Trumped

seven // sticky situations

Sticky Situations

Hillary is still forced to hide away in my mansion, sheltered from the harmful articles of the press. However, I don't know how long we can keep this up.

"Donald," Hillary says, "everybody already knows we're dating... perhaps it'd be best for all of us if we'd just go back into the public eye. Things like this blow over; in a couple centuries, practically nobody will care anymore."

While I agree with her, I tell her anyway, "Well, agree to disagree. This spiraling affair has already tarnished my clean reputation, and any added bad publicity can damage my chances at becoming the leader of the wor—ahem, president, I meant."

Her hair is graying more and more each waking moment, obviously due to stress. I'd suggest a double suicide, not unlike that of the famous star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet. Unfortunately, Hillary is not a big fan of Shakespeare (and neither am I, really. I did enjoy that one bit where Romeo and Juliet killed themselves. Truly delightful).

"Donald, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's time you knew the truth." Her eyes are dull, and it looks as if she needs Botox, for the amount of wrinkles riddled along her face is impossibly high.

"What do you mean, 'the truth?'" I question. If there's one thing I avoid as a successful politician, it's the truth. Integrity is one of my (very rare) weaker points.

"Well, I'm not sure how I can phrase this so your ego does not deflate, but... oh, Donald. You're the candidate with the largest amount of bad press. More than half of the American population is against you; the same thing could be said for me, of course. At least I'm honest, though. I did not have textual relations with that server."

I scoff indignantly. "Okay, sure, Hillary. Why, if you're not concerned an ounce about your image in the media, don't you just leave?" My eyebrows are pointed downward, I'm sure. I can feel my face get hotter with rage.

Hillary grabs her things and strides to the door. "Maybe I will. Goodbye, Donald."

I ignore her farewell and make a pointed gesture of looking in the opposite direction. I hear the door open, then close. Hillary is being bombarded by the paparazzi, but that's not my problem anymore.

I have a sneaking suspicion that we've just broken off our relationship. I'm hoping against hope that she'll come back, but it doesn't seem as if that's possible. Hillary is too far deep into the sea of photographers. There's probably not even a way out, the poor thing.

No, I tell myself. No feeling sorry for her. This is what she deserves.

As she makes her way though the enormous throng of photographers and interviewers, I can't help but feel a twinge of remorse. I think I may actually have real feelings for Hillary. Such a thing has never occurred before, not even with any of my wives. (I only married them for publicity and money, you see.)

I wave away these feelings with ease; this is a situation to deal with another day. All I want to do right now is relax in one of my master bedrooms and watch myself on the television.

✯ ✯ ✯

My eyes burn and I glance at one of the hallway mirrors. My face displays all the symptoms of sleep deprivation: red eyes, bags underneath my eyes that are the size of my mansion, and a frown plastered across my handsome face.

Even though I don't expect anything unusual to happen, I'm pulling an all nighter in hopes of catching the culprit who keeps breaking into my home. I know they haven't done any real damage aside from the walls that will cost me practically nothing to repair, but I would find great pleasure in capturing the perpetrator.

I check my solid gold watch; it's only two in the morning. I've still got four hours until dawn, and I may not have enough strength to make it until then. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I'll be able to succeed. I am, after all, Donald J. Trump, future leader of America (and perhaps, next, the world).

My eyelids are heavy... when was the last time I had gotten a face lift? Ha, ha... facelift, I think. Why would anybody get a facelift? Hillary would...

I'm becoming delirious from my lack of proper rest; I grab the glass of ice water I placed beside me earlier (for this precise reason), and douse myself in the chilling liquid. Immediately, I feel refreshed—though not for long, I suspect. Nonetheless, I am far more alert. The criminal won't slip past me this time.

I still am left wondering how exactly the intruder was able to get past my rock solid security team. I have several guards patrolling my mansion day and night, each extensively trained in martial arts. It's absolutely inconceivable that a simple peasant with (seemingly) no weaponry could break through the barriers I've secured around my property. This person has to be very skilled to be able to get past those obstacles (I'm surprised that the thorn bushes I had placed around the several acres of land that I owned didn't stop them! Honestly, I have top notch security. It's extremely odd that just anybody could sneak past it unnoticed).

My eyes water, and blinking does little to help. I glance at my watch once more. The time only reads three thirty four AM, and I still have a plentiful amount of time to kill before daybreak. I'm ready to go to sleep, but unfortunately, I've a criminal to catch.

Ding!

I jump in surprise, ready to take on the intruder. However, the sudden noise only came from one of my mobile cell phones. I squint at the bright light that the device was emitting; it was a sharp contrast to the dark hallway I currently was stationed at.

The new message is (of course) from Hillary. What is she doing up at this hour? And why would she think it appropriate to call me, while I could very well be sleeping—I'm not, but still—and especially after this afternoon's events?

Hillary's message is this: Donald, I think I may have an idea as to who the intruder is.

I reply back promptly, asking her who it could possibly be.

Her answer pops up on my phone as fast as I sent my previous message: Meet me on the roof.

I text her back with a thumbs up emoji, so she knows I understand.

At this point, I can only hope that she isn't pulling my leg. I've got to trust her, even if our relationship is strained right now.

I collect the supplies I had set out for the night and lug them into the living room. Leaving them there, I make my way to the grand staircase. My body trembles nervously, even though there's literally nothing to be anxious about.

I climb each step slowly, as if trying to prevent what I'm about to do. Maybe if I take an exceedingly long time to go up the staircase, she'll leave. Although, I do need the information she has.

It looks as if I have to continue on. It's either this, or attempt to catch the culprit on my own. Usually I'd choose the latter, but I suppose I could use assistance with this task.

At last, I am on the roof. Hillary is standing there as promised. The pantsuit she wears is adorned with important patterns and a necklace is around her neck.

"Alright, Donald. I know you've been waiting awhile for this, so I'll cut to the chase," she says.

I nod, daring not to speak a word.

"I think the one who's been breaking in i—"

She's cut off mid-sentence by an ear splitting crash that sounds within the realms of my home. I have a feeling we've been fooled yet again by the perpetrator.