Minus Forty-Five

Tuesday, November 3, 2020

Mar-a-Lago

Donald Trump is glued to the television screen, FOX reflecting in his squinted eyes. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Nervous, Donald Trump, Jr. looks at his father. “This is getting a little too close for comfort.” He looks at his watch. 9 PM ET. “There’s still two hours until the west coast polls close. And all those mail-in ballots.”

Trump reaches for his phone, ready to fire off another tweet. “This is definitely Hillary’s fault.”

His son taps him on the arm. “Not yet, dad. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

Incredulous, Trump looks down at his son’s fingers. He’s not used to being touched. “Why don’t you get the fuck out of here, you little twat?”

Junior throws up his hands, sighing as he heads out the door to enjoy an evening at the resort. “Whatever. Do what you want. We’re done.” I could have you killed tonight, you stupid fuckstick.

Trump types furiously, squint-staring at the screen, simultaneously yelling after Junior, never looking up. “This bullshit isn’t supposed to happen! Eight years. That was the agreement. Fucking wrinkled dyke whore and her stupid fucking family. Especially that ass-faced daughter of hers. You know she’s the one doing most of the shady shit at CGI.”

Nobody’s listening. Nobody’s there. The television glares. The tweet tweets. He’s already forgotten what he tweeted.

Wilmington, DE

Joe and Jill Biden are watching CNN intently, occasionally stealing glances at each other.

Jill steals a glance at her watch. 7 PM ET.

A grin washes over Joe’s face as he notices Jill’s stolen glance. “Can this really be happening?”

Jill looks at Joe, not willing to believe what she’s seeing unfold. “There’s still a lot of time before this thing can be called. I’m not sure we should get excited. What the hell is happening with all these third party votes?”

Joe clasps Jill’s left hand in his hands, smiling. “I want to stay optimistic. No spoilers this time. Trump is starting to fall way behind. Let’s stay calm, and try to enjoy the process. We’re running a clean election here.”

Jill smiles back, nodding in agreement.

“Oh! I should FaceTime with Cyndy!” Joe pulls out his iPad.

Before he can switch it on, Jill lightly touches his wrist. “Maybe you should just call. That’s probably more secure.”

Greenville, SC

8 PM ET.

Jo Jorgensen is listening to the radio and scouring the web, refreshing her browser every few minutes to update results. She’s in her bathrobe, sipping her third glass of wine.

Maine goes first.

Jo leans in, reading closely. “Seriously? We got Maine? What the fuck?”

She reaches for her cell phone, dialing Cohen. She quickly hangs up before it has a chance to ring.

She looks at the screen again. “West Virginia. Kentucky. Arkansas. Fucking ARKANSAS?”

Her phone rings. It’s Cohen.

She lets it ring a few times, then answers. “Hello, Jeremy.”

Cohen cringes. Bitch, you know I hate it when you call me my real name. “I guess you’re seeing what I’m seeing, yeah, Jo?”

Jo is ebullient. “Hell YES! We took FOUR STATES so far!!” With an audible sip of wine, her tone shifts. “But, Jeremy, what’s with all these hillbilly states actually going Libertarian? What did we do? And why haven’t any normal states gone for us?”

Spike puts his hand to his face, pulling down, shaking slightly side to side, exhaling. “Seriously? You’re not just happy that even ONE state actually got the Libertarian vote? This is amazing! We’re going to get twenty-three fucking electoral votes. Maybe more.”

Jo giggles, on the verge of incoherence.

Spike sighs again. “I’m hanging up now. Turn off your phone, finish that bottle and go to bed. I’ll call you in the morning.” He hangs up the phone, staring at the results on his monitor. How the fuck did we pull this off? And who paid for it?

Syracuse, NY

10 PM ET.

Howie picks up the phone and calls Angela.

She picks up after the first ring. “I was just getting ready to call you.”

Howie stares at the warm digital flicker of CNN. “Is it just me, or does it look like we’re actually taking three states?” An incredulous grin widens on his face.

Angela takes a minute to answer, thinking. Silence on the line.

Howie inhales to speak, but Angela cuts him off. “I didn’t think we’d get any, Howie. And I didn’t want to be optimistic and jinx anything by saying we’d take even one. But, honestly, Colorado makes sense. And Minnesota, well, I can see how that would happen. It’s a stretch—”

Howie jumps in with a chuckle. “But apparently not too much of a stretch!”

