A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER
Back in The Oval Office, smelling of sweat, semen and onions, Donald sits at his desk and watches the news. He wonders if he’s dreaming – if this is really too good to be true. I’m the President. He lets the word rest on his tongue for a moment, sweet like barbecue on veal meat.
His eyes wander towards the black orb hanging in the center of the room. A camera. Nothing “hidden” about it. The message is very loud and clear. “WE ARE ALWAYS WATCHING”.
For better or worse, it was true. But who were they? Who was on the other side of that camera? Was it Wells back home? Was it Bernie? That old scarecrow was proving to be not a problem, per se, but a pest. He was like a fly buzzing around on social media. You think you’ve squashed him flat and then he pops back up, reanimated, rambling on endlessly about blah and blah and blah. Universal health-something. Mumble mumble. Shakes fist. Makes joke. People laugh. Donald’s jealousy was starting to shine through so he refocused his attention on his animosity.
The worst business man I’ve ever met is Bernie Sanders.
Because he’s not interested in money. Guys like him are hard to buy or bribe or manipulate. Fine. The old bastard wasn’t a fly. He was a bigger problem than that. And he was starting to lay his maggots all over in the shit of this country and those little maggots were hatching into this damned Rebel Army.
How do we dismiss him? What Would Wells Do?
The words tap him gently on the back of the throat and he speaks them into existence.
“You lie. Endlessly. About everything.” He turns and he looks in the mirror, staring deep into his own predatory eyes. “You take away the meaning of words. You back pedal. You speak in circles. You speak without saying things. You tell them what they want to hear and they-“
On the TV, a group of people cheer. It’s a pre-recorded session of one of his most hated speeches. He pauses it and stares at the screen. His hand is up in a gesture, all five fingers exposed. His stomach rolls at the thought of all those eyes looking at all those fingers. His soft belly exposed. His psychological weak point. He wishes he could wear gloves forever and just stuff the fingers with cotton.
He was just beginning to start his usual afternoon process of berating himself when Paul Ryan and Mike Pence enter the room. Paul nervously paces, occasionally massaging his genitals. Sometimes his penis would slip through the hole in his briefs and he isn’t able to get it back in just by shaking his hips so he has to manually address the problem.
Mike would like to sit down but his hemorrhoids are acting up and his rectum burns with the fierce intensity of a Texas summer during global warming.
Donald turns on them, the bullied turning into the bully.
“Pence. I can smell your ass muscles from over here. Leave and don’t come back until you’ve spritzed yourself with some kind of cologne. Preferably something that didn’t come off the bottom shelf.” Donald knew that Pence was a cheap skate. Even his haircuts looked like they came from the mall… or his mom.
Mike turns and leaves without saying a word. Neither Donald nor Paul were entirely convinced that the man even knew how to speak.
“What do you want, Paul?”
“The insurance thing is all messed up. It’s gone turkey. We thought we had it. We don’t have it. Donald-“
“PRESIDENT DONALD, YOU ANOREXIC FACE HUGGER!”
Neither Donald nor Paul knew what a face-hugger was but it sounded mighty mean. Donald felt good slinging the insult and Paul was obviously hurt by it so both parties understood that it had served its purpose.
Often Paul came in just to get throttled by Donald. Like Donald, Paul’s own father also hated him. He just couldn’t help it. He was so sad that he had created a human being that was so ethically bankrupt.
“Where did I go wrong?” was what his father muttered at his college graduation, his wedding day and they were even the last words he spoke before leaving this earth and entering the great endless abyss that is death.
Paul knew that if there was a hell, he and Donald would be there together…
Paul snaps back to reality. His hyper-sexualization of the American President was an unhealthy past time and one he didn’t like to linger on lest his lust for the flesh drive him to do things normally outside of his already questionable social behaviors. Those gym photos he had done were for Donald and they somehow got leaked. It was humiliating. He dreams about how that evening would have played out if it had gone according to plan…
He shifts his package again and notes that it has gotten considerably more “girthy”. He begins to panic, afraid that Donald will see his erection. He sits on the couch just as Mike Pence enters, reeking of Calvin Klein.
Donald immediately throws the spot light on him.
“Calvin Klein is fancy cologne for pooor people. Go give it to the ignorant peasants who voted for me. Tell them it’s my stimulus package.”
Paul allows the word stimulus to echo in his head before he adjusts himself again.
“Pence. Please say something.”
Pence looks around, confused. Tries to sit down. Can’t. A woman enters. Mike panics. Paul’s erection immediately goes away. Donald wants to murder the woman and eat her vital organs but knows that it’s in bad taste.
She drops a pack of Skittles and a financial magazine on the table.
“Get out of my office, before I come over there and grab your pussy.” Donald laughs. He just means it in good fun and he knows the woman knows it. If he wanted to, he could, you know. He could just go right up to any woman he wanted to and just grab her by the pussy.
The woman – she doesn’t have a name – to Donald she is an opportunity to illustrate his superiority and rub his metaphorical, and potentially very phorical penis all over her – smiles, laughs in good nature, turns and leaves. In the hallway, she begins to have her third nervous breakdown since working for the most recent President of the United States. Once she saw Melania in the hall and their eyes met for one sad second. A moment. An eternity. And they both seemed to scream out, “Rescue me.”
There was something about Melania, though. Something cold and disconnected. Something robotic and emotionless. Something inhuman and calculating.
The Nameless Woman enters the public bathroom just as her nerves break and she begins to weep. In the stall she punches herself in the face and yells, “You’re so weak! You’re so fucking stupid and weak!”
In the stall next door, Melania is pooping. She says nothing. Instead, she wonders how long she can stay undercover. She wonders when she will be able to come out from her disguise and show the world what she really is.
Mother of Orphans. Supplier of the Needy. A hand to the Hungry. The Breaker of Chains and the true Ruler of the Seven Continents on Pale Blue Dot, MEL.
M.E.L. Mechanical. Enemy. Liason. Her entire purpose is to infiltrate the inner circle of Donald Trump and send messages back to her creator. She was planted in his life many years ago after she was created by a mad scientist in a lab. That mad scientist wears a name tag that reads: Bernie Sanders.
She thinks of her favorite jacket: I don’t really care. Do you? the thought is electric. It is binary. It is lights on a circuit board. Did she care? No.
But she was programmed to think she did.
MEL wipes her tears, then her brow, then her butt before standing up and quietly exiting the restroom. She had a mission to complete.
She was going to lead the world’s largest coup against one of the world’s most deadly men.
Her own husband.