John Bolton and Peter King sat in a dimly-lit, cigarette smoke-filled bar, both of them sipping on vodkas and listening to awful country music in the background. A woman, intentionally showing as much cleavage as possible, walked by, trying to get one of them to buy her a drink. King started to raise his hand to get the bartender’s attention, but Bolton caught it and lowered it.
“Don’t bother,” Bolton said. “She wants your money, not your dick.”
King gave a half-hearted shrug and kept at his drink.