Donald’s Inferno

The nine layers of hell I’ve imagined Donald Trump going to.

Layer One: Limbo.

Donald Trump arrives, anxiously greeted by his campaign staff. He is seated across from them in an velvet armchair. “Ok, Donald. What will you do to improve job growth in America?” Kellyanne Conway recites from an index card. Donald quickly realizes that this is, indeed, hell — he has to do debate prep. But for how long?

Kellyanne sighs and tucks her hair under a Hillary wig. “Now we know why Donald Trump didn’t release his taxes — he was nearly a billion dollars in debt and abused that loophole for nearly 18 years.” She takes the wig off. “Donald, your response?”

“That makes me….smart?”

A collective groan from his team shakes the cavernous room.

“Let’s try it again.”

Layer Two: Lust.

Donald enters a densely-packed arena filled with only women.

“Ok, this is more like it,” he grins, sure of heaven as they all approach, their eyes glazed over as if in some sort of trance. Some look more familiar than others, but he has no time for attempted recollection. He reaches for the box of Tic-Tacs in his pocket.

“Hi Donald,” Arianne Zimmer emerges from the crowd. Right as Donald leans in to kiss her, she briskly pinches him on the balls, then withdraws her hand. He shrugs. It’s not his favorite, but he’s not complaining.

Alicia Machado reaches up and grabs his testicles too, also for a brief, fleeting moment. Rosie O’Donnell follows, adding a tighter but still fleeting grip to hers. Every pageant girlflicks his nutsack just once, then walks away, a smug look of dominance in every passing face.

“Ok guys, this is getting kind of annoying — ”

But every time he speaks, it just gets worse. In a room occupied by every woman he’s ever made uncomfortable, he can’t take a step in any direction without leaving his genitals in a vulnerable position. He cups his hands over them, but Megyn Kelly is quick to cop a feel from behind, cackling as she walks away.

Layer Three: Gluttony.

Donald is in what appears to be his private jet, with an assortment of KFC goods arranged and waiting for him — fried chicken, mashed potatoes, baked beans, a slab of cornbread. He eyes it suspiciously, as he normally justifies his intake of fast food with the fact that there is no way it’s poisoned. But where did this food come from? How can he truly know an unbiased minimum wage worker prepared it instead of one of the people he financially jilted, or Lyin’ Ted Cruz?

He pauses and thinks.

Nah, it’s KFC. It says it right there on the label.

He scarfs down the whole thing, the gravy from the beans effectively moistening the corners of his mouth.

Right as he finishes his last bite, a taco bowl is teleported in through thin air. He gobbles that down too, as it clearly could only have come from Trump Tower. A McDonald’s happy meal follows it.

But with every delicious, cholesterol-packed bite, his brain slowly starts to piece together what is happening — this is the only food he can ever have again. And it doesn’t stop. The jet quickly fills up with the smell of grease, the normally-appetizing scent growing increasingly more sickening.

He would kill for a salad, even if Little Marco Rubio prepared it himself.

Layer Four: Greed.

Donald is taken to a factory where all of hell’s torture instruments are made (it’s a business that never dies.) He must work at the assembly line for tridents and spears, a job that is dull but boasts great health benefits, and 401K matching!

But when that direct deposit hits, he realizes he’s made only a small fraction of what he was told he’d be getting in his contract. He marches to HR (Hell Relations), and complains, only to be talked down to and accused of not working hard enough. He takes on more hours, but the same thing happens. HR at this point blatantly ignores him when he visits.

He has to watch everyone else flaunt their wealth for doing the same job. People even tease him and call him Dumbald Chump, assuming he must be a hopeless idiot to somehow make less than everyone else.

Layer Five: Wrath.

Donald is transported to a marble-and-gold ballroom, dressed in a fine suit, so things already seem to be looking up. He sees Melania enter, her caramel waves framing her face perfectly, as always, as she floats about the room in a tight-fitting, yet elegant, floor-length gown.

She walks towards him, smiling, her teeth showing more than in recent history. But then — a man pops out from behind Donald and takes her hand, spinning her into a waltz. She giggles. Donald is furious, partially because he can’t tell why the man looks oddly familiar. His skin crackles as if brushed with gold, his fluffy hair is combed forwards instead of to the side, and he walks with a bravado that seems grossly unearned based on looks alone. Where has he seen him before?

