A Wasteland President, Part 12

Trump had a sense of optimism at first. Now this was more like it! The buildings had gold trim. The walkways were clear and he saw a peculiar nobility in the eyes of those he walked past. They brandished gold clubs like they were the most natural, beautiful things in the world.

“I thought we were supposed to go to Washington and get some files,” Trump said.

“Donald, sometimes you have to understand that life happens in sequence. You can’t just skip ahead to the bits you like.”

“That’s not true. Nope. Not true at all. There are a lot of things out there you can take to wake up days later.”

“There are repercussions to that,” Barack said.

“Leave him alone. He’s sort of a generous person. Not a bad guy,” Michelle replied.

“He gave you a paper weight. Now he’s not a ‘bad guy’. Do you hear yourself?”

“Calm down. You’re going to look flustered in front of Mitch.”

“Why are you always telling me that? I don’t care about Mitch. I don’t care about Mitch and his robust chin fat.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious you care about Mitch, Barack,” Donald said. “I mean, look how you said ‘chin fat.’ The man obviously carries a lot of emotional weight in your mind.”

“Well, just wait ’till you meet him, Donald. The guy is a piece of work.”

“You say that about everyone,” Michelle said.

Obviously pleased with himself, Trump diverted his attention to the buildings. There was something off about them. Like learning had taken place here. He could see the rows of empty desks through the windows. Without asking, he took a gold club from one of the nobles in suits, and used it to swing at a defenseless coffee cup. He sent a cocksure smile out into the world, then quickly lost sight of it as he lost sight of the Obamas.

“I don’t like it here,” Trump said to the man whose golf club he had stolen.

“You could always leave,” the man said, leaning back from the ghastly man.

Donald was shocked. Truly. He had never been spoken to that way by someone in a suit. And the Obamas were nowhere to be seen. He continued walking down the path, hoping to see a tour guide or something. All of the suited people seemed to be ignoring him. Finally, he pulled to the side a short man with a pinched asshole look on his face.

“Hey, do you know where Mitch is? Or the Obamas? Have you seen Michelle?”

“Uh…Mitch should be receiving visitors in the cafeteria. It’s his busiest time of day. You’ll want to go schedule an appointment.”

Donald was becoming dizzy. “Schedule an appointment?” Donald repeated. “I’ll just walk in, thanks.”

It took him another twenty minutes to find the sprawling cafeteria. An older looking gentleman that looked like a bull frog was sitting with the Obamas, smiling at them and looking a little flustered. He looked like he was having fun though.

“Hey, so you’re the Mitch Barack and Michelle have been talking about!” Donald said, his booming voice rolling across the massive chamber. “Mitch McConnell, I remember you!”

Suddenly, Trump felt something cold at the back of his head. It felt like a gun.

“Don’t move a muscle,” a cold-sounding voice said from behind. He was escorted–slowly– to the table where Mitch was sitting casually. Mitch drank from a small Styrofoam coffee cup, casually looking Donald in the eye.

“I can’t say it’s good to see you again, Donald.”

“You haven’t offered me anything to drink yet,” Donald stated frigidly, like it was just a fact to be tossed out of his mouth. He inwardly sighed. It just occurred to him that they would never reach Washington, the promised land. And his Mar-a-Lago felt a million miles away.

A Wasteland President, Part 11

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