“Motherload”

INT. DONALD TRUMP’S WAR ROOM —TWILIGHT…

Our Protagonist.

INT. TRUMP TOWER BOARD ROOM — 4:46 AM

An uneasy calm in the pitch black darkness of Trump Tower’s Executive Suite. Suddenly, the golden doors BURST OPEN.

In struts the man himself, DONALD J. TRUMP (70s, brazen, waxy), followed by his night butler, CHRISTOPHER (60s, heavy-set, R-New Jersey). Donald is furiously invigorated. His cranky demeanor should be from waking up at this g-d awful hour, but he doesn’t sleep anyway. This comes from urgency — He’s got his hands on the new Clinton emails!

DONALD:

Get the thing running, you fuckin’ mongrel!

CHRISTOPHER:

Yes, Master Donald. Right away!

Christopher shuffles over to Donald’s giant COMPUTER MAINFRAME, similar to Batman’s com, but it’s all gold and runs on Windows 7.

DONALD:

I used my last charity funds to get my hands on this intel. I need to see it now!

CHRISTOPHER:

Certainly, Master Donald.

DONALD:

And prepare my twitter — I’m finally gonna put this crooked bitch in prison!

Christopher scurries and assembles all the necessary pieces that get Donald’s system running. It turns on. Donald’s wallpaper is a portrait of him looking dashing, shirtless with six-pack abs and a suit decorated in dollar signs. He stands over dark skinned bodies with horns wearing rags. It sort of looks like a portrait of Putin, but with all those extra- Trumpy bits poorly photoshopped in.

Then the folder comes up.

DONALD:

Out of the way fatty!

Christopher moves, frightened. Donald’s Laz-e-boy chair tracks into place and bends back giving Donald full spectrum of vision. He hones in on a folder entitled: ANTHONY WEINER — PVT!!

DONALD:

Here it is. Initiate auto-play.

It initiates. Donald’s eyes open wide and a grin comes upon him as the files open one by one in increasing pace. An email here, a bill there, a selfie or two…

Suddenly Donald’s look turns to horrified disappointment. As Donald is silhouetted in the light of his mega-screen, the files are revealed to simply be massive a SLIDESHOW of thousands of Anthony Weiner dick pics and mirror selfies.

Donald grabs his station in disbelief and fury.

DONALD:

No. No! It can’t just be this.

More and more dick pics!

DONALD:

It can’t be!!

Suddenly the images stop. It’s a video. The date says September 11, 2012 — the day of the Benghazi attack. In the distance you can hear Hillary and Huma Abedin discussing something in the kitchen. Weiner is moving the camera through his home as if he’s recording something secret.

HILLARY (O.S.):

Huma…it’s bad. I...I think I messed up big time…

Donald leans in. He wants more.

DONALD:

Here it is. The motherlode!

HUMA (O.S.):

What happened Hillary? What did you do?

HILLARY (O.S.):

I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell a soul. It could jeopardize everything I’ve worked for…

Donald is so ready.

HILLARY (O.S.) I…

Suddenly the camera pivots right and Anthony Weiner starts moving towards his intended trajectory— the bathroom. He hastens and hastens until HNNNNGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH — he ejaculates into his toilet bowl, then looks at himself in the mirror, exhausted and ashamed. Then he winks and gives himself a kiss, before shutting off the video.

Donald sits in silence. Almost as if he’s just seen the greatest magic trick of his entire life, but he’s not happy about it.

From the darkened corner Christopher mutters to himself…

CHRISTOPHER:

Ain’t nothing motherly ‘bout that load…

FIN.