Goldstein pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it looked like he was trying to erase his own face. He exhaled sharply, the kind of sigh a man makes when he realizes he’s been tasked with explaining basic human decency to a couple of feral raccoons in suits. "An apology letter? Really? That’s your solution? You two international incidents in human form just torched a decade of diplomacy, and you think you can Hallmark-card your way out of it? What are we gonna do, put little stickers on it? ‘Sorry for almost starting a war—hope this scented stationery makes up for it!’"

"Let me tell you something, you overcooked meatballs—if you two had just insulted a world leader, sure, fine. I can work with that. You don’t like the guy, he doesn’t like you, that’s politics. But you didn’t just insult him. Oh no. You mocked his accent, made fun of his wife’s plastic surgery, and somehow managed to imply that his entire country is a failed experiment in nation-building. You practically challenged the guy to a knife fight in a bar bathroom. And now you wanna send him a letter?"

"Sure. Yeah. Let’s send him a letter. But let’s really sell it. We’ll use glitter pens and draw little hearts over the I’s. Maybe even throw in an Applebee’s gift card. That’ll fix everything! You know what, why stop there? Let’s add a mix tape. ‘Sorry we called you a backwater despot—please enjoy these smooth hits of the ’80s.’ That should really smooth things over."

"You know, I used to think there were no stupid questions, but congratulations—you two have proven me wrong."