People are Saying This *Trump Tower Climber* FanFic is the Best. Really, the Best. It’s HUGE!

Watching a man climb story after story of a giant NYC skyscraper really inspires one to write story after story about how crazy the situation was. This is one of those stories — written in tandem by comedians, Sarah Kennedy and Tess Johnson.

The Trump Tower Climber pulled the suction cup in his left hand with a loud SMOCK. But up on level 6, the only person who heard was the climber himself. “Left hand” SMOCK “Right hand,” SMOCK. He let the breeze blow through his mullety hair and gazed down at the land below him. “I cannot believe I’m finally doing it. This is my time to shine. This is my day”

A meeting with Trump. All he wanted was a meeting with Trump. He’d climb every failing, crumbling piece of Trump real estate if it meant he finally got his meeting with Trump. SMOCK.

“I am doing this for you, Big Daddy Trump,” he whispered as he pulled the suction cup with all his might. He had wanted to meet with Donald since he was a young man in prep school, and he’d kiss his poster of Donald Trump nightly. Whenever the other boys were out doing frivolous things like sports, he’d be at home, planning his climb of Trump tower. And now it was a reality. SMOCK.

FLASHBACK to the night before. “MOM, where’s the WEBCAM!?” He yelled down the hall. “THE WHAT?!” was the shrill reply. “The webcam!” Continued confusion. 
“THE RIBSCAM?” 
“WEB. CAM. MOM. THE INTERNET RECORDING DEVICE.”
“YOUR FATHER USED TO TAKE CARE OF THE TAX PROGRAM.”
Oh, right. Father. What a foreign concept since the four . . . or was it five years since he said he was going out that morning to wait for GnR (that’s short for Guns n Roses) tickets? The Trump Tower Climber shook his head at the memory, how could he have been such a fool. GnR (that’s short for Guns n Roses) hadn’t even been on tour that year.

His mother came down the hall with the device in hand, cord mangled but still usable. “Ugh, thanks mother. Please get out of here and microwave me the Kid Kuisine you promised!” He was ready to record his manifesto. He flipped the cam on and spoke straight from the heart. He recorded a few minutes of pure nonsense that only a man with a mullet hairstyle and complete disregard for reality could produce. His aesthetic confused some, what with the cargo shorts and climbing as a hobby, they assumed he was a liberal. But nay, appearances can be deceiving, and this boy was a Trump boy through and through

How clever he was to do a video the day BEFORE his stunt. Surely a businessman with such a long record of WIN AFTER WIN AND SEASON AFTER SEASON OF AN NBC REALITY SHOW would take notice at the clever boy who had all of his ducks in a row.

FLASHBACK . . . Like flashing from the past back to the present. SMOCK. He was nearing floor 10 now. What would they call his documentary? The Trump tower climber wondered. “The Art of the Broken Window Sill” seemed to be the only terrible pun that kept coming back up in his head. He blamed the atrocious joke on the dizzing heights.

SMOCK. Another few feet, under his belt. His hands were growing shakier with each floor he conquered. He wasn’t sure how long he would last, but he was going to do his damndest. He reached into his Patagonia brand backpack and retrieved a Clif Energy Chew® and a Rockstar Energy drink. He squeezed his eyes shut and absolutely showered himself in the horrific nectar of caffeine and sugar and caramel color, downing every drop that he could. He tossed the Clif chews into his mouth, his vision obscured by a combo of Rockstar, tears, and exhaustion. In the climber’s weakest moment, an exquisite vision of Trump appeared to him, and it spoke.

“Listen, alright. Listen. You’re climbin? Right, he’s climbing right? Right, so you’re climbing. And some people are going to say, ‘Why’s he doing that? Why’s he climbing?’ You gotta know, people are going to say that. People will say that, but, you know, you sure picked a beauty of a tower to climb, friend. I? I would’ve take the escalator, but you know . . .” and then there was a bunch of racism.