You always cut me off, you jackass. Angela flings her phone onto the sofa cushion, then picks it back up. “Well, sure. But what about North Dakota? Yeah, Standing Rock, I get that, but the sheer numbers just don’t add up. The money behind North Dakota is pure destruction. How the fuck did we pull that one off?”

Howie doesn’t respond immediately. “I can’t think of anything. Maybe the tides are finally turning? Maybe we just got lucky?”

Angela shakes her head. “Are you paying attention, Howie? We’ve got twenty-two goddamn electoral votes. And you must have noticed that the Libs got twenty-three across four states so far. Forty-five, altogether. Something’s up, Howie. Come clean if you know something. We’re already having lunch tomorrow. We’ll talk then. No bullshit.”

Click.

Howie doesn’t notice the call end. He’s entranced with the lips moving on screen.

Somewhere in Appalachia (Signal Shielded)

11 PM ET.

As he circulates through a network of bunkers, the man often referred to as Corvus Corax has been bugging his team, checking the election numbers, once an hour or so.

He stops behind Buteo, putting his hand on her shoulder, reading the data on the monitor in front of her. "So nothing since Arkansas, Kentucky, West Virginia, Maine, Minnesota, Colorado, and Dakota?"

She puts her hand on top of his. “That’s it.”

He smiles. “Everything else is holding steady?”

Buteo looks up at him, smiling. “Looks like it.”

He straightens, his hand lingering momentarily before slipping out from under hers as he turns to the exit tunnel. As he walks away, without looking back, he speaks directly to Buteo. “I’m going to get some fresh air and check out the stars.”

Her grin widening, she grabs her sweater as she stands to follow him out.

Still several paces behind him, she hears him whisper. “And to think I almost created my own party.”

Wednesday, November 4

3 PM ET.

Corvus and Buteo are sitting in rocking chairs on the porch of the upper farmhouse, enjoying a late lunch and beers with a warm fall breeze.

He smiles and runs his fingers through his hair as he reads over a printout of the results for US Senate and Governor races.

“Senate: Arizona, Arkansas, Georgia, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Maine, Montana, North Carolina, Tennessee, West Virginia, Wyoming...”

“Governors: Indiana, Missouri, Montana, New Hampshire, North Dakota, Utah, Vermont, West Virginia...”

He folds the paper and fashions it into a coaster for his sweaty pint glass. Then he looks over at Buteo. “Can you believe it? Twelve Senate seats and eight governorships went Dem, Third, or Independent.”

Buteo chuckles, then slowly sips her beer. She looks out over the pasture, watching two ravens fly across. “You know, come to think of it, it doesn’t make any sense to call them third parties anymore when two of the third parties have turned out to be substantial players in the game.” She looks at Corvus. “Right?”

Corvus has captured her head turn in his periphery and matched the timing of her gaze. They both smile. “Yeah.”

Buteo sets down her pint, suddenly frowning. “Well, shit. What about the mail-in ballots? Won’t every single one of these elections be contested?”

Corvus puts his hand on top of hers, on the arm of her rocker. “Yeah. A lot of them will be contested. None of them will be overturned.”

Shocked, Buteo looks at Corvus’ temple then nervously turns away, hoping he hasn't noticed.

“This is uncanny.” He takes a sip of his beer and looks back down the road to the edge of the pasture and the lower farmhouse. “I think we might just be well on our way to serious campaign finance reform. If you can’t make ‘em do it, scare the shit out of ‘em. They’ll think it was their idea all along.”

Buteo laughs, nearly spitting out her most recent gulp of beer, finally choking it down. “Yeah, that’s one way to look at it!”

Corvus pulls his darkphone out of his pocket and types an encrypted message: Jesus. Get me some time with the mother of GOD tonight. No eyes and ears on this one.

He pockets the darkphone and swigs the last of his pint, slowly swallowing, looking back to the lower farmhouse. “We’ll make sure everyone can see the numbers we need them to see.”

Friday, January 1, 2021

Wilmington, DE

6 AM ET.

There’s been an ice storm on top of the previous six inches of snow.

Everyone else is asleep, but Joe is always up early. He’s out for a walk in the woods near his house. Enjoying the silence in the crystalline trees, he looks up and watches his breath fog as he continues down an old path that has brought him calm reflection at the turn of every year.

Joe cranes his neck. Left, right. Up. Continuing along his favorite path. Relaxed, looking forward to that first cup of coffee that should be ready when he gets back to the house. He looks back forward. Still walking, he closes his eyes. 1988. It’s all finally coming around. I’m going to be the President of the United States.

