A STONE BUST OF SHAQUILLE O’NEAL
Donald didn’t look well, and not in the usual way. Anybody would have been hard pressed to call the man ‘healthy looking’ for a good number of decades but this was far beyond the natural strangeness of his look. All the lines were now so deep that the fake tan wouldn’t take in them, leaving a bright, light pink web across his otherwise orange face. The volume of hairspray needed to contain his ‘do so high at this point that to the touch it had all the properties of an ice cold ceramic plate. His eyes now nothing but the reddest red with little black centres, and they were hot all the time. After the fact the Secret Service men who had stayed on would testify that they’d frequently heard the President crying behind closed doors.
There were fewer of them with each passing day, every day more White House staff just didn’t show up for work. Donald would not have noticed this though as he spent most of his working day shut in the Oval Office and nobody, but nobody, was allowed to see him until they were summoned.
President Donald tapped out a tweet on his phone, using one of his many fake accounts. His advisors had tried to take the official POTUS Twitter account away from him after he’d called Reverend Sharpton a “black faggot” two days into his reign but he’d put his foot down. “I’ll tweet what I want whenever I want goddammit, I’m the fucking President.”
One month in then and “I’m the fucking President” had quickly become Donald’s most repeated refrain, or at least his most coherent. Incoherence was high, to be expected more often than not. He hit send on the tweet, praising himself and his leadership under the name Colin Criswell, a fake Donald staffer, and once again was at a loose end.
“Where the fuck is Pence?”
The Vice President ran as fast as he could (which was not so fast) through the wide corridors of the White House. You could easily go days without being called upon but when you were you’d better be ready. Donald expected everyone to appear inhumanly quickly after a summons or there would be an intensely personal thirty minute chewing out waiting.
The VP was either quick enough or Donald was angry enough about something else that he dodged that particular bullet.
“You’re making me look fucking stupid Pence”
Pence mentally rattled through a thousand different things Donald could be referring to here, those meetings the VP had had with Merkel and Le Pen that Donald had said he “didn’t have time for”? Maybe the ongoing Occupy protests at Donald’s hotels and golf courses around the world? No, probably that NY Daily News cover from yesterday that had really effectively photoshopped Donald fluffing Vlad Putin’s big hard dick.
“Who is the fucking President?” Donald asked. “Is it me or you, Pence, is it me or you?”
“You’re the President, sir. Everybody knows you’re the President.”
“EXACTLY. I’m the fucking President of the United fucking States of Afuckingmerica. Me. Not you Pence, me. President Donald, do you get me?”
“Yes sir. Is something the matter sir?”
“Look at this”, Donald threw a magazine onto the floor at the VP’s feet, “pick that up and look at it.”
Pence just about restrained his own eyes from rolling but couldn’t stifle the heavy huffing sigh as he stooped to pick up the magazine. It was a copy of Time, the cover showed Pence his own constipated face staring back at him with the tagline President Pence.
“Ah shit, Donald, you know better than to pay attention to this crap. Who even reads magazines any more?”
Donald stood from behind the desk and for the first time Pence noticed that instead of shirt and tie he was wearing a grubby red t-shirt under his suit jacket. It gripped tight against the flabby torso, dark sweat patches creeping out from the sides, the slogan ‘Make America Great Again’ just visible.
“I need you to make a phone call Pence” Donald spat the name, the VP’s face a victim of a mist of spittle, “and I need you to show me the button.”
“But Donald, we went through this on Wednesday. There is no button, it’s a metaphor.”
“And I told you that I don’t give a good goddamn about that shit. I’m the President and that gives me rights, I have the right to know where the button is and I have the right to see the button.”
“Sir, if you’re suggesting that you wish to launch a nuclear strike then that’s something we need to talk about.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s true. Can we have the button moved into this office? I should have the button on my desk I think, that’s the smart play.”
“Shut the fuck up, I wasn’t finished. Get your phone out, I need you to make a call.”
Pence was already holding his phone. He lifted it a little.
“I need to talk to Vladimir.”
Pence sat and put the phone to his ear, “You do know that it’s four am in Moscow sir”
“Why wouldn’t I know that? What the fuck Mike? Make the goddamn call Mike.”
While Pence began the procedure for waking up foreign officials Donald circled the room. He stopped at a bust of Shaquille O’Neal that he’d had brought in. It had been very expensive, made from the best stone. Donald only ever had busts made from the best stones. He lifted it with a little difficulty. Expensive things were always heavy he thought to himself.
He carried it slowly and with gritted teeth towards the back of the couch where Pence was sat, lost in conversation with some Russian, and there he lifted it higher, over the VP’s head. The strain of this final effort caused a cascade of involuntary grunts and whines and Pence turned at the sound, his brow furrowing in confusion even as his eyes widened in terror.
Donald dropped the payload. The corner of the bust’s stand hit Pence directly in the left eye, his face crumpled inwards and he and it fell to the carpet where he bled and groaned. Donald bent to one knee and turned Pence over to face him, straddling his chest. Donald put his little hands on Pence’s neck, his thumbs pressing into his windpipe. Pence, blinded by his own bleeding lashed out, landing a number of heavy blows on Donald’s mouth. Donald barely felt them, his dead, red eyes fixed on his own small hands and Pence’s bruising and collapsing throat.
Pence’s arms dropped, three long claw marks ripped into Donald’s cheek in one last go at retaliation. President Donald stood, heaving breathing, a hot wet patch forming on the crotch of his suit trousers and spreading down his legs. Next to Mike’s body a tired and confused Russian voice sounded out from the still connected iPhone.
Donald shuffled back to his desk and fell into his golden Presidential chair, deep, deep breathing, squirming in his wet pants. He lifted his own phone and tapped out a tweet.
“Anthony Torrance @torr4trump Feb 16
Nobody makes Presidenting great again like @realDonaldTrump, A GENUINELY GOOD LOOKING MAN!!!”