A Wasteland President, Part 15

Donald quickly closed his eyes and titled his head, in an effort to look unconscious. Unfortunately within less than a minute, he was unconscious, surfing the waves of the day’s events. He was fighting off a giant lyme tick on the shores of a tumultuous sea. James Comey walked casually along the beach, kicking up sand and sea shells.

“Comey! Hey!…James!” Donald yelled, but Comey kept walking, head down. As he reached the edge of Donald’s dreamscape, a Bannon orc materialized from a shimmering portal, cutting Comey down and vanishing back through the portal in the blink of an eye.

Donald woke with a lump in his heart. He felt tired. Like he could sleep away the next several decades. “Where am I?” he asked. He could hear a cold voice over a speaker system.

“You’re in the hospital, Donald,” Mitch’s voice said. “You fainted for the second time tonight.”

“I need to get to D.C. I need to get those tapes!”

Mitch smiled through Donald’s blurry vision. It seemed gentle and authentic. “You’re not going anywhere. Look, Barack’s team has everything under control.”

“I don’t trust him! He’ll use the tapes against me! He wiretapped me! He sabotaged by Presidency from Day 1!”

“Look in the mirror, Mr. President. You’ve sabotaged yourself,” said Barack, nodding to Mitch. Barack had such a cold look on his face, as if he didn’t care if Donald lived or died.

“Take a look, and remember this is only temporary,” Mitch said.

Trump gazed into the mirror, expecting to see his formidable features. Instead, he saw a remarkably pale man with black, spidery veins clinging to the left side of his face.

“What the hell happened to me?”

“You were bitten by  a Lyme tick. Relax. In a few months, everything is going to be fine,” Mitch said. He leaned closer. “You know, I have a private room here. Best establishment in the whole city. You’re going to love it!”

“The man is suffering from advanced Lyme disease, and all you can talk about is how nice the accommodations are.” Barack said.

“Where’s Michelle?” Mitch asked.

“Looking after things.”

“I…I think I need to lie down.”

The pair of men nodded, putting on their stately masks as they went away.

Donald had lied to them just then. In fact, it wasn’t the first time he had done so. He needed to get those tapes. Maybe he could hitchhike. Take a bus. Something! He had to wait until the nurses ended their shifts and everything died down a little.

The night eventually slowed, with the staff’s voices falling to a simmer and then eventually the only sounds left were the hums of the various machines keeping him alive. He started the mighty task of removing each of the prying tentacles, quietly, semi-efficiently.

After 20 minutes or so, he had freed himself. Donald looked out the window. He was on the third floor. But that wouldn’t stop him. He tied some sheets together, and slid down the silky serpent without so much as a second thought.

Donald stood in front of the hospital, behind some bushes. For the first time in a great while, he was happy. He had cut himself from the Obamas and the nasty ball of entangled headphone cords known as politics. The sky was the limit. He was preparing for the fact that he would have to defend himself occasionally in this new world, but there was always a price to pay for freedom.

A Wasteland President, Part 14

A Wasteland President, Part 1



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