A few more steps, and Joe levitates. Having slipped on the ice, he has one more chance to think of 1988 before landing on his back and cracking open his head.

Athens, GA

9 AM ET.

Cyndy is still in bed, nursing a hangover from last night's festivities when she reluctantly rolls over to answer her vibrating cell phone. It must be important. I’ve got Do Not Disturb on, and it’s still ringing.

Jill doesn’t wait for Cyndy to speak. She’s clearly flustered. “Cyndy. Joe slipped on the ice this morning. He’s in the ICU. It’s not looking good. When can you get here?” Her question morphs into a racking sob. There are no more words.

Cyndy looks askance at Rachel, next to her in bed, wondering how much she’s heard. Jill’s sobbing practically rattles Cyndy’s phone. One more glance at Rachel, who seems to still be asleep. Cyndy looks up at the ceiling. “Jill, I’m on the next flight. Hang in there.” She ends the call.

Rachel sits up, more hungover than Cyndy. “What’s going on?”

“My running mate is in the hospital. It’s not looking good. I’ve got to go to Delaware ASAP.”

Rachel straightens her back, the fog of the hangover dissipating quickly. “Joe is in ICU?”

“Yeah.” Cyndy is already looking up flights on her phone.

Rachel grabs her chin and turns her face to look in her eyes. “That means you might be the motherfucking PRESIDENT.”

Cyndy looks at Rachel, and a wry grin shows briefly before she covers her mouth with her hand, looking again at her phone. “Don’t jump to any conclusions. I’ve got to book a flight.”

Rachel puts her arm around Cyndy’s shoulder, attempting to block her phone with her free hand. “Wouldn’t it be cool if the first female President also had a First Lady?”

Cyndy puts her phone on the nightstand, having not yet booked a flight. She looks Rachel in the eyes. Let’s get this over with. She accepts a kiss from Rachel, who quickly puts her free hand on Cyndy’s crotch, massaging through her panties. As they continue to kiss, Cyndy knows Rachel can’t see her roll her eyes. Well, that, yeah. Or a First Man, or both, or another lady, or nobody....

Some Golf Course Somewhere

9:15 AM ET

Donald Trump is about to tee off on the fourth hole when his cell phone vibrates and breaks his concentration. He looks to the three lucky alt-right worshippers who make up his foursome and then to the Secret Service officers in tow. Who the fuck calls me during golf? He answers without looking at the number, which is blocked. “WHAT?”

The voice on the line is gruff. “This is important, fuckwad. Shut up and listen.”

Donald is oddly silent. He knows who this is, and he knows what this person can do to him.

The voice continues. “Biden is in ICU. It looks bad. Hasn’t hit the press yet.”

As Trump listens, his eyes shift back to the Secret Service, then his pay-to-play fanbois.

“Do NOT tweet about this, dipshit, or we’re going to move to Plan F. You know what that means.” The phone call ends, and Trump pretends it hasn’t, smiling at the other five men around the tee. “You tell those fuckers they can shove it.” He pretends to hang up, then pockets his phone, winking at one of his Secret Service agents. This is very, very, very good news.

Wednesday, January 6, 2021

Wilmington, DE

6AM ET

Jill cries as the attending physician leaves the ICU.

San Antonio

5AM CT

Cyndy is back in San Antonio, at her parents’ house. They’re up early, having coffee and cooking breakfast in the pre-dawn light. She looks at her mother, a beautiful Mexican woman. I only hope I can age so gracefully. Her father winks as he sips his coffee, watching her whip the eggs.

Cyndy is more nervous than usual, and his wink isn’t as comforting as it should be. He notices. “What is it, CJ?”

Cyndy stares into the eggs. “Congress counts the votes today.”

He walks over, putting his hands on each side of her face, pulling her toward him, kissing her on top of the head, smelling her hair. “My little half-breed is gonna be the Vice President.”

Cyndy smiles into the eggs as he backs away.

She is about to pour the eggs into the frittata when her cell phone vibrates. She looks at the phone on the counter. It’s Jill. Shit. She puts down the bowl full of eggs to pick up the phone. She answers, not sure what to say, waiting a few beats, with silence on the other end. Finally: “Hi, Jill...what’s the latest?”

