A TRUMP CHRISTMAS CAROL, Part One
The Clinton campaign was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The electors had voted, register of the burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and Bill, the chief mourner. Trump signed it. And Trump’s name was good upon it, “Great,” even, as was anything he chose to put his hand to.
The old Clinton campaign was as dead as a door-nail.
Mind! Two long years had passed in swamp-town since the day the electors made their fateful decision. In the West Wing of the White House, dark and shadowy as it was, interns and staff huddled around candles and Amish space heaters for warmth and worked deep into that Christmas Eve’s night. There, too, worked Trump at his big golden desk, brooding across from two slouching, timid figures.
Oh! He was a tight-fisted little hand at the grindstone, Trump! These men before him did not know but the half of it.
“Please, Mr. President,” said the one, biting at his pen nervously, “at this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, these many migrants and refugees who suffer greatly at the present time. Many hundreds of thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir, and desperately need some asylum is this country — a country you yourself would agree to say is Great.”
“Are there no prisons where they come from?” asked Trump, his focus on his own reflection in the near window.
“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, setting down his pen.
“And the United Nations’ camps?” demanded Trump. “Are they still in operation?”
“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they need not be.”
“And ISIS and the cartels, they remain in full vigor as well?” said Trump.
“Well, yes sir, but…”
“Oh! I was afraid I may have been mistaken and something had occurred to stop them in their usual course and dealings. Much happens in those security briefings that doesn’t make their way to me, you understand,” said Trump. “I’m very glad to hear I am not wrong. I believe you know my answer already, gentlemen.”
Afew hours had past and a sharp wind began to shift the newly fallen snow resting upon the South Lawn when Mike Pence, the Vice President and loyal servant, shifted gingerly into the Oval Office where Trump still sat.
“Sir,” he said, his voice a musky whisper, “It must be about closing. Surely we can let these folks go home.”
With an ill-will Trump dismounted from his enormous chair, and tacitly admitted the fact to his servant.
“You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?” said Trump.
“If quite convenient, sir.”
“It’s not convenient,” said Trump, “and it’s not fair. There is a world to run, here, Mike. Who is there else to run it?”
The servant smiled faintly, hiding his face from his boss’ broad shoulders he admired so greatly.
Trump continued: “You don’t think me ill-used, when I asked you to undertake this thing with me, and you assured me you would take care of all. All while I make no profit — nothing from this whole thing.”
The servant observed that it was only once a year, and that Trump agreed to not take the President’s salary.
“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Trump, loosening his deep red power-tie. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning.”
Pence assured the President he would, and scampered off to collect his things.
Trump took his melancholy Big Mac in his usual melancholy armchair; and having read all the tweets and watched all the cable news shows, dragged his plodding feet up the great golden staircase he insisted be installed at the White House.
He was alone in the residence that holiday evening, as Melania and his young son remained in the Trump Tower. They had asked to remain there permanently, and while Trump had meant to invite them to Christmas with him, it had somehow slipped his mind, what with all the goings-on.
A short while later, Trump sat alone in his great bed, silk pajamas tight around his midsection. He clutched his phone and tweeted at all those who dared to wish surrounding friends a “Happy Holidays.”
@realDonaldTrump: “Happy Holidays? Humbug! No one should be happy until this country is GREAT again — enough with the losers. And it’s Merry Christmas! Sad!”
Suddenly, the door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.
Where is the secret service? he thought.
Through the door slid a short figure, with a flash of wispy hair and a gloomy, grey pantsuit.
“Hillary,” said Trump. “Are you a ghost?”
“Indeed,” replied the figure.
“But you’re not even dead. You only lost the election.”
“Without this office,” boomed the spirit, “My life-force is drained. I am no longer of this earth.”
Trump, momentarily defiant, stood atop his sheets, and shook his small hands in the spirit’s direction.
“No! That is not you,” he cried. “This must only be a disorder of the stomach. You may be an undigested bit of beef-patty, a blot on the lettuce, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone fries. There’s more of special-sauce than of pantsuit about you, whatever you are!”
“Enough!” cried the ghost, causing Trump to fall and cower in his blankets. “That was about as cute as ‘Trumped-up-trickle-down,’ fool. I come with a warning, Donald!”
“Mercy!” he cried. “Dreadful apparition, nasty woman, why do you trouble me?”
“You, Donald, are doomed to roam like me if your ways are not changed,” shrieked the spirit. “Without self-affirmation, people like you and me wander aimlessly through the world. You will not continue as president if you do not change.”
“Change? But I am a winner!”
“No, Donald. Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits. That is but your only chance. Expect the first when the bell tolls One.”
“Why not them have them all come at once? We can make a deal!” said Trump.
“Do not try to make a deal with these Spirits,” replied the pantsuited-paranormal. “Yeeee be warned!”
In a flash, the small figure flew towards the window, passing through it with ease. Trump followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.
The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them was grey and lifeless like Hillary. There flew Michael Dukakis, there Charles Evans Hughes, there Bob Dole, there John Kerry, there Adelai Stevenson, there Jeb Bush. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever.
Trump closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. Where were those secret service? It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, and fell asleep, tweetless, upon the instant.