The climber nodded slowly, not really sure of what the vision was saying, but moved by its message nonetheless. “Okay, I guess I understand!” he said back to Spooky Ghost Trump. “I’m doing this for you, daddy Trump.” Ghost Trump continued, even though the climber did not ask for more information or speaking. “We need to face the facts!” it screamed. The climber was growing oddly impatient at this point, mostly due to his tired limbs and energy-drink-soaked face. Despite his undying affection for Donald Trump, he truly didn’t have that much time for a rant right now. “Okay cool, yeah. Sure, okay. Maybe we can wrap it up?” He said. SMOCK. “WE NEED A REAL BUSINESSMAN WHO KNOWS HOW TO RUN THINGS, IN THE WHITEHOUSE, NOW” shouted Ghost Trump, and the climber was nodding, but moving upwards now, toward the top of the building.

In fact, it was a good thing the vision of trump had come to the Trump Tower Climber when it did. 15 stories up in the air, and he had just finished the last bag of Clif chews. This was going to be a climb that was to continue on grit, Rockstar Energy drink, and wild hallucinations that refused to let up. It was then when the climber had a close call. His left paw swung around and made contact with the next bit of window he was certain he would bust, as he had several times already further below. This bit of glass, however had other plans.

Rather than cleanly attaching, the suction cup wavered and refused to stick cleanly. “What the-“ the climber thought, as his hand slid downward. “Is this…. “ he stuck his finger out and sampled the substance sliding down the glass pane. “It is! 100% extra virgin olive oil! THOSE FUCKING COPS, THOSE FUCKING PIGS” he screamed. The cops had done it again, “it” being covered the sides of Trump tower in extremely high quality extra virgin olive oil, the one thing that could surely stop him from completing his mission. In addition to the olive oil trick, the cops had poked their heads out of the glass a few stories above and were arbitrarily shooting their guns into the air and shouting “this is the law, JOHNNY LAW, turn back now!”

“Get him out of here.” The climber heard from the Trump mirage ahead, echoing every Trump event he had watched back home with mom. So often he had laughed at the nebbish protestors as they were dragged out by the large security guards. “Yeah, yeah, get him out. OUT. Bye-bye. Back home to mama.” It was suddenly clear. Had he become like the losers? Had he worked on this day to make America EVEN LESS great by pulling this stunt?

He clung to his firmly placed right suction cup and turned back to his hero, the mirage. “Mr. Trump. Please. Please. I beg you. I just want a meeting. I told everyone in my video to vote for you. I’m here for you. I love you, daddy. Please. Please, dad.” Tears fell 15 stories in the sky. People on the ground below wondered if it was starting to rain and if that would affect the climber’s climb.

The mirage spoke back to him. “You’ve made a mess of my clean tower! A farce of it! And now look at all the glass the extremely muscular cops have had to shoot out randomly!” The climber sniffed back the waterfall of tears that were coming. There was no use fighting them now. Everything was falling apart. But a small voice, somewhere deep inside, said “Keep climbing. Finish the climb.” And he did just that; he continued skyward, hand over hand, not for Big Daddy Trump, but for his own sanity. He wanted to conquer this tower and taste the sweet and savory taste of victory — that illusive umami that can only come from a combo of criminal trespassing and 500 Clif Energy Chews ®. He realized then that he was climbing for himself. Not for Trump, and not for his mother, but for himself.

Who needed a webcam when you could have such a rush? Who needed a webcam when you could have such a rush? Who needed a webcam when you could have such a rush? Trump 2016 . . . Trump 2016 . . . Trump 2016 . . . Trump 2016 . . . The thoughts circled and recycled as the climber was pulled up into the building by the trigger happy cops. Trump 2016 . . . Trump 2016 . . . Trump 2016 . . . The climber was arrested and never seen or heard from again — Resigned only to be the world’s most obscure trivia answer in a 2010s Trivial Pursuit game.

Please vote in November. Please do not vote for Trump. Please click that little green heart at the bottom of this, regardless of your plans in November.