RF Kennard #1

The air inside the sauna was heavy with the scent of cedar and sweat, a cocoon of heat that made the pores sing and muscles hum with tension. Robert F. Kennard lounged on the uppermost bench, a towel draped casually over his hips, his bronzed and chiseled physique a monument to decades of athletic discipline. In his hands was a folded newspaper, the ink smudging slightly from the dampness in the room.

A headline caught his eye: Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Reveals 15 Years of Heroin Addiction, Brain Worm Diagnosis, and a Bear Cub in Central Park. He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that drew the attention of the handful of others sharing the sauna.

“This world is insane,” he declared to no one in particular. “A brain worm? A bear cub in Central Park? And this guy thought he could run for president. Humans never cease to amaze me.”

A petite figure on the bench across from him stirred. The girl—young, maybe mid-twenties, with a pink sports bra and matching shorts clinging to her like a second skin—had been stealing glances at Robert ever since she entered. Her blonde ponytail bobbed slightly as she leaned forward, her expression a mixture of curiosity and boldness.

“You seem pretty amused,” she said, her voice lilting with intrigue. “What’s so funny?”

Robert looked up, his piercing blue eyes locking onto hers. He flashed a confident smile, the kind he knew could disarm most women.

“Oh, just the absurdity of it all,” he said, waving the newspaper. “Heroin, brain worms, political ambitions—it’s like a soap opera. But I guess I shouldn’t judge. The guy’s human, after all.”

She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made Robert sit up straighter. “And what about you? What’s your story?”

“Well,” Robert said, setting the newspaper aside, “I just got appointed head of Health and Inhuman Services by President-Elect Donold J. Grump. Big job. Big plans. Gonna revolutionize how Americans think about health.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Really? How?”

“Exercise,” Robert said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “Old-school calisthenics. Jump rope, push-ups, running drills—the stuff that kept our grandparents fit. I’m starting exercise clubs across the country, and everyone’s gonna wear these retro vests. Picture this: a design inspired by Hitler Youth Sports outfits, but updated with Grump’s smiling face. A modern twist.”

The girl’s lips parted in astonishment, and Robert, mistaking her reaction for admiration, leaned closer. “We’re talking a national movement here. Trump Youth Sports. It’s gonna be huge.”

She smiled faintly, tilting her head. “And... are you married?”

The question caught him off guard. His hand instinctively brushed against the gold band on his finger. “Ah, yeah. Cheryl and I, we have an understanding. She’s out of town right now, filming some TV show—Curb Your Happiness, ever heard of it? Anyway, she won’t be back for weeks.”

The girl’s smile widened, and she leaned back against the wall, her confidence palpable. “So... what are you doing later?”

Robert’s grin grew wolfish. “Why don’t we go somewhere more private? My place isn’t far. Pool’s heated.”

She nodded. “Sounds fun.”

A Revelatory Swim

The swim had been invigorating. Robert watched as the girl—lithe and graceful in the water—moved effortlessly through the pool, her pink bikini clinging to her like a second skin. He felt a pang of pride, thinking about how easily he’d charmed her.

Now, an hour later, they lay sprawled on his king-sized bed, the sheets rumpled, the air tinged with the faint aroma of chlorine and sweat. She held a cigarette between her fingers, her blonde hair fanned out against the pillow, while Robert propped himself up on one elbow, gazing at her with smug satisfaction.

“So,” he said, exhaling a long breath. “I just realized—I don’t even know your name.”

She turned her head slowly, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Insania,” she said.

Robert’s heart skipped a beat. The name rang a bell, a loud, clanging alarm. He froze, his mind racing as he connected the dots.

“Insania,” he repeated, his voice trembling slightly. “As in... Insania Grump?”

She nodded, her lips curling into a playful smile. “That’s me. President-Elect Grump’s daughter.”

Robert bolted upright, his face a mask of panic. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I just... I just slept with the President-Elect’s daughter.”

Insania laughed, a low, throaty sound. She reached out and placed a hand on his chest, her touch both calming and unnerving. “Relax, Robert. I’m not gonna tell anyone. I’m very... liberated when it comes to these things.”

“But—your dad,” Robert stammered. “He’ll kill me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Insania said, rolling her eyes. “And besides, my name isn’t a reflection of my mental state. Or is it?” She smirked, her tone teasing but her words laced with ambiguity.

Robert swallowed hard, his pulse racing. He glanced at her, searching for reassurance, but her enigmatic smile only deepened his unease.

The world suddenly felt a lot more insane.