"This is ridiculous!" shouts come from down the hall followed by the clattering of things falling down from walls and the accent tables. Joe winces slightly when he hears something shatter. "I'll sue! I'll fucking sue!"

Joe raises an eyebrow, turning his head to look at the maid prepping the bed. "Can he even sue the White House?"

The maid just shrugs.

Joe sighs softly. "Are you sure there isn't a spare bedroom somewhere here? I'd be more than happy to take it. Willing to cooperate here if he is."

"I'm afraid not," the maid says, standing up straight. Joe can't help but notice how awfully similar she looks to Donald's daughter with straight blonde hair and a square jaw. "President Trump had all the spare bedrooms converted into mini-golf courses. Just in case the weather is ever too poor to go out."

"Believe me," Joe hears Donald's voice come closer, "I'll make you all regret this!" Joe's eyes widen slightly when he sees a peek of Donald's behind—covered by his clothes, of course—while Donald shouts at whoever it is down the hall. "It's rigged! It's all fucking rigged!"

"Now, Donald, here's the deal," Joe sighs, finally catching the sweating, orange-skinned man's attention.

Donald turns to face his new co-worker, feeling his suit chafe against his skin as he shuffles to full face him. He scowls, pushing his hay-like hair out of his eyes. "What?"

"We don't need to make a big fuss," Joe says, holding a hand up palm out to calm his frustrated peer.

"'Don't need to make a b—?' I'm not sleeping with this stuttering idiot!"

Joe feels his eyes sting, but he blinks the feeling away. His throat grows a little tight too, so when he opens his mouth to speak, nothing can come out. He instead clears his throat, turning to look out the window at the White House lawn.

Today was Inauguration Day, the first Inauguration Day in the history of Inauguration Days where two presidents were sworn in. Donald and Joe. The thing is, when the election finally ended after Pennsylvania finished counting, something happened that would go down in the history books. It was a tie. They both got exactly 269 electoral votes, making the entire world stop for a minute to just sit and stare at their T.V. screens to make sure that they were seeing things right.

And from there, things started going downhill.

For starters, Joe realized that he'd be sharing the spot of president with none other than Donald Trump, his sworn enemy, his biggest bully, the guy that's made him cry himself to sleep for months on end. This was supposed to be his big victory, the way he'd prove to himself that he's more than a baby sniffer.

And now he has to share it.

And then in December, Jill sent him a text message saying:

I'm leaving you. The Spice Girls have an open spot for me.

So now he doesn't have the presidency to himself, but he doesn't even have his wife.

It was mild consolation when he realized that his own enemy/co-President is now in a similar situation as well. Melania left him as well—she got fed up having to ground him every week for catching him sneaking into his daughter's bedroom. She took Barron with her, and now they spend their days...

Well, Joe knows exactly what they're doing. They're helping him build Alt-Country and round up the Alt-Army.

Because after Joe was done moping, after he was done crying about the result of the election, he decided that enough was enough. He'd put on a cooperative front, slap on a smile, and pretend he was willing to work with Donald for the good of the country...

All while stirring a revolution in secrecy.

If all goes well, by the time Donald's birthday rolls around, the Alt-Army should be ready to attack the White House and take over. It'll be the end of an era and the beginning of a new one: the era of the United States of Alts.

Joe snaps out of his daydream (consisting primarily of girls with crazy but cool hair with Hello Kitty says ACAB profile pictures beating up Donald) when he hears a loud scratching noise.

"What's going on?" he frowns, looking at where Donald is dragging a knife through the floor of their now shared bedroom.

"This," Donald pants, having a hard time moving bent over like that, what with his gut getting in the way, "is a line."

"I see that."

"And that side—" he points rather violently with his knife at one half of the room, "—is yours. This side—" he points at the side that has the entire fucking bed and the door to the bathroom, "—is mine. Don't cross it. I have a knife and guns."

"Now, Donald," Joe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And don't call me Donald," Donald huffs, his beautiful, glistening orange skin shining underneath the white lights above, a small bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face and dampening his baby hairs. "You don't get that privilege. It's Mr. President to you."

"Well then I'm Mr. President to you as well," Joe says challengingly, raising an eyebrow to Donald as if saying, go on, try me, see where it gets you.

Donald bares his teeth, a venomous glare in his eyes. He looks like he wants to pounce on Joe with that knife and tear his clothes apart with it, or maybe slice off some of Joe's luscious silver locks for that custom wig he's been thinking about investing in, but then he realizes that that would mean crossing the demarcation he's just carved into the floor.

Donald typically doesn't have any moral or ethical internal battle when it comes to going back on his word or just being a general hypocrite (e.g. when he used to be coherent and intelligent and said he was pro-life versus now), but he really doesn't want to be any closer to the tall, sexy, Joe Biden standing on the other side of the room. He fears that...well, he fears that the lust-filled monster inside of him will grow if he steps even an inch closer.

"Fine," he concedes with a snarl, a great droplet or two of spit flying out of his mouth and landing on Joe's lip.

Joe instinctively pokes his tongue out to lick it up, at first recoiling, but then forcing himself to muffle a groan at the taste of the dinner Donald had not too long ago—Big Macs, Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, and a chocolate shake. He licks his lips again, eager for more, but sadly, he's already ingested all of Donald's spit that could be found outside of Donald's mouth.

Donald's mouth...Donald's spit in Donald's mouth...Joe can feel his own mouth salivating as he stares at Donald's, noticing a tiny crumb at the corner of his lip, or maybe that's just crusty skin or something. Whatever it is, it's driving him wild.

"Fine," Donald repeats again, this time quieter, a conflicted storm in his blue eyes. "You can call me Trump. I'll call you Biden. And I stay on this side of the room, you stay on that. Deal?"

Joe wants to argue, but he decides it may be better not too. "Deal."