A Wasteland President, Part 5

A Wasteland President, Part 5

Everything was dark and choked with dust. Donald couldn’t feel where his elbow ended and his tweeting finger began. He groped frantically through the cloud of dust and grabbed something soft. It was a hand.

“Easy there, Donald.”

Donald grunted and had to be pulled to his feet. When the dust cleared, he recognized the face of Michelle Obama.

“Michelle! Lovely to see you again, that’s a tasteful broach.”

“I’m not wearing a broach.”

“Oh.”

An intense silence followed, magnified by the Secret Service agents surrounding her.

“Are you alright, Donald?”

“Yeah. Just wondering why the agents are protecting you and not me.” He combed his fingers awkwardly through dusty hair. Everything was going to be okay. He just had to calm the fuck down.

“You’ve been gone for awhile.” There was another pause. “Look, we should go. Come with us. You should find that the Cadillac to your liking.”

At that, Trump brightened. Here he was starting to think that this new world was bereft of luxury. Before the Cadillac, he was starting to have dark thoughts. About not being alive. Not being subjected to the cruel and persistent elements. But the Cadillac…made it all worth it. What was the word? Appreciation?

“Just get in the trunk. You’ll be safer there. You might not be President anymore, but you pick up enemies like nobody’s business. You should stay out of sight.”

Trump didn’t care. At least he was in the Cadillac, it didn’t matter if he had to curl up into a little ball in the trunk. Once inside, his first instinct was to call Michelle, but he couldn’t find his cellphone. The world had gone to shit again.

The bumpy ride lasted a good three hours. He could hear conversation in the backseat. That made him pissed off. They shouldn’t be talking like that on the job. Where was their work ethic? They talked the whole way, too. Michelle didn’t do anything to shush them, which really pissed him off.

Just before his blood pressure really started to boil, the car gave one last bump and came to a halt.

“Get out, Donald.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And stay focused. We can’t afford to dawdle.”

“Dawdle? Excuse me?”

She rounded on him and slapped him with all her might.

Trump lurched forward, intending to run at her like a badger, but one of the Secret Service men stopped him, only for Michelle to bend his index finger, take the agent’s gun, and use it as a barrier between herself and Trump. Trump ran into the gun, knocking himself out again.

Once Trump woke up again, Michelle turned around and escorted the small party to the coast. Obama was resting in a lawn chair, soaking up a pale sun stunted by reasonably thick clouds.

“Obama!”

“Donald! It’s been about a hundred years!”

“That long? I keep forgetting.”

The pair shook hands just like old times, diplomatically and with a sense of deep loathing.

“Look around you, Donald. Isn’t it fantastic?”

“Everything is in ruins! This is terrible! Absolutely terrible…”

“Sure. But it has potential. Just look at what we can create if we really put our minds to it.”

“It’s a lost cause,” Michelle said, plopping into a lawn chair. “We should get a steamer boat and head overseas.”

“I haven’t lost faith in this great country,” Obama replied.

“Amen. Finally, something we can agree on,” Trump said.

“We’ve actually agreed on many things, Donald. You just have issues focusing.”

“So….why did Michelle save me?”

There was a slight pause.

“Because you’re very instrumental in what comes next.”

“I am?”

“Just take a seat,” Michelle said, indicating a chair. Trump obliged, thinking about how nice it was to not be standing, or sitting in a trunk. And finally, someone would be able to explain to him what was really going on.

 

A Wasteland President, Part 4

A Wasteland President, Part 6

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