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Trump Short Story

March 2018 – Trump Hotel, Las Vegas

You sit opposite her, ‘the wife’, Melania, at the dining table of your executive suite. As you tuck into the salmon and white Alba truffle, you both stay silent. Every now and again, you look up at her, you regard that dejected feline face, you remember the thrill of meeting her for the first time. But if you’re honest, the novelty has worn off, and you know deep down how much she despises you.

She takes a breath to speak, but doesn’t. You check your phone. The trash of the world are still scorning you for those comments you made about black disabled children. Pathetic. Sad.

“This is tremendous,” you say, referring to the food.

“Yes,” says Melania. For some reason, she whispers it.

Things haven’t quite worked out the way you thought, have they? All you ever wanted was to be the best, and what could be better than ‘president of the United States’? But they don’t respect you for it. Melania barely speaks, the kids are embarrassed of you, even Pence looks at you with that ‘I could do better’ smirk on his face.

Melania nudges her unfinished plate away, but you finish yours, and she sits and waits. Then she stands up, undresses, and lays on the bed. She knows what time it is.

You undress, you press your white-haired gelatinous body onto hers, and the whole thing is over in a couple of minutes. But that’s okay. That’s good. Speed is good, and recently this is the only time you truly feel in control. This person beneath you, she used to be a woman, but now she’s nothing but the world’s most expensive whore. You know it. She knows it. And that’s why, when it’s over, she gets up and curls naked on the chaise lounge. She’ll stay there until morning. She won’t say a word. And that’s fine with you.

But tonight, for whatever reason, you sit on the edge of the bed, and you watch her. She’s hugging herself. Her chest swells and slumps, swells and slumps. You did love her, once. I mean, sure, you liked her tits, you liked having her on your arm. But it was more than that. She made you laugh. Remember? Remember how funny she used to be? You sapped it out of her. You know it. You can see it in her eyes, the emptiness. She hasn’t made a joke in years.

You kiss Melania on the top of the head, careful not to wake her.

You adorn your best blue blazer. Your favourite red tie.

You stare into the mirror. You look good.

You check your phone again. You don’t respond, not yet.

You take the elevator to the 64th floor, then take the stairs to the roof.

It’s cold up here.

For perhaps half an hour, you stand in the breeze, bathed in the light of those five golden letters on the side of your building.


You lower yourself over the edge of the wall, and sit upon the M.The lights of Nevada. Music, shouting, cheering. The sounds of commerce. The sounds of winning and losing.

In your pocket is a noose made of all your best neckties.

You fasten it to the letter M, and loop it around your neck.

You tweet one final scold to the world.“You never deserved a president like me. SAD.”They can interpret that how they like.

You push yourself over the edge.

Almost instantly, the ties snap. You start to fall.

And as you hurtle towards the ground, as the wind blasts through that wispy hair, you wonder. Did any of it make any difference? Did the money ever really make you happy? Did it really gain you any respect? Did the power ever satisfy you? Did it make your family love you more? Did it solidify you in history as a hero, or a tyrant? Did you even enjoy it?

Maybe if you hadn’t built your towers so tall, you wouldn’t be falling so far.

You hit the pavement in a glorious explosion of red and gold and blue.

Melania breathes a sigh of relief.

The world tweets.