Trumped

three // the thrilling affair

The Thrilling Affair

I pull apart from Hillary, this time I'm the one in awe. And it takes quite a lot to amaze me, I've got some pretty high standards.

I stare into her eyes, taking in every detail. Others think she's a terrible looking person, and I have to agree. She's the most hideous person I've ever met. Hillary Clinton is straight up horrifying. But that ugliness is what I love about her. It's quite surprising actually, that an ugly hag such as herself ended up with a breathtaking model such as I. But, her ugliness is irrelevant. I love her.

Hillary smiles flirtatiously. "I've cheated on Bill plenty of times, but none of those men could ever compare to you, Donald."

If I had a heart, surely it would swell with appreciation. I feel so lucky to have such a considerate woman in my life. Our relationship has only just begun, but it feels as though we've been together for ages.

I stroke her hair, which is essentially hay as it is so coarse and unhealthy, seductively and she giggles. Usually I consider elderly people severely unattractive, especially when they're happy. But Hillary changes all of that. Of course, I still find older folks grotesque, but certainly not Hillary Clinton.

"So," she says. "Let's play twenty questions. I'll go first."

As she says this, I can't help but keep my gaze on her chapped lips. They're simply disgusting, but all I want to do is kiss them. I force myself to make eye contact with her. "Sounds great," I say.

"Okay. Let's see," she says, thinking. "What's your favorite color?"

I think about this for a moment. I don't really have a favorite color, but instead I say, "Black," as it matches my soul. I don't add this part, but it's the truth.

She grins. "Black is very elegant," she says. "Alright, you go!"

I think for a few seconds, then ask, "What's your ideal amount of income?"

She answers without hesitation, "A million dollars an hour."

I nod appreciatively. "Nice."

Hillary leans over and pecks me on the cheek. I'm flattered and so I pet her hair.

We go back and forth with questions for thirty minutes or so, and then the game is over. I know so much about Hillary now, and she knows so much about me, as well. Even though it's an extremely unwise decision concerning my positive publicity, I want to shout about my love for Hillary. I decide against it, obviously. Our relationship must remain secret for the time being.

"Donald," Hillary says, twirling her gray hair around her finger seductively, "this is the most thrilling affair I've had in quite a long time. I hope our relationship stays like this forever."

That's it. I swiftly tear off my toupee for her and she laughs, shocked at my boldness. I raise my eyebrows, and Hillary strokes my shiny, balding head.

"I have a confession to make," she announces suddenly. She rips the hear from her head with ease, as if it's a wig. "This is a wig. I lost my real hair in a biking accident back in '93, I hope you're not angry."

If anything, this makes me love her even more. I feel adrenaline coarse through my veins and I feel a surge of power zip through me. I gently hold her ear in my hand and yell into it, "I love you, bald or not!"

Hillary winces at the noise but recovers quickly. She then gasps happily at my sudden outburst—oh my God, I'm embarrassing myself! I quickly shut my mouth and return to my usual state of arrogance and being the best of the best.

Hillary doesn't seem to mind, though. That's why I love her, just upon meeting her. I predict the wedding will be happening soon.

✯ ✯ ✯

Hillary's left and now I've taken to ruthless yelling at Patricia; she still hasn't caught the intruder.

"I'm so sorry-"

"-nonsense!" I say. "If you were truly sorry, you wouldn't be wasting your time like this. You haven't even caught a glimpse of who broke in; I'm starting to think you made the entire thing up!"

Her eyes are wide and she shakes her head quickly, but I have no mercy. "That's it," I boom, "you're fired."

She scoffs and leaves as fast as she can. I wipe some nonexistent dust from my forehead and sigh with relief. "I'm going to need another secretary!" I say, out loud. But, in all honesty, I may need a break from these atrocious employees. Their work is nothing short of failure, when indeed I need a hardworking soul who will tend to my needs of utmost importance.

Bored, I flick on the television and the news is on. There's a flattering image of me, and the headliner says Is Trump the Latest Meme of 2k16?

I scoff, silly people and their fads. I have no idea what a meme is, but if I am one, surely they must be boosting my publicity. I pay attention to the newscaster. His mustache is large and bushy, and his hair looks very unkempt. "Donald Trump seems to be the latest meme trending on social media. His arrogance and temper have gotten him into some hot water, and teenagers all over America—and even in other parts of the world—have created memes poking fun at Trump and his unfortunate outbursts and snobbishness."

I gasp, horrified. I know I'm arrogant and snobbish, it's what sets me above all those other pesky people. But why would they make fun of me? I'm such a magnificent person with no flaws, there's literally nothing to laugh at—except possibly my dashing sense of humor. Ah, that must be it. They're going along with my amazing sense of humor. Ha, as if anyone would dare make fun of me. If anything, I'm the one who should be laughing at other people's flaws and misfortunes.

I snap my fingers, summoning a servant, but nobody appears. Ever since I accidentally killed my wife, I've had to keep hiring services and secretaries. I realize I might actually have to get up and get myself some tea. I can't believe it. I have to do something on my own, how astonishing! Me, world famous billionaire, Donald Trump, is being forced to get up and make my own tea.

I'm absolutely repulsed at the thought of doing something without assistance. Despite my chilling thoughts, I brave my way to one of the kitchens.

There, I open a large cupboard. There's lots of fine china in there, and I grab the fanciest teacup.

I am just about to get started when I remember I don't know how to make tea. Ugh, this is why I have secretaries! How am I supposed to survive without others doing simple tasks for me? I'm so nauseated at the thought of living like a normal citizen that I feel as though I may faint.

I'm getting dizzy, I need to sit down. I make my way to a different living room and get comfortable on one of my many couches. I let my eyes flutter shut and I slowly drift off, my thoughts of tea and secretaries slipping away along with my consciousness.