Return of the King

Great literature gives meaning to humanity, it adds a deeper significance to the actions people take. This was the principle he had in his mind, as he immersed himself in writing The Art of the Steal, the long overdue sequel to his best-selling The Art of the Deal. When the day arrived, Mar-a-Lago hosted its launch, glamorous, with shrimp towers ten feet high and an ice sculpture with his signature thumbs-up, glistening in the crowd gathered under the bright Florida sun.

A string quartet played “YMCA” to the gathering of political donors, online influencers, and cryptocurrency traders, they barely clapped when he was introduced. When the publisher talking about the book, everyone looked at their mobiles – this crowd wasn't book readers – sipping champagne. They half-heartedly cheered his election anecdotes, having heard them a million times already. The next day, The Art of the Steal briefly topped the bestseller list, and then the buzz fizzled faster than a warm can of Diet Coke. It didn’t feel like his first book launch.

"Stick to politics," that's what they said. Politics is the opium of the masses! So, he hit the rally circuit, cranking up the music and shouting his best lines. The crowd roared, yet it felt mechanical, like they were stuck in a 2016 Groundhog’s Day. “Same moves, same hats,” he grumbled backstage in Cincinnati. He wiped sweat from his forehead, then quickly sterilized his palms with alcohol wipes. The next day, he tried spicing it up with a new catchphrase, but that flopped. People just wanted the same ole “Make America Great Again”, even if nothing was ever going to change. Politics wasn't going to give him the kick he was seeking. Thankfully, there was always golf.

That Sunday morning at his Bedminster golf course, while he was doing a photo op with a UAE investor, a lone golfer lined up a shot, aiming straight at him, The fairway wood hit the ball with a sold thwack, neither a slice nor a hook, and he dived for cover. The ball whizzed past his (other) ear, leaving a trail of grit on his cheek. He pumped his arm at the camera, defiant. No one understood why. Then out of nowhere, the Secret Service tackled him and piled on like it was 2024. With his face pressed into the fairway like a suspect about to be arrested, the headlines screamed “The Secret Service has doing their job”, X exploded with memes, but he just shrugged it off on Fox News: “Second time’s a charm, folks” Privately, he told an aide, “It’s not even exciting anymore. Where’s the drama?” The shooter’s manifesto, posted on X, stated that his target was “getting boring.” That stung worse than the golf ball.

To get away from it all, he jetted off to North Korea, chasing the high of his first deal with missile-man Kim Jong-un. They’d bonded over burgers and diet cokes back then. This time, the Pyongyang air smelled more like kimchi than McDonald's. They tried their old routine—karaoke, a clumsy attempt at a TikTok dance, and that thing where they swapped hats. But Kim kept checking his iPhone, and his heart wasn’t in it. “Nobody does diplomacy like me, believe me,” he told his aides on Air Force One, staring out the window. The Truth Social posts from the trip got lukewarm likes, mostly bots.

Home is where the heart is. Desperate for a spark of glory, he revived his first-term team-building with a White House Trivia Night. All of his staff gathered. He stood at a podium in the East Room, he would warm them up with a few easy ones. “What color is the White House?” he asked. The crowd fidget nervously, afraid of giving the wrong answer. “Who was the greatest president to sign an executive order?” he barked. Silence. “Me, obviously!” His team nodded, eyes glazed. By the tenth question, even he was bored. “Lousy game, terrible answers,” he muttered, tossing the notecards.

He understood – they wanted their own party. On President's Day, he threw a staff party, a throwback to his first term. He asked everyone to dress as past presidents. He, of course, went as himself, strutting through the Rose Garden wearing a red cap and a polo shirt. “Lincoln, overrated,” he said. “Look at this Jefferson, total loser! I’m ten times the dealmaker.” He pointed his finger, speechless, as a man in an oversized Taft suit walked past. The crowd forced laughs, but the punch wasn’t as strong as his first term, the DJ stuck to tired hits, and the vibe was press conference-adjacent.

He tried shaking things up with policy. He announced a “Space Force 2.0” initiative, promising a moon base with his name in neon. No one even bothered to ask a question at the press conference. He pushed a new tax cut, but the markets barely budged. He even revived his border wall project, but Mexicans no longer wanted to come to his America. The ribbon-cutting drew a small crowd, mostly hoping for free tacos. “It’s tremendous, folks,” he insisted, half-heartedly.

That night, he walked the halls of the Executive Residence, nodding at the Marines, looking into empty rooms. The Lincoln Bedroom hadn’t changed—same creaky four-poster bed, same faded wallpaper, same weight of history. She stood by the window, her expression as undecipherable as a Vogue magazine cover. “I knew you would come one night,” she said. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, catching the gold in her hair. He loosened his tie, flashed his showman’s grin, and kicked off his loafers. “This is huge,” he said, voice low. For the first time in months, the air pulsed with electricity—the thrill of doing something that could change the world. Some things never lost their spark.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The story does not reflect real-world political actions, diplomatic relations, or historical events, including those involving any individuals, governments, or institutions such as the United States, North Korea, or the White House. The depiction of personalities and settings, including but not limited to political figures, military initiatives, or social gatherings, is intended solely for entertainment purposes and should not be interpreted as factual or endorsed by the author or any other entity.