Chapter 1: Donald Trump Steps Out of the Oval Office


President Donald Trump sits in his office, the oval office. The Oval Office. Couple of capital Os in there, huh? he thinks to himself as his pasty belly skin pulls itself taut against his seven-thousand dollar belt. I can’t believe ol’ D-Berry has made it this far. He kicks his feet up on the desk as he dramatically whispers, “Pretty. Impressive,” punching each syllable with a gummy fisted lip sandwich before tipping backwards in his chair and hitting his soft head on the hard floor.

He quickly pulls himself upright as he adjusts his red tie. You fool. You phony! You were born to money! You have no real talent! Your businesses have all failed! You’re an imposter!

 No. I am successful. I. AM. he insists to himself.

When you have no friends, speaking to yourself is something you become quite good at.

LIAR! And they all know it. Your worst nightmare has come true. You’ve finally become THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA – the spotlight is all yours – and everyone knows you are a counterfeit. A fake! You do not know what you’re doing.

It’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true.

Yes, it is. They all know. And everyone you work with knows. The entire white house – sorry. White House. Capital letters. They know what you’ve always known. You are a bully backed with a financial fist. Sue me, sue me! You’ll run out of money long before me and I’ll win. Nobody can stop me! You’ve been born into too much wealth to ever fail.

Fine! It’s true. So what? I can’t help it. But you gotta give me some credit – even for being a dummy, I’ve gotten pretty far!

Sure. Buying your way to the presidency. Congratulations. It must have been wrought with peril.

 Donald glances in the mirror and sees that his usual wasp nest of a haircut has become a disgusting tangle of rat-tails. Pull yourself together, Donald.

From the top of his absurdly large mahogany desk, atop a pile of unsigned contracts and dirty kleenex, he grabs a red hat that has the overly wrought patriotic phrase of “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN” stitched across the front. Looking back in the mirror as he slips the hat over his puffy cranium, he thinks, there’s the old man. Looking sharp, tiger. Let’s show ‘em who’s boss.

And then. Is that mustard on the corner of your mouth? You slob. God, you look just like one of them – a pooor person.

And he thinks of it just like that – with three Os because they are especially pooor. The Pooor People out there, he thinks, all of them wandering around, looking at me to fix their problems, their hands stretched out as they lay palm fronds at my feet.

It’s like daddy-T used to say. “Sorry. Can’t solve stupid.” No, you sure couldn’t.

 But I can leverage that stupidity and use it to gain the presidency. And for that, I am grateful to you. Every one of you. Sincerely. Thank you. For without your blind faith in my cause, none of this would have been possible. Your small minds have brought me to unthinkable power and together we can move mountains.

Oh, but how he hated the pooor people, though. They always wanted to shake his hand. They wanted to touch him. He would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel just a little Christ-like (bring me your sick!) but, truth be told, he thought their dirt and germs and dismal IQ scores might be contagious. How else could there be so many of them?

He sighs heavily. Sadly. He really does hate himself. Sometimes he lies alone at night, Melania far away. As usual. And he cries. No one knows The Real Donald. The Real Donald is tender. And likes chicken nuggets. And painting. With his fingers. Mostly still life of flowers but sometimes also nudes of himself. He finds his own grotesque human form somehow… sexually appealing; the way his jowls hang from his face like a bulldog’s maw and the way his hard and calloused pink nipples sit lifeless on his chest, covered in a violent mat of gray pubic fuzz. His skull is the shape of a Neanderthal’s.

He had the body of a gorilla.

And the mind of an absolutely brilliant chimpanzee.

You should smile more.

I can’t. I still haven’t figured out how. And when I do try my very best, it looks haunting. As though it causes me pain. Which it does.

He reaches into his desk drawer, the drawer in The Oval Office, and pulls out a small contraption which resembles a kind of sci-fi invention that would open a portal to another dimension. There are two of them. They also kind of look like a pair of brass knuckles.

He slides them onto each hand and then rubs them together in tight, concentric circles. He touches the front sides together and they immediately begin to glow blue. He waits a moment. They turn green. Green means go. He separates his hands wide, holding his arms out like a cross. Within the movement, a throbbing doorway opens in front of him, formed between the brass knuckles. It appears to be made of liquid electricity and stretches forward through time, space and possibility.

He steps through the strange doorway and the Dimensional Interchange slams closed behind him.

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