Max— his Max, not the famous model Regina Maximeveus— gives the famous model Regina Maximeveus a once-over before very pointedly asking, "A little pudgy for a hare, aren't you?"

Regina raises her eyebrows. "A little bodyshaming for a nudist with an outie."

They stare at each other for a moment, their ears doing something menacing at each other while Sam and Fufu start rolling up sleeves and removing earrings, respectively. Max taps Sam on the forearm and says, "Sam, I've found my new nemesis."

"That's great, little buddy! It's been so long since you eviscerated the last one, I was starting to get worried about providing enrichment. Want me and Madame Fufu to make a smoke cloud for the two of you to brawl in?"

Regina snorts. She leans against Fufu's arm and sneers right into her ear, "At least she's got good taste in men."

"THAT'S IT—"

As Max launches herself at a bristling rodent half-again her size, Sam sidles up to Fufu with his lighter already extended. "Any chance I could bum one of those fancy French cancer sticks off you? I quit smoking when I had Sam Junior." The dame leans in, the end of her cigarette hitting flame as she flicks open a pack and offers it to him. "Gee, thanks!" Sam says, taking it and lighting his own. Fufu looks pained at Sam's lack of cool composure, but a French femme fatale and a knockoff American noir detective have entirely different degrees of chainsmoking, and Sam's not about to try and keep up on a smoke break with a woman who still technically works retail. Besides, if he makes it look too cool, he and Max'll lose all their PSA funding. "You and Reggie ever think about kids?" Sam asks between puffs as the knuckledusters continue knuckledusting in their ever-growing cloud.

Fufu smiles warmly at her wife while digging through her purse for a wallet. "It was zhe first topic we ever agreed on. We fostered togezher for a while– somezhing to do while we were engaged– and zhat is 'ow we 'ave our sweet garçonnet. 'E is, ah, 'ow you say—" she flicks her wallet open and thirty-eight (minimum) pictures all fold out of the same tiny, shiny pink olm in various states of dress and sliminess— "just darlink," Fufu finishes, slipping into ostensible Russian. Sam does a quick re-count and finds forty-one. The adorable candid shot of his first crawl is going straight into the box where Sam keeps the memories of his figure in gold sequin shorts, whatever happened at Wally Marn's house in sophomore year of high school, and the Soda Poppers. Confidentially, Fufu whispers, "'E loves to get, ah." She frowns, and much less confidentially calls to the violent tumbleweed of their– well, Sam supposes partners is accurate, but it sort of gives off the wrong impression that the Maxes are the same kind of partners, and if Sam has to think about "Max" and "wife" in the same sentence for too long, he might ruin his chance to do any cool smoke tricks later. "Mon lapin! Zhat word you use for levage, what is it?"

Regina Maximeveus, the most sought-after model in the continental US, leans out of the former-president's throttling grip to shout back, "Uppies!" before diving back into the uncaged match, teeth first.

"Uppies," Fufu repeats.

It's disgusting how in love she is. Sam doesn't say that and instead squints at one of the far-too-many pictures currently being held under his nose. In one of them, he olm is layered around Fufu's shoudlers like the world's skinniest and most useless scarf while Regina sits in her lap, the slimy tail across her lap, all of them beaming. It's cute and only mildly disturbing. "What a little angel," Sam says, since he's had a lot of practice with that sort of reaction when visiting Max's family after any extended period of time, "what's his name?"

Fufu stubs out her down-to-the-filter cigarette and starts taking out another. Sweet marine science layered into sharp implements of comedy and cultural importance all dressed up under the guise of a cartoon sitcom, no wonder her perfume's so strong if that's how much this poodle smokes! "Jean," she says lovingly, rubbing one thumb over Jean's tiny and horrifying lack of a face.

"That where you found him?" Sam asks, holding his lighter out.

Fufu side-eyes him as she lights up. "Careful, Monsieur Sam. We are not smoking nearly enough for two dust clouds, I zhink."