Cyn waits, giving Jill all the space she needs. Ten seconds go by. She opens her mouth, inhaling to speak again, when Jill finally chimes in, choking back sobs, speaking rapidfire to get it all out while she can. “The doctors tell me Joe probably won’t make it. They need a decision from me about pulling the plug. I’m discussing it with the family, but you know what this means for you, and so I want your input too.” The last word cracks on the first heaving sob.

Tears welling in her eyes, Cyndy gives Jill time to cry and breathe. “Jill, I’m so sorry. You know how much I respect Joe, and you. I can’t imagine having to make your decision. I want to help. I think the best way for me to do that is to abstain from involvement. I will trust your judgment and respect your decision. It’s a family decision. We will cross the bridges as need be.”

Jill’s sobs have subsided, and she waits several seconds before responding. “Thank you, Cyndy.” Briefly, she speaks softly to someone else in the room, then returns to the call. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Sure thing, Jill. I’m rooting for Joe. You and your family are in my thoughts.” She waits for Jill to end the call.

Washington, DC

2PM ET

Vice-President Mike Pence presides over the Joint Session as they are finishing the electoral vote count. Each of the four tellers alternates announcing the states’ counts.

“West Virginia: Five votes for Jorgensen.”

“Wisconsin: Ten votes for Biden.”

“Wyoming: Three votes for Trump.”

There is an eerie silence in the Joint Session.

Pence looks around the room. Nobody? No objections? Fuck.

Pence’s eyes make one more lap across the room, then he clears his throat. “The total count tally comes to 22 votes for Howie Hawkins of the Green Party, 23 votes for Jo Jorgensen of the Libertarian Party, 222 votes for Donald Trump of the Republican Party, and 271 votes for Joe Biden of the Democratic Party. As a result, Joe Biden is the President-Elect of the United States.”

Wilmington, DE

6PM ET

Jill gives the attending physician approval to take Joe off life support.

San Antonio, TX

5:15 PM CT

Cyndy’s phone vibrates in her pocket. She pulls it out to check the caller, pretty sure she already knows who it’s going to be. Jill. Shit. She answers. “Hi, Jill.”

Silence.

“We just took him off support. I don’t know how long it’s going to take. Not long.”

There is no thought or feeling present. “Thanks for letting me know, Jill. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

There’s another silence. Then, it sounds like Jill muffles the phone against her chest while she lets out some kind of chuckle. The phone comes clear again. “Kick ass and take names. That’s what you can do.”

“Jill, you have my word.”

Both women hang up simultaneously.

Within a minute, she receives a text message from her father: Your phone is about to ring, my little half-breed. Take the call.

Cyn looks askance at the message. Dad? What the fuck?

She’s about to type her response when the phone rings. It’s a call from Exchange Commission Oversight, Inc.

She answers. “Hello?”

“Hi, there, Cyndy.”

“Who is this?”

“We’ll get to that. Just listen for a bit.”

“OK.”

“Dr. Cynthia Rodriguez Hernández Johnson, you’re going to become the President of the United States. You’re the first female president. You’re mixed race, neither of which is white. You’re single, with no children. You’re not exactly heterosexual or monogamous. You’re a brilliant mind with a Ph.D. in evolutionary biology and an already prestigious career trajectory as a scientist and scholar. And now you’re going to be President.”

The voice pauses, long enough for Cyn to think she should say something. “So—”

The voice cuts her off. “Now, take a look again at the election results. Look at the number of electoral votes that didn’t go to Biden or Trump. Look at the number of Senate seats that turned over. Think about how long those new senators will be around, since each of them will probably be re-elected at least twice. Look at the turnaround in state governorships.”

Another long pause, then... “You still with me, Cyn?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Johnson, you’ve got a lot to do in the next eight years.”

“Wait, what? Eight years?”

“Yes, Dr. Johnson. Now...choose your vice president wisely. Choose your cabinet members wisely.”

“I’m not sure I follow. And, who the fuck are you?”

“I told you. We’ll get to that. Listen: you are becoming the most powerful woman in the world, for the rest of your life. The presidency is the first step.”

Silence.

“Dr. Johnson?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll get a package tomorrow. Rest up tonight. Bye for now.’

The line goes dead, with an odd sound Cyn has never heard before.

Thursday, January 9, 2021

San Antonio, TX

7AM CT.

The doorbell rings. Cyndy puts down her book and coffee mug, heading to the door. “Coming!”

