Foreman grill. Underneath he’s stacked a half empty case of James Brooks on top of a case of Alpo.

HARRY:(cont.) (in a whining, mocking voice) ‘They violated my rights.’ Didn’t worry about the rights of the voters whose ballots he sold down the river to Russia. (In a whinier, even shriller mocking voice) ‘Executive privilege.’ Know who he sounds like? That South African ambassador Riggs and Murtaugh took down by demolishing his ocean-front mansion. ‘Diplomatic Immunity!’ (mumbling to himself) Never saw me pulling that flashy stuff. One shot to the forehead and let the Captain apologize to the Afrikanzers.
Harry pours two fingers in a dusty, water-stained glass and carries the glass and bottle back to the recliner. He put the glass on the Obama Chair seat.
‘Executive privilege.’ Know who he sounds like? That South African ambassador Riggs and Murtaugh took down by demolishing his ocean-front mansion. ‘Diplomatic Immunity!’
http://www.repfiles.us/win/video-leverkusen-vs-borussia-dortmund-live-on-tv01.html
http://www.repfiles.us/win/video-leverkusen-vs-borussia-dortmund-live-on-tv02.html
http://www.repfiles.us/win/video-leverkusen-vs-borussia-dortmund-live-on-tv03.html
http://www.repfiles.us/win/video-leverkusen-vs-borussia-dortmund-live-on-tv04.html
http://www.repfiles.us/win/video-leverkusen-vs-borussia-dortmund-live-on-tv05.html
HARRY:(cont.) There you go, buddy. (under breath) And everybody thinks I’m a racist.
Harry settles into his chair and clicks the volume on his remote.
HARRY:(cont.) Good thing they haven’t abandoned the NRA. If the elephants did that, I’d take ’em out myself. I still have my honorary badge and my .44 Mag. I might be stuck in a one-room apartment eating dog food from a can, but I can still draw quick and shoot straight.
Harry aims the Magnum at the image of Donald Trump flapping his gums to reporters without answering a single question. He pulls back the hammer.
HARRY: Go ahead, Mr. President. Fire that Tweet.
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Wry noir author Phillip T. Stephens wrote Cigerets, Guns & Beer, Raising Hell, and the Indie Book Award winning Seeing Jesus. Follow him @stephens_pt.
HARRY CALLAHAN watches TV from his rat-chewed faux Naugahyde recliner with a bottle of James Brooks Scotch at his side. Uncorked with no glass. The scent of roadkill and rubbing alcohol from the bottle permeates the room. The only decorations in the apartment are photographs of Scorpio, Neil Briggs, Bobby Maxwell, the rapist named only Mick, and Harlan Rook. Since Harry painted them during anger management therapy, no one recognizes the faces but him.
The Obama chair sits next to the window of his 300 square foot one-room apartment which is all he can afford on retirement pay since he still owes thousands of dollars in legal settlements to the city and citizens of San Francisco.
Who cares if Trump’s guiltier than a dog rooting through a litter box with shit on his mouth? Yeh, you know the orange Pekingese going “yap, yap, yap” like he’s so tough with his Stay Puft Marshmallow belly and toupee that flaps in the wind like his lips flap when he’s talking.
Harry confiscated the chair when he was stalking the impersonator Eastwood at the 2012 GOP convention. It’s the perfect chair for sitting at the open window at three in the morning and shooting rats until the neighbors complain. He imagines the black vinyl seat is Obama’s face.
Only now he’s watching Trump’s impeachment trial and pulling the trigger of his 44 Remington Magnum, a gun he unloads before he watches TV because this is his seventieth TV since he retired. As he always does with cable news, he shares his opinion with the only person he values. Obama Chair.
HARRY: All those years taking down scumbags and the liberals get them off by whining about rights, process and procedure. Who cares if Trumo’s guiltier than a dog rooting through a litter box with shit on his mouth? Yeh, you know the orange Pekingese going “yap, yap, yap” like he’s so tough with his Stay Puft Marshmallow belly and toupee that flaps in the wind like his lips flap when he’s talking.
The Obama Chair sits in silence next to the window with a fly on its vinyl seam. The sun washes across the seat. He’s not much of a talker, but that’s okay because Harry’s not much of a listener. Harry flaps his fingers like wagging lips.
HARRY:(cont.) Listen to these disgraceful whiners. You’d think they’re mob lawyers for the Mafioso who orders a hit on the woman who’s about to rat him out. You didn’t read his rights, didn’t give him a phone call, didn’t get a warrant to search the car for the bullet-ridden body clearly visible through the rear window.