Chief

Interior. A darkened bar early afternoon, covered with darkly aged, well-oiled hardwoods. The end of the bar by a window overlooking the Mall is empty, but for a tv-screen overhead.

A tired looking MAN in his early sixties, dressed in professional attire and wearing thick glasses comes in and sits down at the bar, directly under the tv screen.

ON TV SCREEN: President Trump speaking, microphones thrust in front of his face — a venerable edifice in the background.

“What do I think of the decision? Are you frickin’ kidding me? Of course I think corporations should have human rights! Shouldn’t everybody?”
The MAN tries in vain to leaf through a newspaper, puts it down. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

WAITRESS arrives.

WAITRESS: “What’ll it be, chief?”

The MAN polishes his glasses, puts them back on, looks up at her as she puts down a double gin on the rocks.

MAN: (laughing with his eyes) “Business as usual…”

WAITRESS: “One pastrami on rye, comin’ up! And — ”

MAN: (taking a drink) “ — Hold the mustard.”

WAITRESS: “Sure thing.”