Trumped

nine // arresting the culprit

Arresting the Culprit

"Holy hell," I mutter—even though I realize this sentence is an oxymoron, I can't stop it from slipping out. My head throbs and I think I may be seeing spots. The news is so utterly shocking I sit down on a floral patterned chair that I received as a gift from the Queen of England.

Hillary's eyes are also wide open with surprise. The facial expression she has currently makes it look as though she has thousands more wrinkles engraved into her elderly face. Her wig is slightly dispositioned and I resist the urge to reach out and adjust it. "My god, Donald. I'm honestly... I thought..."

My fist curls tightly into a ball and my knuckles turn white in contrast to my face, which has achieved a deep shade of red. If it weren't physically impossible, steam would be fuming out of my ears right now. "Christ, Hillary," I say in complete and total rage, "I trusted you. First our relationship's tragic ending and now you lie to me? You had told me it was Cruz, and what did my idiot self do? I believed you. Oh, god, I can't even look at you right now. I tolerated your disgusting appearance for the sake of our romance but now it's too painful even to glance at your unfortunate mien.

"You are the scum of this earth, I hope you realize. You are a filthy, lying weasel. I know about those emails, Hillary. Don't play dumb, even if you do lack basic intelligence. Enough with the lies! I can't even begin to fathom what would compel you to act in such a manner. I'm done with you. Leave. Now," I command, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

Hillary's mouth points downwards in a frown, and her eyes mist over. Tears threaten to spill out of her eyes and onto her cheeks. The scowl on her face gives off the illusion of a million wrinkles beset across her face. Even her pantsuit looks unappealing in this state. "Fine," she says, emotionless. Even though we aren't together, I sense that this situation strongly resembles our break up scene.

"Fine," I mimic. It's unintentional, but I don't sound as harsh as I want to.

"Fine," she says again. She collects her purse and storms out of the room.

"Fine!" I shout after her—for lack of a better word—even though she is already out of earshot by then. I'm overcome with anger and I splash some ice cold water onto my face in order to cool down, both physically and emotionally.

It's five in the morning and I'm left alone. It's quite pathetic, and I can't even wrap my mind around how I got into this situation.

I try to block out any thought of Hillary for now and I instead focus on Lindana. She's a poor woman, so how did she manage to break in as many times as she did? It baffles me as to how she even got past my top notch security, especially without weapons.

I still have Lindana's number saved in my phone—as Slave Woman, because she doesn't deserve her name as a contact title—so I opt to call her and inquire about this atrocity.

She doesn't pick up her phone the first three times I call her, so I do what any normal, civilized human being would do. I look her up on the Internet and find out her address so I can visit her home and address the matter personally. Thank god I'm so rich, otherwise I wouldn't be able to afford the costly expenses of obtaining one's address through the online world.

Once I have collected all necessary information, I enter my private jet and arrive to Lindana's home which is two towns over. (The journey was absolutely rigorous and I am not looking forward to making the return trip.)

The pavement in her neighborhood is cracked and has a bronze tint to it, unlike how it is in my neighborhood (the sidewalks are wonderfully pristine and free of litter). Dry patches of grass occasionally are visible among the vibrant green grass, and the bright orchids are a shock to the eye. To be honest, I don't appreciate their lack of consideration for those with less than perfect vision (of course, my vision is 20-20 and I'm perfect in every sense of the word).