The Devil & Donald Trump — The Deal Giving Him The White House Expired Too Soon To Keep Him There

The Fictitious Account Of Satan’s Negotiation To Acquire The Soul Of Donald J. Trump

By David Grace (Amazon PageDavid Grace Website)

January 1, 2020

Deep in thought, the President’s musings were disturbed by a knock-knock followed by the face of Kandi Joe Tipton, his twenty-two-year-old assistant-deputy-backup receptionist, peeking around the Oval Office’s half-opened door.

A former University of Northern Indiana assistant head cheerleader minoring in communications and animal husbandry, Kandy Joe gave the President an uncertain smile and whispered, “Mr. President? There’s a Mr. Zafan here to see you. He says he has a four-eleven appointment, but I can’t find it on my calendar. The Google thingy has gone all foozy.”

Zafan? Who the hell . . . ? Trump wondered just as the door was pushed wide and a short, muscled man with a pencil mustache strode into the room.

“Arioch Xaphan, at your service, Mr. President. Our dear friend, Manny Mammon, said that you might be able to use our help in the November election. Perhaps if we could talk privately . . . ,” Xaphan glanced at Kandi Joe.

Trump’s brain froze for a moment, then he made the connection and furiously waved the girl away.

“Manny Mammon, you say,” Trump began, suspicion clear in his voice.

“Allow me to present my credentials, Mr. President.”

Xaphan pulled a folded document from beneath his coat and laid it in front of the President.

The words Soul Lease Agreement were emblazoned across the top in large, black text.

“If I may, sir,” Xaphan said, leaning forward and flipping to the end of the packet:

Lessee: His Royal Lord Satan, Ruler of Hell, by and through his agent, Maligenii Mammon, Price of Hell.

Lessor: Donald J. Trump, 45th President Of The United States.”

Trump stared at the oversize signature scrawled in his own blood.

“This doesn’t mean shit,” Trump snarled, ripping the page to shreds. “That deal expired at midnight last night. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Yes, Mr. President, you’re absolutely correct that our previous agreement has expired, but let me remind you that we carried out our obligations to exquisite perfection.

“We promised you the Presidency and here you sit. But, sir, time does not stand still and my principal hopes that you will see the wisdom of availing yourself of our services for another term.”

“Why the hell would I do something like that?”

“To insure your future prosperity and success, sir, of course.”

“I don’t need you people for that. I probably never did. I would have beaten that skanky Hillary bitch without you. Hell, I could have nailed her with one hand tied behind my back. You did nothing for me, nothing. You should be thanking me.”

Undeterred, Xaphan produced another document and laid it on the President’s desk.

“I’ve taken the liberty of drafting a renewal agreement on similar terms as our previous contract, but with some important additional provisions. A six year effective duration instead of five to make sure that there are no inconvenient grand juries or misguided indictments that might follow the end of your second term of office.”

“Well, what makes you think my term of office will be over in four years? The constitution has been amended plenty of times. No reason it can’t be changed again to get rid of that stupid two-term limit thing.”

“That assumes, Mr. President, that you will be re-elected to a second term in the first place.”

“I’m the most popular President in the history of the United States! The people love me. My supporters will carry me to victory without breaking a sweat.”

“One can never be certain about the future, Mr. President. Things change. Humans are fickle creatures with short memories and evil hearts. What if something were to happen that might cause enough of them to turn against to would tip the election in the other direction?”

“The other direction? What other direction? You think that senile old fool, Joe Biden, can beat me? He might not even live long enough to make it to November 3rd. Wait a minute, is that what you’re offering me, that you’ll give him a heart attack or something at the last minute?”

“Is that something you would like, Mr. President? If so, we might be able to arrange it in exchange for a modest extension of the term of your lease, say to twenty years instead of six.”

“You wish. Don’t try your Devil tricks on me! I wrote the book on how to negotiate with assholes.”

“Of course you did. Very well, Mr. President. Just the six years then, and no medical emergencies for Mr. Biden. If you will allow me to fill my pen with your personal ink. . . ,” Xaphan said, extending a fine-needled syringe.

“Are you deaf? I told you, no deal. I loaned you my soul for five years and gave you full ownership of Giuliani’s and Lindsey Graham’s to boot, and you smoothed the way for my brilliant campaign victory. Now we’re done.”

Xaphan gave the President a thin smile and a friendly nod.

“Of course, Mr. President. It shall be as you say. But if you should change your mind about renewing our arrangement, you know how to reach us.”

“Fat chance of that!” Trump snorted as Xaphan disappeared behind the closing door.

January 20, 2020

“Mr. President, I have a call for you from the Director of the Centers For Disease Control,” Trump’s secretary told him.

The President picked up the phone while he tried to remember what those Centers people were up to.

“Mr. President, we have a potentially serious problem,” the voice on the line began.

“What kind of problem?”

“Sir, we’ve confirmed a case of the novel corona virus in the state of Washington. We’re activating our Emergency Operations Center to respond to the outbreak.”

“Novel corona virus? What makes it so novel? How is it different from ordinary corona virus?”

“Uhhh, that’s just its name, Mr. President. You see–”

“Hang on.” Trump put his hand over the phone as an excited Ginny Thomas pushed her way into the room. “Got to call you back,” Trump barked and quickly hung up. “Novel, my ass,” he muttered.

December 31, 2020

Again Arioch Xaphan stood before the Resolute Desk.

“You did this just to screw me for not re-uping our deal!” Trump shouted.

“Did what, Mr. President? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did what? All that fucking Covid crap, that’s what. And all those traitor judges I appointed who refused to tell people that I won the election. You got to them, didn’t you? Now look at where I am. I was supposed to be President for life you fucking son of a bitch!”

