A Wasteland President, Part 11

Trump was seriously worried about the state of the world. It was sea of stumps dominating a few tall buildings. But even the “alpha” structures were diminished. In the world he knew, the tallest buildings knocked the sun out of the way to make room for their steel shoulders, made right here in the U.S.A.

“You doin alright back there, Donald?” Barack asked

“I’m doing just fine. Reflection on the situation,” Trump replied, sitting back and letting the lushness of the car seat envelope him. He wondered what class of Mercedes this was, and why he hadn’t been aware of it before now.

“Hey, you got a seat warmer up here?” Trump asked.

“Donald, it’s a balmy 80 degrees out,” Barack said, giving him a look.

“Little chilly is all. Just Little chilly.”


“I don’t get as much circulation on the lower half of my body.”

“Alright, Donald. I’m pressing the button now,” Michelle informed, her eyes lighting up the rear-view mirror.

Barack stirred, as if some sin had been committed. “I’m trying to teach the man resilience!” But Michelle just shook her head.

“Hey, where we goin, some place a little warmer?”

“Donald, listen, we’ll let you know when we get there.”

“I don’t like surprises. Especially ones that have the potential to end badly.”

“Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the warmer lower half of your body,” Michelle said. Barack folded his arms.

“Seriously. I don’t like surprises. I like routine.”

Trump looked out the window petulantly for a minute, before he was distracted by golden gates up ahead. They were definitely imposing and official looking. How many galas had been held at the thing?

“Let’s go see Mitch, Donald. We have some catching up to do.”

“Who’s Mitch?”

The Obamas walked ahead, taking the rain gracefully. Trump dragged behind, wondering who Mitch was and what he had to do with all of this.

A Wasteland President, Part 10

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