Donald rushes up to them. “Mind if I cut in?” He says with a poorly-concealed rage. Melania wrinkles her nose. The man sighs.

“I guess I can’t blame him for wanting a dance with my wife.”

“Wife?? And who are you?” Donald fumes.

“I’m Ronald Hump,” the man says coolly. “Of Hump Steaks, Vodka, and Airlines. But people really know me for Hump Hotels. Hard to keep track of all the successes.”

Donald shakes his hand, noting that Ronald’s is notably bigger than his. Melania whispers in Ronald’s ear.

“Sorry, pal. I’m afraid she’s not interested in a dance.”

Ronald walks away with his arm draped over Melania, who doesn’t so much as glance at Donald again.

Layer Six: Heresy.

Donald walks onto the stage of something much more familiar to him: a reality show. Anderson Cooper is at a desk across from him and points to a seat. Applause ripples through the crowd.

“Ok Donald, I’m sure you know the rules already, but just as a refresher for those watching, you get to pick which question you want asked. For 200 points, what was your original stance on the War in Iraq? For 500, list all the views you’ve ever had on abortion, in chronological order, and for 800, what is your true relationship with Vladimir Putin?

Donald clears his throat and leans into the mic.

“Oh, one more thing,” Anderson says with a slight smile. “The points are worth $1 million each, and will be deducted if you are incorrect.”

“Your response, Donald?”

Donald hears what he believes is the distant, hearty laugh of Mitt Romney in the back row.

Layer Seven: Violence.

Donald finds himself in the crowd of one of his rallies, dressed in a “Hillary Sucks, But Not Like Monica!” t-shirt. He feels the tense shoulders of bigger men pressing against his, with erratic “LOCK HER UP!” chants causing his ears to ring. Occasionally, he hears knuckles crack, or knuckles cracking bones — he can never be sure.

He is at the heart of it all, absorbing the vibrations of others, soaking in their inconsolable anger like a weathered sponge, useless but still there, providing the illusion of hope.

Layer Eight: Fraud.

Donald is in his gilded Manhattan living room, alone.

The TV flashes on. It’s the news cycle on November 9th, 2016. “TRUMP LOSES, AND BADLY”. “TRUMP DEFEAT AMONG WORST IN US HISTORY.” “TRUMP GIVES LOSING SPEECH, CALLS IT A RIGGED ELECTION.” Footage of him seething at the podium plays, his supporters matching his vitriol, shouts tearing through the mumbling.

He gets up and clicks off the TV, but as soon as he does, he hears murmurs from nowhere in particular, the bodiless sighs of his supporters — or anyone — who mentions his name. He hears them presumably pack up their Trump memorabilia while sighing and saying he was always sort of a joke, wasn’t he? They comment on his now-failing businesses, because of all of the ties cut, and his lack of any significant remaining money due to all funds going to the election.

The whispers grow increasingly sparse — a mention by a college professor here, a jab from an older comedian there. He becomes a beggar for the sound of his name rolling off of the tongues of strangers, regardless of context, of critique or condemnation.

And then, after a long while, there is just silence.

Layer Nine: Treachery.

Donald finds himself in a gray, endless space, where there are no shadows and no corners. Stripped of his clothing and any distractions, he can only sit and think. He is resistant and anxious at first, trying to conjure up images of his favorite porn films or the memory of him telling Hillary that “she’d be in jail,” followed by raucous applause. Those were such great moments, but visually, get harder and harder to recall. His brain jumps from bouncy tits to that awful, just lousy Correspondents’ Dinner, to re-runs of solely his screen time in The Apprentice.

Eventually, his skin returns to its natural bluish pallor and his hair thins into mere dark patches around his ears. There is no concrete memory of faces, or approving voices, or the feeling of his “Make America Great Again” cap snug on his skull.

He looks inside himself, truly, for the first time ever, and stitches it all together — why he needed to run for president, why he had to say the things he did, why he just couldn’t stop, even when he knew he had already lost. He thinks about the things he had to prove to his father, to everyone else. He considers how this has trickled down to Ivanka, to all his children.

He reaches a higher understanding of the profound self-loathing inside him, the very same that he awakened in other people. He now has answers, and if he could go back, if he could share all that he has learned, he could make this all worth something.

But he can never return. There is, and always will be, only him.