And mightily, the King of Olympus too proud Vince that was perfectly capable of composing his own speeches without hiring some dingbat speech writer raised his hand between them, swatting affectionately at the air there, and the suggestion, as if what she were saying was a tornado of bullets headed for his man-of-steel-hand. "No asshole speech writers." Said he, siiiighing because now he began to fully realize how much work this was going to be, or rather, to recall. His dad did this shit all time and he remembered poking into his office with a curious seven-year-old-nose while he was burying himself in an early grave of paperwork and protocol. Like Scrooge McDuck swimming through his gold coins, his dad would pop out of no where from the pile, snapping that DADDY IS BUSY WORKING!
"Teams and renting and all that, I guess I have to look into it. Or you could, since you like doing boring things like organizing and," He paused, compiling a crooked, cornerly grin as his glass was raised to clink with hers. It was moments like this where he was truly happy to have her as a friend. It was also moments like this that he had to sweep the fact that he was probably one of the best jerks this side of America has ever seen under the rug of his dignity, because hello, there's way worse losers out there, and Paul and Honey only teased him. He wasn't a jerk. "Seeing to it that I make more money for our empire in the -- hey, did you hear? Some asshole rented the top floor!"
Vince threw his head back, nailing that glass of wine like a blonde in the back of a limo on prom night. He swiped the side of his mouth once he'd drained the glasses contents of every red stray drop, and audibly announced aaahhh.
"But whatever. Maybe he's, " He made a mock-grimace and high-pitched voice. "Important."