This is part 2 of 3 — if you just arrived and would like to read this story from the beginning, click HERE.
“Election night 2020… never thought it would come to this,” Trump said behind his hand, not realizing he’d spoken aloud until the aides on either side of him turned their heads a notch, caught themselves, and swiveled their heads back to look as far from him as possible.
He’d been slipping out of character more often in the last year. The White House chef had asked him after New Years’ just what on earth one man could be doing with half a pound of powdered tumeric a week. “Mind your goddamn business and don’t run out,” Trump had snapped, and the chef had looked at him… looked at him…
…like his supporters looked at him at rallies. Wide eyes. Half-open mouth. High color on the cheeks—the chef’s of puzzlement and embarrassment, the supporters of excitement, the smell of blood. How they’d looked at him after Tehran, after the bombing run, long-range stealth bombers in the night raining bunker busters and incendiaries on the head of their Supreme Leader and President. Gnashing teeth, howling mouths, demanding the same for Mexico City who still hadn’t coughed up a single thin peso for the tall cinderblock and razor wire wall that stretched from Gulf to Pacific or for the maintenance of the army divisions patrolling it.
Nobody on the right had dared to challenge his nomination for a second term except for a handful of real far-outers, flat-earth-conspiracy-theorists and fluoride-chemtrail-Illuminatists and people who thought Ayn Rand was a bleeding heart leftist lib. Out of that handful, three had been found dead, two in rivers tied to heavy objects and one in a swampy ditch with a skunk stuffed down his pants and the pants held shut with zip ties.
The skunk would have gotten out if the paranoid hadn’t been in the habit of wearing kevlar clothes. The left—the Democrats floated a throwaway candidate, angling for 2024, if it came. And the rest of that wing, well, after Bernie nobody quite had the heart to give it a real try again. At least his followers kept the hate verbal to that side of the political fence; old habits die hard; the worst violence usually comes from inside the house. Nobody on the left had their nether regions clawed off by a skunk, thank goodness.
The non-emergency secure line rang. Trump nodded at the aide on his right, who got up and answered.
“Comedy Central is calling it,” the aide said after listening for a moment.
“Yeah? Sun’s not even down. Not surprised, not with the polls,” Trump said, voice flat and slow. Because of that flatness, rumors had been going around for months: the President is fighting chronic fatigue, maybe it’s cancer and it’s being kept secret, Trump’s old and pushing too hard, not delegating enough. The rumors hadn’t scared off any votes.
“Sixty-three percent of the popular vote, they’re projecting. Bigger even than FDR and LBJ. Biggest win in the history of the country, sir,” the aide said, awe creeping into her voice.
Trump was dead tired of awe. “Thanks, Ysabel,” he said. “Why don’t you two hand off and go downstairs, grab a bite? I’ll call down to the chef, tell him to give you my surf and turf.”
“You okay, Mister President?” Ysabel asked, hesitating.
“Just not hungry. Tired. Knew this would happen anyway, it’s no surprise. Gonna get a full night if I can, have to be up for the cameras tomorrow. You know. Night,” he said, and turned his back, locked himself in his private bedroom, crawled into bed shoes and all.
“Don’t know what the hell I’m going to do now,” he whispered to the ceiling, and closed his eyes.
Part 3 will be posted Friday (and this notice will become a link to it) — see you then!