An uneasy brotherhood

Mike Pence lets out an audible sigh. He loosens his tie and collapses into the overstuffed leather wingback chair that’s been like a haven to him for his decades-long political career.

“Beer, hon?” asks Karen, heading for the refrigerator.

“I’m afraid it’s worse than that, Kar” Mike replies, his eyes staring into the middle distance. “Get me the phone.”

Less than a minute later, there is a familiar gravelly voice in his ear. A world-weary, though oddly upbeat tone. “Pence! I knew this call was coming.”

Mike Pence closes his eyes, hoping against hope this voice holds the key to some unseen escape door. “McCain,” he implores, “what have I done??”