As the now winded president crawled backward from Putin’s chair, he took a moment to wipe his chin with the red silk tie, still draped around his neck. He grasped the table to steady himself as he rose to his feet again, turning and taking a moment regain composure. Turning back, he was greeted by the kind of vexing stare that he’d grown used to from the Russian oligarch. There was a moment of silent tension in the room. Even JD, still grasping himself in the far corner, refused to move for fear of disrupting the tension. Slowly Vladimir’s hand rose. A bead of sweat broke free and streamed around the president’s quietly quivering gullet. Donald could see Putin’s hand rotating and but he already knew the verdict. The stalwart Russian held his thumb down longer than necessary, in the Russian way. The Washington aides started backing out of the room as secret service radios began buzzing on the tarmac. “Fire up the bird,” an agent whispered to the flight crew. “We’re not staying.”

Never forget that it was Obama that appointed this fascist thumb.