New York, New York

Rottemeyer glared at the television, furious. "That bitch! That cunt! That miserable wetback twat! How dare she be magnanimous to me? How dare she?"

Feldman merely shrugged. It seemed like a pretty good deal to him.

The President stood and began to pace the room. "Killed her brother," she mimicked. "Killed her son. Killed her illiterate fucking husband, did I? When I think about what that bitch cost me . . ."

She turned a cold, harsh gaze onto Feldman, one so cold and harsh he actually shivered. "Fine. Tell the chairman I'll go speak to this . . . damned . . . treacherous . . . convention."

Once again, Rottemeyer glared at the television screen where Juanita was receiving the ovation that in her world was rightfully due only to herself.

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