Frankly I don’t think I’ve ever been more good. I move for adjournment.”

Water drips in a back room. The heater kicks on. Nobody else objects. The meeting is adjourned.

“I’m gonna go break some stuff,” Forty-three-and-a-half says, rising from the table, “then get royally drunk. Who’s with me?”

“Give Doug and Kamala a call,” Forty-six says. “I think they’d be up for that.”