Trump didn’t know what to do. He was scared, alone, and hungry. And mildly claustrophobic.
“I don’t know who to blame,” he whispered. “Mitch, Barack, Michelle. They’re all dirty, as far as I’m concerned.”
He slithered through the vents like a snake, wondering where his next meal was going to coming from. But the exercise was erasing his mind. Everything seemed clear now. Bannon wanted the FBI smeared in time for election season. What possible purpose could that serve?
“Looks like I underestimated you, Steve. Good job.”
Donald was seeing light at the end of the tunnel, even though he couldn’t fit Mitch inside Bannon’s grand scheme just yet. Who was working for whom? Was he still leader of the free world? And what about James Comey? What happened to the friggin’ nut job?
So many questions as he plopped out of an air vent hole, like a recently birthed seal.
“Hold your fire,” came Barack’s voice. “He wears the mantle.”
“The mantle? Who talks like that?” said Michelle.
“It’s simply short-hand for presidential privilege. These guys know what I mean.”
Trump rubbed the top of his head. “I don’t feel so good.” He looked pale and and his eyes were sunken. He could’ve sworn something bit him inside the vents, that suffocating hell of worm tunnels and endless conspiracies.
Barack walked up to the crescent of Secret Service agents, parting the suit-and-tie sea with his eyes. He offered a hand.
“Get up, Donald!” Barack commanded.
“Is this your way of apologizing? Then I accept,” Donald said, then Barack withdrew his hand.
“One of you guys give him a hand. I’m tired of his ****!”
A Secret Service man nodded and went to help the former president. After the incident had resolved itself, Donald caught up with Barack.
“You weren’t very nice to me back there,” Donald said, choking the hallway and preventing any further progress.
“Yeah. That was kinda the point. It’s been one hundred years, Donald. You haven’t grown up at all?”
“In my defense, I was asleep for most of that time.”
“Look. Michelle isn’t hear to defend you and go on and on about your little gift. A god damn paperweight. Anyway, you need to start taking things seriously.”
“You basically tried to have me committed. What’s the point of trying to take things seriously?”
“Barack!,” Michelle said, coming down the stairs.
“Michelle, this isn’t up for debate.”
“Someone has to be guiding the poor man.”
“I’m just trying to keep him outta harm’s way. That’s the same thing.”
Trump shifted his weight to his left hip, and folded both arms. “I think I should decide what qualifies as harm.”
“James Comey running for President harm enough?” Barack said.
“Say wha?” Trump blurted.
“We needed those files from the FBI secured, Donald. I didn’t want you, Bannon, Mitch, or anyone else getting near them. I had to make sure the operation was a success.”
Trump didn’t know how to respond, so he fainted. He woke up hours later, the hum of the car engine soothing him back into unconsciousness.
When he woke again, the moon had taken full reign of the bleak-looking streets. He had only one name on his mind. Kushner. He was going to write a letter to Kushner and send it via homing pigeon.
Trump painstakingly wrote the letter in silence with a severely bitten pencil and a wrinkled piece of paper he had stolen from the elementary school, peeking over at the driver’s and passenger’s seats to make sure no one was monitoring him.
After a solid hour writing, he folded up the piece of paper and stuck it between the pigeon’s claws. “Take this to Kushner,” he whispered, and opened the window quickly.
“Donald, what the hell are you doing?” Michelle said, pulling the car over.