
The President’s Nemesis: Chocolate Cake (part 3)
“Donald, you can do it,” said Rand, who felt an unexpected twinge of empathy. Rand, never having had children, was starting to have maternal feelings toward Donald, wanting him to fulfill his potential. “You must try harder. Blame others for your past failures: the government regulators, the poor people in the neighborhoods where you want to build, all of them. Do not accept any responsibility. You know who I blamed in The Fountainhead when Dominique was raped by Howard Roark?”
“Who?”
“Dominique herself, of course. Blame the victim, never the victor. You are the top dog in a dog-eat-dog world. Kick the puppies that are trying to bring you down. Never take the puppy’s perspective.”
Donald smiled. He liked being called the top dog.
“Donald, you must represent your critics as weak, even if they are strong. You must represent the government regulators as corrupt, even if they are not. Misrepresent as much as possible. When they catch you in a lie, one-up them with a bigger lie. You are a winner. Investors must choose which side they want to join: the winning side or the losing side. Compromise is moral treason.”
Donald nodded his head slowly as it all sank in.
“As for rhetorical tactics, remember that is better to sound logical than to be logical. They can refute a logical argument. They cannot refute the sound of logic.”
The next day, Donald met with some pension fund managers on the Upper East Side, and he came out blazing. He punched repeatedly at the competition, the critics, the skeptics, and the regulators. He promised riches to the investors by building the most glorious properties imaginable. He pandered shamelessly, stroking their egos till they glowed. He swore he’d stiff the contractors and clear out the homeless people loitering around the neighborhood. He name-dropped all the best architects he could remember: Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Gehry, Rem Koolhas, Gordon Bunshaft. He told them that all the smart money was being invested into his luxury Manhattan properties.
“Guess what!” declared Donald when he arrived at Rand’s place.
“What?” said Rand, eyebrows arching.
“I closed the first round of financing! I am the top dog!”
Rand beamed. “We did it, Donald. We did it. What happened exactly?”
“I got plenty of funding from those gullible puppies. I bet I could get more from them next time…” Donald started to have a far-off look in his eyes, “…maybe I could extract even more money from them… What if I built casinos, let’s say in New Jersey, and got people to gamble, drink, and take in a show…?”
“I think you are finally learning how to be an artist of the deal.”
“I sure am,” crowed Trump.
“In fact, I think you could run for President someday,” said Rand. They stared at each other as if looking in the mirror. “Keep sharpening your confidence game,” she continued. “You can do it. By carefully crafting fictions and keeping your message disciplined, you could win.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
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“You are my goddess, my muse, my mentor, and my inspiration,” Trump groaned as he stirred from his slumber. “You’re right, I hate people. I need their money and their applause and their votes, but oh how I hate them all: rust belt riff-raff, bible thumpers, Fox News watchers…
He awoke from his chocolate cake coma and looked around the room at his entourage. Everyone was pale; some were looking down and others seemed to be searching for the exit. Eric looked up very slowly to meet his father’s gaze with a sheepish look in his eyes.
“What’s the matter, Eric?” asked Donald.
“Uh, nothing, father. I did as you said. Not allow anyone to disturb you.”
“Eric, was I talking in my sleep?”
“Kinda.”
“Eric, this microphone next to me — is it on?” Trump said in a monotone voice while making dagger eyes at his son.
Eric switched it off. “Not anymore.”
Trump felt as if his bloodstream was full of alligators and snakes. He looked around at his security detail and turned to the chief, drawing a finger across his own throat. “Code red,” the chief announced into his lapel. “Code red!” he repeated. The CEO of Fox Corporation in his superbox asked for a confirmation through his headset. He received it from the chief of security, who then transferred control to the facilities manager on the stage, affirming the situation. The facilities manager nodded back and barked into his headset, “Code Red, I repeat, Code Red.” The television feed, on a thirty second delay, flashed on the indoor and outdoor screens We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by. All the doors to the arena locked, allowing no one in or out.
The fans in the general admission seats were confused. Their trance of communal fervor was disrupted. Those in the front row, proudly wearing their Front Row Joe buttons, were stone-faced. They whispered to each other what they thought they had overheard from backstage. It did not seem nice. It certainly didn’t seem Midwest nice. Their eyes bulged. Their necks were puffy and sweaty in the overheating arena, but they did not leave their seats for fear of losing them. They fidgeted like traumatized frogs at a French farmer’s market simmering slowly in a stew.
