6:00 am, Thursday
The CD player in John McCain's alarm clock comes alive with "Ride of the Valkyries."
McCain stands, trips over the clock's power cord, and crumples to the floor, fumbling on the way down for an ejection handle that only exists in the nightmare from which he has emerged.
"Ghostrider, this is Maverick, I'm hit, I'm down!" he exclaims, to no one there.
"Again."
7:00 am
McCain meets Lindsey Graham and Kelly Ayotte for breakfast in the Senate Dining Room. The trio joins hands as McCain offers a prayer.
"Heavenly Father, grant us thy boundless rage. I grow weary doing this every day, Lord, and could really use some more fuel in the tank. We thank you for this sustenance before us, which I will choke down with my blood pressure medicine and prune juice. These and other indignities have I suffered in service of you, the one true Lord, in Jesus' name, amen."
7:30 am
Exiting the Senate Dining Room, McCain is met by 100 reporters shouting questions, microphones and cameras shoved in his face.
"Say a thing!" one shouts.
"Make words happen!" another is heard to exclaim.
McCain stops and faces the media swarm. "Today's news, like yesterday's news, is further confirmation that this president is feckless and weak, and that his policy of retreat from the world stage has undermined America's standing in the world. An American president needs to punch more people and more things, and make his face go like this."
McCain furrows his brow and clenches his jaw.
"Furthermore," he continues, "He should be of pale, almost ashen complexion, and a former POW of roughly my height and build. This president is none of those things. He is a disgrace. You can print that."
8:30 am
McCain sits at his desk playing with a Fisher-Price "My Little White House" set as his staff files in for his morning briefing.
One staffer presents a summary on a report ordered by the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs entitled, "The Problem of Poverty in Tribal Communities."
McCain sweeps the report onto the floor, bolts upright, and pounds on his desk. "Why have these people not been armed?!"
There is an uncomfortable silence. The staffer clears his throat nervously. "Senator, respectfully... how would arming people lift them out of poverty?"
"You're fired. Beat it, taffypants." The dismissed staffer hurries out of the room. "Anybody else want to take a crack?"
A second staffer screws up his courage. "Because the president is weak and feckless?"
"You're goddamn right he is. Take this letter. Dear President Shithead," McCain begins, as an intern scrawls furiously on a yellow note pad. "What a joke you are. These Indian people don't have two wampums to rub together and you're dithering. I want C-130s dropping heavy armaments into every Indian reservation in this great nation by sundown tonight or by God I am going on Morning Joe tomorrow and ripping you yet another new asshole. And another thing. Why haven't you called Putin a 'hairy smelly ball sack' yet as I suggested? Oh, right, it's because he's your BFF. Fuck you very much, The Honorable Senator John McCain."
11:17 am
McCain is being custom fitted for a new suit that he will wear to the State of the Union address, and making small talk with the tailor.
"It's good to see you again, Antonio."
"It is good to see you as well, Senator."
"What's new on the home front?"
"Oh, you know, more of the same. Putting three kids through college. Trying to keep the wife from spending all of the money."
McCain puts a hand on the tailor's shoulder as he chalks the cuff of his new pants. "Let me ask you something, Antonio. Are you well armed?"
The tailor glances up, confused. "I'm sorry?" he sputters.
"I know people. I can get you as many 50-caliber Vulcan cannons as you want. You can reduce a moose to a pink mist from a half mile with one of these puppies. I can get some for your kids as well, should they need protection from terrorists on campus. With enough notice I can have them dropped out from the belly of a drone into your backyard. Just say the word. Grenades, too. Whatever you need."
"Oh... okay. I will, uh, let you know." the tailor nods, confusion playing across his features. "Slight break in these cuffs as usual, Senator?"
2:12 pm
While he drafts a floor speech on the Iron Dome funding bill, McCain's poly-com announces he has an incoming call from former running mate Sarah Palin.
"Goddammit. Take a message," McCain barks.
The voice on the intercom pauses. "She says she has left 47 messages and that she is going to hold her breath until you take the call, Senator."
McCain takes a deep breath, picks up his handset, and opens the line.
"Sarah, so nice to hear from you... Well, I've been busy... No, I haven't subscribed to your network yet, but I can assure you that I will, as soon as I have the time... No, Sarah, I can't have Stephen Colbert assassinated... Because, Sarah, that would be against the law even for me and he has a first amendment right to-... No, that's the second amendment. The first relates to freedom of speech and religion-... I agree that's a good one too... Yes, I read the hit piece in the Atlantic and no I can't assassinate them either... Okay. Yes. Okay. All right. You do that. Buh-bye."
4:45 pm
McCain is huddled in his office with Alan Greenspan, who tutors him once a month on the economy (a program McCain put in place after mishandling economic questions during his 2008 presidential bid).
"Now, then, picking up where we left off last time, Senator," Greenspan begins, "when demand goes up, price goes..."
"Haywire," McCain answers. "Totally fucking haywire."
"Up. It goes up."
McCain presses the contacts of a 9-volt battery to his tongue, seemingly punishing himself for the wrong answer. It is obviously painful. Greenspan continues.
"Name the most significant risk of a monetary stimulus program."
"I know this one. I know this one. Dammit."
"It begins with an 'I,' Senator."
"Insanity! Howling mad insanity!"
"The correct answer is inflation, I'm afraid."
McCain holds the battery terminals to his tongue again, this time even longer, until his leg begins to twitch. Greenspan looks concerned for his well being.
"Should we take the rest of the afternoon off? It's lovely outside."
"No, no, no. I will finish what I start. Next question."
"Very well, then. When suppliers collude or conspire to keep prices artificially high, those suppliers are collectively called ...?"
"A cartel!"
"Correct!"
McCain presses the battery to his tongue again. His leg immediately begins to twitch.
Greenspan recoils in horror. "Senator, what are you doing?! You got that one right!"
"I know, but it thasthes good!"
5:58 pm
McCain and Lindsey Graham hold a press conference to denounce the CIA for its newly-admitted spying campaign on the Senate Intelligence Committee for its reporting on alleged acts of torture.
"This is out of a movie," McCain said. "I really never believed that an agency of government, particularly with the capabilities of the CIA would carry out such actions, which is clearly unconstitutional. In some ways it's worse than criminal."
"It's doubleplus criminal," inserts Graham.
"And that's why I am calling for President Obama to authorize the arming of the Senate Intelligence Committee. The details of my proposal call for each member of the SIC to receive an AR-15 rifle, a Mossberg street sweeper shotgun, a shoulder fired surface to air missile launcher, nunchucks, mace, and nunchuks that emit mace. Stop mincing, Mr. President. These aggressions cannot stand."
"What he said," Graham punctuates, dropping his microphone to the floor.
10:00 pm
After a quiet dinner of gin-spiked fiber shakes with his wife Cindy, Senator McCain flosses with concertina wire, brushes his teeth with napalm, and slides into bed with Blackwater, his improvised explosive teddy bear.
"Love you, sweetheart," coos McCain as he switches the light off. "Love you, too, Cindy."