“I understand your distress, Mr. President, I really do, but as you will recall, almost a year ago you elected to do without our help. If you had signed up for another term I assure you that things would have gone very differently.”

“Screw that! Just tell me how you’re going to fix this.”

“I’m not sure it can be fixed, Mr. President. My organization has been forbidden to roll back the Wheels of Time so we simply cannot make you President again, at least not before January of 2025.”

“I’d have to wait four years?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And that prick, Biden, will get to be President until then?”

“Yes, that’s how it would have to work, unless, of course, you would like him to have an accident that would put Kamala Harris in your chair.”

“Over my fucking dead body!”

Xaphan shrugged, then after a long silence continued. “On the other hand, if you would like to renew our arrangement, we could offer you several benefits in the post-election period.”

“What would that cost me?”

“Well. . . ,” Xaphan said, drawing out the word. “A fifteen year lease under the same terms as before — you would do our bidding in all things. Since you gave us Jim Jordan’s soul two years ago, we would just need you to get us the additional souls of Mitch McConnell and Kevin McCarthy. And you would have to have someone killed.”

“Well, this kill someone thing. Would I get to pick who?”

Xaphan shook his head. “No, that would be up to us, but we would guarantee that you wouldn’t be convicted of the murder.”

“Convicted. How about guaranteeing that I wouldn’t even be a suspect, leastwise arrested for it?”

Xaphan gave his head another little shake. “I’m afraid we couldn’t commit to that in advance, though I can tell you that it would be most unlikely that you would be indicted.”

A crafty look flowed over Trump’s face. “Make me President again and maybe we can work something out.”

“As I said, Mr. President, that would require that we turn back the Wheels of Time which is something that we are forbidden to do.”

“Then screw that. Hell, I don’t need you. I’ve got my own plans that are going to keep my ass in this chair for four more years.”

“Really, Mr. President?”

“You becha.”

“May I ask what they are?”

“Hah, as if I would tell you. You just watch the evening news on January 6th.”

Xaphan gave the President a polite bow and disappeared in a puff of black smoke.

September 1, 2022

Trump was gazing at the ocean through the window in his Mar-a-lago study when a slight popping sound caused him to swivel around.

“Xaphan, I wondered when you would show up,” Trump muttered.

“Always a pleasure to see you, sir.”

“What do you want this time?”

“Only to help you, sir,” Xaphan replied.

“Is that right? Help me how?”

“Actually, sir, in several ways.” Xaphan paused, then with a little nod from Trump, continued. “We still have time to keep you from being convicted of any crimes.

“Depending on what other arrangements we might make, we could assure you that the Republicans will re-take the White House. And, we could arrange for you to make a quick $200 million on the stock market.”

“$200 million? That’s chump change. Tell me how you’re going to put me back in the Oval Office and we might have something to talk about.”

“Uhhh, well, sir,” Xaphan said showing Trump an insincere frown, “I’m afraid that is now quite impossible.”

“Why the hell not?” Trump demanded.

“Because we’ve made some preliminary agreements with other parties guaranteeing that you would not be nominated again, ever.”

“Other parties? What other parties?”

“Well, sir, I’m not at liberty to disclose the details, but I can tell you that we are in material negotiations with Ron DeSantis, Ted Cruz, and Mike Pompeo.”

“What about that traitor, Pence?”

“He has so far resisted our entreaties. He keeps yelling, Satan be gone, at us. It’s quite irritating really.”

“Asshole goody two shoes. . . . So, you absolutely can’t put me back in the White House?”

“Only on an afternoon tour.”

“Fine! Screw it. It was too much work listening to all those idiots anyway. How about a deal to keep me from being indicted?”

Xaphan’s expression immediately brightened. “Yes, sir, definitely. A no arrest–no conviction contract. We do those all the time. Our standard rate for that is absolute control of your soul for the rest of your life, which we will guarantee will be at least another ten years.”

“Ten years! Twenty, no, twenty-five.”

“Well, we don’t normally do a term that long for someone your age, but since you’ve been such a good customer over all these years, we might be able to do eighteen.”

“And I would have to be in good health for all of them.”

“Now, that’s a problem. How about ten in good health and the balance in a nice extended care facility, and no dementia before the last six months?”

“You call that a deal? The whole eighteen years in excellent health, and I’m still rich when I finally go.”

“Let me check with my supervisor,” Xaphan said, then closed his eyes for ten seconds. “All right, Mammon says we can do that, which surprises me. He must really like you because I’ve never done a deal like that for anyone else before.”

“What’s it going to cost me?” Trump asked, a cagey look clouding his face.

“Not that much, really. You have to do our bidding, of course. And you’ll have to get us another soul of our choosing.”

“It would have to be someone not related to me.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. President, but I think we might be able to make that work, provided that you turn over full and perpetual ownership of your soul to us as well.”

“My soul? You mean when I die I would have to go to Hell? Forever?”

“It won’t be that bad. All your old pals will be there. And, anyway, what are the odds that you can do anything this late in life to earn a place anywhere else? It’s really quite a good deal since, let’s face it, it’s not as if you aren’t going there anyway.”

Trump paused, then turned and stared longingly at the 14th hole shimmering in the middle distance.

Smiling, Xaphan pulled out his syringe.

— David Grace (Amazon PageDavid Grace Website)

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David Grace

David Grace


Graduate of Stanford University & U.C. Berkeley Law School. Author of 16 novels and over 400 Medium columns on Economics, Politics, Law, Humor & Satire.