A small padded manila envelope has been pushed through the mail slot on the front door. It’s on the foyer floor. She picks it up, then opens the door. There’s nobody there. Stepping out to look up and down the sidewalk, there isn’t a person in sight. What the fuck is going on?

She steps back inside and closes the door. Still standing in the foyer, she tears open the envelope along the top edge. Inside is a digital voice recorder and a small index card. On the card, written in black marker: FIND A PRIVATE SPACE ALONE. CLICK PLAY.

She walks to the bathroom, shutting the door, taking a seat on the toilet, lid closed. She takes another look at the envelope. It has a watermark: Exchange Commission Oversight, Inc.

She presses play on the recorder. Three seconds of silence, then a sequence of four tones in rapid succession. Two more seconds of silence, then the same voice from the phone call, with a slight distortion. “My name is Xaroc “Volfbart” Suvroc. We spoke yesterday. This is the beginning of Operation Butterfly Dogfight. You will soon meet a woman who shows you her credentials as a professional lepidopterist. You will ask her if she knows when the butterflies dogfight. She will respond: ‘Only when the monarchs are ravenous.’ You are to trust this woman with your life. She’s on your team, which means you’re on my team. She will lead you through the transition.”

The voice recorder emits a shrill beep, then goes silent. It’s a brick. There’s a faint smell of burnt circuitry.

Monday, January 18, 2021 - Martin Luther King, Jr. Day

The White House

10 AM ET

Donald Trump is alone. His family has left. The staffers have left. Everyone else is enjoying the federal holiday, remembering the legacy of Dr. King.

Trump sits in his bed, eating leftover frozen pizza. He talks because he’s afraid of the silence. “I can’t believe these people think that dumb nigger is more important than what I’ve accomplished in four years.”

Since he’s in the White House, his phone doesn’t even ring. The call is patched directly through to the internal PA system, and they know Donnie is still in bed. The all-too-familiar voice gives Trump pause, dropping his pizza slice on the comforter. “It’s time to pack it up, DT.”

Donald looks up at the ceiling, as if that is where the voice is coming from. After a few seconds, he drops his gaze to stare at the blank big screen mounted across from the bed. “I’m not leaving. Fuck you! That brown bitch will NOT be president. You know the sham election was a total fraud. FUCK YOU.”

The voice is silent for about five seconds. There is the faint clicking of locks, all around the property. “Alright, dipshit. Have it your way. You don’t want to leave? Well now you CAN’T leave. Expect a special visitor sometime in the next 24 hours. You are the biggest piece of shit that has ever been President. There is plenty of ice cream in the freezer, fat ass. Sleep tight.”

The call ends.

Trump picks up another pizza slice, takes a bite, chews, swallows, then throws the rest of the slice against the wall. He reaches for his phone. It won’t come on.

There is a chime in the PA system, then the voice briefly returns. “Your phone is currently bricked, and all connectivity has been geofenced away from the property. You’re on blackout, fuckwad. Happy MLK day, motherfucker! You’re gonna have a dream!” The voice rumbles into a mucous-filled belly laugh before the PA goes silent.

Tuesday, January 19, 2021

“The White House”

4AM ET

Trump is shaken violently by an agent in a plastic hood mask. Nothing happens.

The agent cocks back his hand, and with a faint smile, licks his lips, his tongue making a streak across the translucent film. His hand makes contact with Trump’s flabby cheekbone at full velocity.

Trump’s eyes snap open, to that typical smarmy squint. He’s groggy, as usual. “Covfefe?!?...”

The agent produces a syringe, injecting fluid into Trump’s bicep. Within seconds, Trump is wide awake, sitting straight up in what appears to be his bed, in what appears to be his bedroom, in what appears to be The White House.

The agent has already repositioned himself to the foot of the bed. Trump is restrained in cuffs, wrists shackled together, ankles shackled to the bed frame.

Trump squints at the agent, trying to figure out who this person is. “Who the fuck are you? What the fuck did you just juice me with?”

The agent is silent. The plastic rustles slightly as his chin shifts with the widening smile on his face. The section of the mask around his eyes is nearly transparent, so Trump can see the glint as the agent’s eyes widen with glee as he pulls a remote out of his pocket.

With some dramatic flair, the agent clicks the first button. It becomes apparent that the windows in the room were false projections, now blank. With the click of the second button, all the lights in the room go out, dropping to pitch black for two seconds before the room is filled with the nauseating glow of black lights. Now visible is a spray painted message on the wall where the flat screen would usually be: “WELCOME TO THE BUNKER, SHITFACE.”

