Uncle Sam sweet talks his imaginary girlfriend and it starts simple enough, innocent even, somewhat familiar. Grilling pork chops in his backyard, he watches Solange pretend to listen to him spout politics while following a dragonfly. Washington DC in the summertime is beautiful. Her sundress sticks to her skin, dark spots of sweat pooling in places. He gets to the point, which is sex—always sex. "I'm lovin' it, girl, the way that hugs your milky chocolate hips."

            Solange smiles, walks barefoot through the fresh cut grass and nibbles at his long flap of ear, never minding the white tuft sprouting from its sun-spotted canal. "Every day deserves a kiss, Daddy." He loves when she calls him that. "Uncle" always makes him feel emasculated, for some reason. Perhaps this was why he broke up with Beyoncé a week prior—she insisted on proper titles, that he always refer to her as Queen. But whatever. She was getting too old for him anyway. When you use your imagination, you can really have your pick of the litter. Solange suited him just fine.

            "Have it your way." She lifts her floral hem, blossoming with its damp purples and yellows. He strokes his odd little goatee, reminiscent of a devil's, as his suspicion is confirmed—no panties. She plants her hands against the hot iron of the Weber, ass out, cicadas hooting, hollering. Her dutiful reply: "Well, you gonna spank me with that oven mitt or what, Daddy?"

            Sam's therapist seems to think him and his imaginary lovers have developed a bit of a codependency problem, but Sam puts this out of his mind for the time being. The backyard smells of lighter fluid and sizzling pig. "Have you ever had a bad time in Levi's?" he asks her.

            "No, but we can have a better time when they're off." He unzips his straight leg 501s, light stonewash, dad jeans all the way. He flops his average Joe out, that founding father. "The other white meat," she giggles.

            Sam paddles her cheeks red, thankful he doesn't have to introduce her to mother if he doesn't want to. Bored and slightly hungry, Solange grabs a Pringles can—the container that begs to be fisted—from off the patio table. "Once you pop…"

            "…You can't stop." He laughs easy. Such a good girl. It's not difficult to finish each other's sentences when one is a figment of your capitalistic fantasy. A neighbor peers over the privacy fence. It looks as if Sam's shooing flies, but naked with a hard-on. The neighbor goes inside, makes a list of what to get at Lowe's tomorrow. "Let's build something together," thinks Sam. "But what?"

            Her mouth is filmy with a thin patch of grease. "I've got a better question, mister: Do you… yahoo?" This is their code for anal. She makes Roger Rabbit faces, yodels a yahoo, clenches tight. It doesn't take long for him to finish, but any healthy relationship is a two-way street. "Good to the last drop, Papi. Now eat fresh!"

            Solange grabs his hairy nape, pulling his face into her fleshy wet crotch. She thinks of her womanhood as the snack that smiles back. She licks her lips—the thought of all that cheddar. He does the same.

            Inside, she sings her allegiance by making lemonade from frozen concentrate to go with dinner. "Put good in, get good out," says the cardboard cylinder. She wonders, but doesn't dawdle on the thought too long. "You were wonderful, Sammy." He's washing dishes at the sink, a mild detergency swapping today's gender roles. "Oh please. It's so easy a caveman could do it. Speaking of which, promise me you'll be ready for the man cave on Saturday." She nods her head slowly—inside she shudders.

            He's mentioned this to her, as soon as she entered his brain. He likes to give all his imaginary lovers a little time to digest. Sam's man cave isn't like any man cave you've known. It's a sex dungeon branded solely for mascots of the American dollar. They live in his basement by the hundreds, surviving off their own blood and juices and specialty ink of the US Mint. You'd recognize plenty of them: Purple Wallace, Lady Liberty, Bill O'Reilly, Wendy, Kool-Aid Man, Spuds MacKenzie, Judge Judy, the Red M&M. The list borders on endless. Before Solange knows it, she's sitting Indian-style, naked on the cold cobblestone. Saturday is here.

            They file in by the hundreds with leather collars latched around their necks. Behind a puff of Kool menthol, Spuds quips that he's used to it. They begin the orgy by chanting a curious version of 50 Cent's 2003 hit, where P-I-M-P becomes W-H-O-R-E.

            Suddenly, the Slim Jim guy starts screaming for folks to snap into him. Judy cracks a whip, slaps her big black rubber gavel against a wall. Wendy straps Wallace onto her fiery crotch and starts pegging O'Reilly like a bitch. Spuds humps Kool-Aid's leg—he spills his purple drank everywhere. The mutt laps it up from the basement floor in earnest. Lady Liberty lights her torch, starts dripping wax on Wendy's freckled nipples.

            Solange is horrified and looks to Daddy Sam for comfort. Nothing doing: he's in the opposite corner, furiously tugging at his Washington Monument.

            Jared Fogle pops in, sees the median age is about 47, and immediately dips. Betty Crocker, donning a black latex apron, stumbles in drunk on sherry with her primary, the Pilsbury Doughboy, and her secondary, the Energizer Bunny.

            "Got milk? Got milk, you mother fuckers??" She showers the crowd with a carton of buttermilk. "Obey your thirst!" Doughboy giggles spritely as Bunny works his magic thrumming drum on his flabby loins. Betty forces Wallace and Koolaid into Bill's mouth. "Betcha can't eat just one, Billy, but let's see how many, just for fun." His blood red lipstick smears across his rugose jowls. Red joins the party, coaxing him on: "Melts in your mouth, not in your hands, isn't that right William?"

            Sir Purr of the Carolina Panthers, dressed in a UPS uniform, politely asks Tiger Woods "What can brown do for you?"

            "Just do it," Tiger pleads. And Sir Purr does. He does it hard.

            Flo from Progressive specializes in damage control and salvages any leftover spunk. After getting her fill, she takes Judy by the robe and guides her Chanel No. 5-stinking lips into her ass. Judy, in between breaths, finally makes out Flo's tramp stamp… PetCo. She looks up at Flo with questioning eyes. "Where the pets go, Judy. Where the pets go." Judy's approval is a suffocating one. After they're both satisfied, they light up a Virginia Slim to share. Judy hands the smoke to Flo. "You've come a long way, baby," she says. With a gnarled, genuine love Flo gushes, "Kid tested. Mother approved."

            In the throes of this fuckfest, nobody sees Solange because she's invisible, a fleck, quivering her thumbs over her iPhone's glow in a chilly corner of the stony basement. In a pitiful effort to escape, she's singing, tweet by tweet, the most beautiful version of "My Country, 'Tis of Thee" at Detective Benson, SVU—her pixelated, pathetic cry for help. Benson tweets back:

Henry Goldkamp lives in Saint Louis / New Orleans / the spirit of gratitude. He enjoys spreading it around / realizing how damn lucky this is. He has recent work in Mudfish / Hoot / Blood Orange Review / dryland / b(OINK) / Sierra Nevada Review / Pretty Owl / Foliate Oak / plenty others. His public art has been covered by Time / NPR / more. To read up on / contemporarily stalk Henry, google "henry goldkamp" / 'gram @wthstl with a fresh drink of your choice.