CJ nodded to Tadlow, who pulled up a photograph. It was of a pretty bog-standard old white man in a seersucker suit, nothing that would be out of place anywhere from a cattle auction to a board of trustees meeting. The only remarkable thing about him was a truly unfortunate mustache. A narrow, close-shaved lip-fungus, it was the sort of thing that would barely have passed muster in the Magnum PI days, let alone 2020.

“That is…a mustache tragedy he’s got going on there,” I said. “Like a porn star. Retired. Or a creepy uncle.”

Tadlow snickered, but CJ kept her poker face.

“It’s the kind of facial hair that says ‘don’t leave me alone with anybody,'” I continued. “A molestache.”

“Well, I don’t know about it being a porn star mustache, but President Brice has sure been screwing us,” said CJ. “Do you want the details we weren’t willing to put in an email?”

“Hit me,” I said.

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