A Wasteland President, Part 13

“Look, Mitch, we can talk this over. I’m a good guy. I know you’re a good guy.”

“Take a seat,” Mitch said. He shifted for a minute, not giving Donald much eye contact. Trump wondered if the former Senator was feeling guilty.

“I’m sure you must be very confused right now. You used to be the most powerful man in the country. Now, you’re…you’re…”

“A has-been?” Obama ventured.

“I believe we can still put him to good use,” Mitch said, giving the Obamas a blank stare.

“How were you able to come up with that theory?” Michelle said, and turned to Trump. “Sorry, Donald. You’re just not fit to serve.”

Trump took a breath, looking like a haughty, puff-chested partridge. “I can’t believe this! After all I’ve done for this country! I go to sleep for one hundred years, and this country ”

“I know, I know…Look, Donald. This isn’t easy for me. We’re still allies, as far as I’m concerned. It’s just that our roles have shifted.”

“Are you the man of the hour, Mitch? Have you betrayed me like they all do?”

Mitch’s face turned a very dark red. “Donald. Not at all. I’m just doing what I think is best for what humanity has left.”

Barack shook his head fiercely. “I know what you’re trying to do, Mr. McConnell. But you can’t reason with the man. It was my understanding he was going to be placed in care unit…specific to his needs.”

“We still need him. Elections are coming up soon…”

“You can’t be serious?!” Michelle said, peeling the skin off of a grape.

Obama put his hand on hers, taking the grape and putting it into his mouth. He titled his head thoughtfully. “Hmm. That’s a good grape.”

“Sour grapes,” Trump muttered, then said it louder. “You are all filled with sour grapes!”

“Donald, I thought you would be ecstatic at the news! Another chance to run for President. Not many have the opportunity…”

“I never stopped being President! Besides–”

“Mr. McConnell! Mitch. You keep trying to be the pragmatist…,” Barack started.

“…And? It has worked out thus far.”

“Circumstances are different,” Michelle said, and Barack nodded.

“The circumstances are very different.”

Trump nodded once to himself, as if he were making a decision. He stood up, turned around, grabbed the guard’s gun and knocked it out of his hand. He backed away, then turned and ran out of the cafeteria.

“Come back, Donald!” was the chorus he was used to hearing. But not this time. Things had changed too much for his liking. Run for President again? He became an old man after that. Never again.

After regaining his composure in an empty classroom, he looked up and noticed an air vent with the cover missing. Donald knew that as soon as he wormed his way through the opening, his life would never be the same. Maybe that was a good thing. Thinking about it, he realized he had too much respect for the law. Too much restraint. Worming his way through an air vent opening would change all that. Fuck up the system.

“Let it be done, ” Donald said to himself, and jumped into that square-shaped abyss.

A Wasteland President, Part 12

A Wasteland President, Part 14

A Wasteland President, Part 1

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