The fans looked up, in a daze, and smiled in delight. Thousands of red balloons visible through large nets started to fall, leaving all the blue and white balloons safely in their own nets. The red balloons popped in a cascade, like firecrackers, and released a sweet smelling gas, filling the arena. The fans’ delight turned to drowsiness, and they all fell asleep in their seats, many slumping to the floor.
Children of the VIP families pressed their noses against their superbox glass, peering below at the floor seats.
“Dad, what’s going on down there? Why is everyone taking a nap?” asked Whitaker.
“It has been a long day, Whit. The people down there have been standing for a long time. They are just resting before they drive back to the flyover towns they live in,” he said.
“Weird,” said the boy. “They look like dead frogs.”
The helicopter pilots started their engines. All the superbox guests were escorted to the roof and were directed to the helipads in brisk fashion. Five large helicopters loaded them all quickly and whisked them away.
Trump and his political team ran out the backstage exit door and piled into a convoy of up-armored limousines. The drivers started their cars and sped toward the exits, tires screeching.
“It’s him, it’s him!” yelled Bertha Jenkins, a red-faced woman in Trump hat, anti-Obama T-shirt, and American flag pants. Bertha specialized in making donuts at Moelker Orchards & Farm Market, in Grand Rapids. Her donuts were known for miles around, but the latest donut technology was much more efficient and never took coffee breaks. Bertha was anxious about being rendered obsolete, but she never missed a Trump rally.
Several Trump fans gathered behind Bertha, calling over for more fans. Within a few seconds, there were twelve Trump fans opening their arms, eyes delirious with joy, sobbing uncontrollably. Bertha cried “I’m so glad we waited out here and didn’t leave like the others. I hope he stops to sign a few autographs before he leaves.”
Trump’s limo caravan headed straight for the exit at top speed without slowing or swerving. Bertha and the Bufords stopped dead in their tracks and narrowly avoided being hit. They gasped, lucky to be missed by inches. They ran for the nearest outer exit archway and left. The caravan disappeared just as quickly.
The doors and roof of the arena swung open, ushering in fresh air. The fire alarm trilled for thirty ear-piercing seconds. The fans slowly stirred, awoke, stretched, and looked around. Those that had fallen to the floor wondered whether they had been pushed while napping. They looked around suspiciously before jumping back onto their seats.
The Front Row Joes looked particularly suspicious. Ten rows behind them, Carl and Darla Jones from York, Pennsylvania looked at each other, barely blinking. They decided to tough it out; they had to see The Donald, their savior, before trekking back to York, where they sold and serviced motorcycles. Twenty rows behind them, Jan and Stan Cooper, from Ashland, Wisconsin, scratched themselves and stretched their legs. They looked at each other and wondered whether they should leave to beat the traffic. They owned a small picture framing business in Ashland, and they knew pictures wouldn’t frame themselves. Thirty rows behind them, Billy and Sara Lambert from Oxford, Ohio yawned and started to discuss their plans for Sweetest Day, only a couple of months away. Every Sweetest Day, the third Saturday in October, they found a new charity to support on their modest income earned at United Dairy Farmers.
The transmissions of the hot microphone never aired. Don, Jr., took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips. He then picked up the main microphone.
“Hey everybody, Don, Jr., here, hope you’re having a great time. No need for alarm, but there was a deranged liberal who invaded our happy event and started a fire in a bathroom. They also jammed the sprinkler system; that’s why it’s so hot.”
General booing commenced and the jeers got louder. Several large men cracked their knuckles and began muttering, foreheads wrinkled. They started looking for the invader, itching for a fight.
Don, Jr., continued. “No worries, the fire has been put out and the liberal threat has been neutralized. Unfortunately, the fire department said we’ll have to reschedule the rally for another day. Sorry about that, but hey, thanks for coming out today. We really appreciate it. Please buy some more gear on the way out: 10% off T-shirts and hats while they last.”
Don, Jr., put down the microphone and wiped his brow. He put his arm around Eric, who looked confused. “That was a close one, Eric, that was a close one. Only one scoop of ice cream for you tonight, buddy. Just one scoop.”
“Some days are better than others,” said Eric.
“You got that right, buddy. You got that right,” said Don, Jr.
Melania looked at her step-sons with a smile stretched tightly across her poker face. She seethed with resentment. Idiots, Melania thought, next time, you will not interfere with my quest for freedom. She took a deep breath to calm and center herself: Be Best.
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