No more buttons are pressed, but something else is watching. Trump scans the walls, briefly looking at other lude graffiti art depicting his family and Russians and porn stars and streams of urine from wrinkled penises and little children with lollipops. Within seconds, speakers blast the opening measures of Metallica’s “For Whom The Bell Tolls”. This surprises the agent, and he looks up to a certain corner of the room, nodding. Nice touch, cap’n.

The agent looks again at Trump. There are hints of fear in the squint. The agent cups his hands around his mouth, yelling into the squint. “Listen here, fuckstick. If you don’t leave office, we’re going to take you out. Do I make myself clear?”

The agent lowers his hands.

Suddenly, Trump's eyes open all the way. He opens his mouth to speak, but only a low guttural wail emerges. His eyelids flutter, he looks up to his left, then back to the agent. His breathing wheezes into hyperventilation, then slows suddenly. His eyelids slowly droop to a close, his head lolls back, bubbles of spittle oozing from his slightly parted lips. The tip of his tongue emerges in the kaleidoscope of spit.

The agent glances at his watch. Well, fuck me. He’s stroking out. He looks up to the same corner of the room as before. “You’re seeing this, right?”

Wednesday, January 20, 2021

“The White House”

10AM ET

Trump has been stabilized from his stroke, and he is recovering in the bedroom of the bunker. The agent arrives, unmasked. This fucker will never talk again, and he can’t write or type, so who gives a shit if he can see my face? “Hey there, DT. You’re missing a big party today. Your biggest nightmare is about to become the leader of the free world. Public opinion is mounting that you’ve actually gone underground to avoid going to prison. And, believe you me, there are definitely some convictions on the horizon for you.” Trump’s eyes widen and his tongue droops out the left side of his mouth as he makes a chewy whimper sound. “Yeah, if you ever get out of this prison, you’re going to the kind of prison where everyone in the buttfuck brigade is gonna have a turn with you. And the new Ms. President will never pardon you. You think you can stay alive for eight more years?” Trump’s eyelids flutter, and he attempts to nod his head furiously. “Didn’t think so, Teeeerump.” The agent chuckles briefly. “Oh, and by the way, even though you know that nobody in your family gives a shit about you, and you clearly don’t give a shit about any of them, here’s what the truth looks like. Due to increasingly debilitating signs of dementia, you are currently under the tender attention of Obligatory Elder Care, Inc. OEC sends daily reports to your family and the federal government with vital signs, et cetera. You are under 24/7 care and will not be able to receive visitors for the foreseen future. And, I’m sure you were made aware at some point that every former US President retires with a pension that pays out $210,700 each year. Well, wouldn’t you know?” The agent grins and smacks his head lightly for sarcastic effect. “That barely covers the cost of your care in this current facility. In fact, we’ve put a hold on all your assets in order to provide for any unforeseen circumstances that may require massive additional expenditures. Each member of your family has been paid what, honestly, was a surprisingly small sum to disown and disassociate from you. To the last one, they’ve all agreed to change their names so that the shitstain on the Trump name dies with you.”

The agent heads for the door. Halfway through the exit, he stops, looking back over his shoulder to Trump. “One last thing, buddy. We’re gonna let you stew in your own sorrows for a couple days. You’ll get your basic nutrition, but try not to shit yourself or anything.”

As the agent shuts the door, Trump’s bedroom goes pitch black, and Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 comes through the surround sound system at full blast.

Saturday, January 23, 2021

“The White House”

8AM ET

Two people are led from the back of a panel van, handcuffed to each other; they’re both blindfolded with heavy black bags. An agent in a plastic hood mask leads the two people into an airlock entrance masked as a barn next to an old farmhouse, using voice commands to open the security door. The airlock leads to a small room with an elevator. All three step inside, and they travel about thirty feet down. The elevator opens into another airlock. The agent uses his thumbprint to open the door on the other side of the airlock. This leads to a large entrance room, with several doors leading elsewhere. Once the exit back to the elevator has been locked, the agent removes the black bags.

The man and the woman seem a bit perturbed, but not angry or anxious.

“Hi, Joseph. Hi, Shahrizad. Sorry about the fanfare. It’s just our usual security measures. You’ll get used to it.” The agent tosses her a key to the handcuffs. Shahrizad unlocks Joseph’s wrist first, then her own. She tosses the cuffs and key back to the agent.

