Sarah your right hand woman

The door opened, admitting Sarah Schmidt, who was technically your executive assistant.

Sarah Schmidt was older than you at 42. You had hired her when it had become apparent you needed a physical office. Perspective donors, not the rubes who give 5 dollars here or 10 dollars there. We're more likely to give money if they see you have an organization.

Blond, coming in at 5'10" when not wearing heels. She hardly looked like the out-of-work actress you'd hired off Craigslist 8 years ago. Looking at her fit body and gravity-defying D-cups. You found it amazing what a world-class personal trainer and 50k in plastic surgery could do.

Seeing where you were looking, Sarah arched her eyebrow snarkily, "You know, boss, it's not as if you haven't seen them before. " You smiled as you brought your feet off your desk, placing them on the floor.

You gulp the last of your whiskey before replying, "What, I can't appreciate works of art?"

Crossing over to you, she handed you a stack of folders. "Poor, poor Mr. Durgoon," she playfully mocked you.

Sarah was one of the few people who you'd let see behind the curtain since you started this mad endeavor. For all intents and purposes, you were friends with benefits since her divorce. Last week you'd put the two of you on hold to save up for next week.

"What can I say? You're a goddess; you could drive a monk to madness with lust."

"Keep thinking that as you're working through this newest crop of interns," she snarked.

"Mmnnnnnn, interns," you hum to yourself.

Folders delivered, she says, "I'm heading home for the night, boss." "You have a good night."

As she crosses the threshold, you call out, "No, you need to close the door, Sarah."

You could hear the fading of Sarah's heels on the floor as you studied the folders.

Interns, you had never imagined you would ever have any. To this day you don't know why you'd taken that winning scratch-off card as a sign. But it had paid off in spades.

Trump Priorities PAC was what you'd come up with after watching a dozen or so YouTube videos on super PACs. Your first mailers handed out at one of his rallies barely paid for themselves. But over time you'd learned what your audience wanted.

Bat shit crazy.

You had made at the time what was considered decent money catering to the craziness of the QAnon crowd. Of course it wasn't till after the 2020 election that the real money rolled in. That was when your business of selling crazy to crazy people grew from just you and Sarah to an organization of more than 20. And you'd grown from a super PAC vowing to bring the fight to the deep state into a lobby for a variety of conservative causes. Causes your only to happy to milk for all your worth.

Looking at the folders, you decide to skim through them.

Emily Van Hooten Age: 18 Daughter of Pastor Jeff Van Hooten. An up-and-coming anti-abortion activist.

Her picture was of her at some church function. You looked at her long red hair and wondered if she was a natural. Her eyes sparkled with an innocence that made you sit up and take notice.

Grace Gruber Age: 19 Father is a Silicon Valley tech bro. Big into AI.

Her picture was of her in a UCLA sweater standing next to her parents. Grace's long black hair was tied back in a ponytail. You'd have to talk with her, but you suspected she might not be a true believer.

"Too bad," you mutter out loud. True believers were so much easier to manipulate.

Opening up the next folder, you immediately recognize your next candidate.

Myra Busher, age 18. Her parents, whom you had met two years ago. The craziest rich people you'd ever meet. Flat earthers, climate change deniers, and far-right evangelicals.

Myra looked just like her sister Tamara, who'd interred for you two years ago.

"I wonder if she's a screamer too. "You wonder.

The next two folders were guys, but you barely bothered to look. You immediately tossed them into the garbage can. You had to make the appearance of considering male interns.

"Considered, and rejected," you murmur as you open the next folder.

Taniesha Booker, Age 18 Her father was a judge who had been on the 8th circuit since the Bush administration, Bush Sr., that is.

Judge Booker was one of those Black people who used affirmative action to get ahead and then decided to help destroy what had helped him in the first place.

You looked at Taniesha's picture, her staring with adoration at her 70-year-old father.

"Hmmmmm, I wonder how long till she's calling me daddy."

You then open the last folder.

Denise Brezhinsky, age 18. Her father and brothers worked for AIPAC.

"Strange, I wonder why she is coming here," you murmur.

You stare at the picture of her in front of the Wailing Wall.

You put her folder down, fighting back a yawn. "I'll decide tomorrow," you announce to the empty room, before reaching for the phone. Picking up the handle, you punch a button.

A moment later a female voice comes over the line, "Hello."

"Stephanie, please bring the car around," you order.

"Yes, Daddy, I'll be around by the time you get to the lobby." She replies.

Hanging up, you retrieve your coat and slip it on. Reaching up, you turn off the lights as you leave the office. Heading into the hallway, you glance at the sign on the door.

Conservative Action, your baby, your means of siphoning off money from people with more money than sense.

Ding.

You watch the elevator door slide open and enter the tapping lobby. It takes 40 seconds to travel the 20 floors to the lobby. Not wasting time, you exit the elevator as soon as the door slides open. Sure enough, there was your car waiting as you exited the building.

Stephanie hopped out of the car, all 4'6" of her. It had been threatening snow, so she was

bundled up against the cold. Hurrying up to you, she grabbed the front of your coat, kissing you. Opening your mouth, you let her tongue invade, saying hello.

After several seconds you break the kis, reminding her, "Stephanie,e I said no."

Reluctantly Stephanie lets you. "I know," she pouts, "it's just I'm feeling so horny, Daddy."

Your chest rumbles with laughter as you remind her, "I'm not the one who refused to go on the pill."

Fire flashed in her eyes as she exclaimed, "That is an afront before go..." She then stamps her foot, muttering, "Fine."

You wait for her to open the car door for you before surprising her with a swat on the butt. She jumps as you get into the back seat.

Stephanie was in your first crop of interns. Four years ago she'd been a cheerleader fresh out of high school. Her parents had arranged for her to intern with you till the fall when she was supposed to enter Oral Roberts University.

It had been such a shame when she was **** to tell her parents she was pregnant and didn't know who the father was. You never understood why they immediately cut ties and disowned her. You of course gave her a job as your full-time driver. Why wouldn't you? Her babies were yours...

Closing your eyes, you relax as Stephanie points the car towards home.