“Welcome to the assignment. This is your new home.” The agent points to various doors. “Kitchen and laundry are through that door, bunks are through there, comms are in the clean room through there. You can call out, but nobody will recognize the signal. You can communicate with the agency using the ClearSight panel. We’re always there, just start talking.”

The agent looks at Joseph and Shahrizad both, grinning. “Are you ready for the good part?”

Joseph and Shahrizad both start smiling.

The agent laughs. “I thought so.” He points across the room to the single door on the other side. “The prize is in there. He’s in a wheelchair, he can’t speak, but he can make noise. He’s lost most of the motor function in his hands, so, definitely no typing.”

He points to Joseph. “You’re the orderly. Make sure he doesn’t stew in his own shit for more than, say, thirty-six hours.”

He points to Shahrizad. “You’re the secretary. You get to tweet for him.” The agent hands her a darkphone. “This is what will look like ‘his’ smartphone.”

He points to the door leading to the clean room. “En route to the clean room is another media studio where you’ll have all the other tools you’ll need.”

He points to the airlock exit. “Food deliveries will come as needed. You’ll need to lock yourselves in the bunk house to allow deliveries here. An alarm will give you one hour’s notice.”

The agent shakes each of their hands. “Any questions come up, use ClearSight. Now, get in there and do your duty to protect our forty-fifth president. Let’s see if he can make it through the year.”

The agent turns and quickly leaves through the airlock.

As the airlock closes, the agent shouts. “First thing, turn on the video panel in his room. He’s going to want to see the footage of the inauguration!” The agent chuckles as the airlock seals shut, locking with several chimes. He steps onto the elevator.

Joseph looks at Shahrizad. “You ready, partner?”

With a wink and a nod, Shahrizad buzzes them into Trump’s bedroom prison cell.

Donald Trump’s eyes open widely as he sees a large muscular black man and drop dead gorgeous Persian woman approaching each side of his wheelchair, which is parked at the foot of his bed. He’s unable to move it on his own.

Joseph reaches for Trump's waistline. “Do I need to check your diaper, Donnie?”

Shahrizad turns on the flat panel display across the room. Footage from the inauguration ceremony begins. The camera drone pans back to show the size of the crowd as Dr. Cynthia Rodriguez Hernández Johnson is inaugurated as the forty-sixth President of the United States, her loving parents at her side. The crowd is at least as large as the one that formed for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. when he spoke on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

Trump emits a low guttural moan, almost too quiet to hear.

Shahrizad pulls out “Trump’s” darkphone. With a wry smile, she looks Trump right in the one of his eyes that seems to be able to focus. “Looks like Donnie is a little upset about having a Black-Mexican genius probably-a-lesbian woman show him up.” She waves the darkphone in front of Trump’s face. “Now then, whatever will you be tweeting about this event, even now, several days later?”

The guttural moan increases in pitch and volume, drool appearing at the corner of Trump’s mouth.

Shahrizad taps the darkphone against Trump’s forehead, then drops it into his lap. “We’re going to have so much fun, Donnie.” She looks at Joseph, then back at Trump. She unbuttons the top two buttons on her blouse, adjusts the weight of her ample breasts, increasing her cleavage, leaning over Trump. She places her left fist on the darkphone, pressing it into his crotch. She leans closer, her breasts nearly touching his chin as she whispers into his ear, loud enough for Joseph to hear. “Sometimes you’ve just gotta grab ‘em by the pussy, hey Donnie?”

She stands up, grabs the darkphone, and takes a step back. She clears her throat to hack up a nice wad of mucus, spitting it directly into Trump's good eye.

Joseph looks at the ceiling and laughs uncontrollably. “Holy shit, that’s a good one.”

The guttural moan subsides to a whimper, easing into a dry sobbing, almost like a dry heave. Tears begin streaming from Trump’s eyes. He looks back and forth between Joseph and Shahrizad as well as he can in his condition, making as much of a pleading look as he can muster.

Joseph has stopped laughing, suddenly serious, staring at Trump. “No, Donnie, we’re not gonna kill you, especially not if you ask us to, which, of course, you CAN’T, you mute motherfucker! We’re going to share you with the world on a regular basis, letting everyone see how serious we are about moving to the next phase of societal progress.”

Joseph looks at Shahrizad with a nod.

Shahrizad stares at Trump. “Now, bunker boy, stop your pansy-assed crying. Let’s get ready for the first episode of your new reality show. It’s called Passed President, and you’re the shining star!”