Lauren

17

Lady and the Trump

The sun rose and everything fell. All the men, women, and children, even the pampered house pets of Beverly Hills walked on quivering legs. It started on the Fourth of July in the year 2030: the last year of Donald Trump’s seemingly endless reign as president. People were tripping out of bed, stumbling on the sidewalks, face planting on treadmills.
And it wasn’t temporary. As long as the sun was shining, everyone seemed to be wearing an invisible pair of two-sizes-too-big stilettos. When the sun finally descended for the day, people were finally able to move around without fear of toppling like a domino.
The change in balance was obvious. It couldn’t be ignored. Not by the creeps in cubicles, not by the gymnasts performing on a four-inch balance beam, and not even by the stiff officials working for Kim Jong An (the successor of Kim Jong Un, who choked on his first taste of a McDonald’s chicken nugget while visiting President Donald Trump in 2023. The CIA claimed they partnered with the fast food chain to plan the assassination, when in reality, McDonald’s chicken nuggets cause an average of 932,723 deaths a year without any help from the government).
There was something universal going on, and the sun was to blame.

“We have no choice,” began President Trump in a press conference he called on July 21st, his fingers gripping the podium to hold himself steady. He was elected to his first term of presidency in 2016, and was in the middle of his fourth term, dodging any Constitutional issues by throwing money (all bills featuring Trump with two thumbs up and a smug smile) at elderly, and questionably delusional, Supreme Court Justices.
Trump was first elected to the presidency in 2016 by a landslide vote. He appealed to many Americans with his outspoken patriotism, demonstrating his undying love for America by getting a Tramp Stamp (later called a Trump Stamp), of a majestic eagle in flight. The tattoo ended up being a great source of pride for Trump, and whenever he felt insulted by diplomats or officials, he simply turned around to flash the eagle, also known as “giving them the bird.”
Trump cleared his throat, straightened out his toupee, and continued on with the speech he had practiced in the mirror six times, looking for the exact words to emphasize: “We need to bring out the nuclear arsenal. We know the sun is the direct cause of this problem. On July 4th, the sun rose three millimeters higher than normal, throwing off our gravitational fields and causing all of this hullabaloo. The only solution is,” Trump paused for dramatic effect, “to blow up the sun, because this is America. And the America I grew up in didn’t wait around to be given answers, or help, or power. No, we used our true American supremacy to dominate this Earth. And soon, we will dominate the galaxy.”
Trump took a deep breath, clearly beaming with pride at this little speech, and was caught in a coughing fit. He wasn’t used to this much excitement, and three-fourths, well, more like eight-ninths, of his audience was secretly wishing that today, on that stage, the old buzzard would finally keel over at the ripe age of 84. Trump usually avoided the politics of his presidency, dealing only with the publicity, reading to small children who ripped off his gaudy toupee, appearing on daytime talk shows alongside Dr. Oz, or filming his own reality TV show for Lifetime: “Trumping Over Everyone Else.” The rest was left to his advisors, namely Alex Wright, a short, unattractive woman known for her notoriously dark-haired mustache that grew back no matter how many times hot wax was poured over it, often called The Third Eyebrow behind closed doors. Alex also claimed the title of Trump’s mistress, a secret that brought her plenty of shameful satisfaction.
Trump reached for his water glass, and he slowly regained his normal heavy mouth breathing in the microphone. The entire audience sighed in disappointment, infuriated that Trump would tease them with hope like that.
“So here’s what I say. I say, ‘Hey Sun, YOU’RE FIRED!’” At this point President Trump had attempted to fist pump, a big mistake. As he held onto his brittle right scapula, two advisors, including Alex, wobbled over and delivered him to a nearby wheelchair. No one had the heart to tell poor Don that the Sun was already made of fire, so using his overdone catchphrase was a bit redundant. There was a smattering of applause, but many reporters had already left, hoping to find a quality seat at the bar for the night. They had been covering President Trump and his lackluster presidency for almost fifteen years. Most veteran journalists stopped showing up to his press conferences, already knowing that President Trump’s speeches would contain something along the lines of American world domination, and end with someone, or something, getting fired. You can’t count on a lot in this world, one reporter had written at the beginning of Trump’s third term, but the monotony of Trump’s recycled speeches has become a steady rock in my life.
And even though no one knew it yet, today was different. Trump wasn’t letting his DTSP (Destroy The Sun Plan) fall through the cracks like he had with all of his other ideas. Alex was the first to realize this, as she lay, half-asleep, next to Trump, who was still in an arm sling to support his poor over-worked scapula, in his heated water bed.
“Goodnight Don,” Alex yawned.
“Someday,” Trump whispered, stroking Alex’s surprisingly soft mustache, “There will only be night.”
Trump had never discussed politics in bed. He told Alex that his 102 degree water bed was a sacred place, reserved only for Alex, and occasionally, his wife. He usually slept with a pillow stuffed with dollar bills instead of feathers, and told Alex stories of growing up in Queens. Maybe, in another time or a different life, they would be happily married, with small, hairy children. But not in this life. The President refused to make their relationship public, fearing a blemish in his perfect marriage to the medical-miracle of a miraculously-still-alive Betty White.
But he was happy to indulge in a little youthful pleasure with Alex, given that it all remain confidential. And Alex was satisfied with their arranged secret affair at first. But now, there was just one problem that arose in the basement of Alex’s usually strictly logical heart:
Alex was horribly, deeply, and passionately in love with President Donald Trump.

“TRUMP MOVES FORWARD WITH DTSP,” read the front page of the Wall Street Journal two weeks after the press conference. The story, written by Zayn Malik, sent waves through the public. After the teeny-bopper boy band named One Direction began moving in different directions, Malik attended Columbia University and got a degree in Journalism, with a minor in Women’s Studies.
The article read: The three remaining members of Congress passed President Donald Trump’s DTSP (Destroy The Sun Plan) yesterday, permitting him to move forward in the construction of an atomic bomb and a catapult to propel it toward the sun.
A committee of nuclear engineers has been formed and are working “at a Trump-like speed,” said right-hand advisor Alex Wright. “Trump has moved DTSP forward with more excitement and determination than I have ever seen in him,” explained Wright. “If anything else is done before the end of his fourth term, it will be the DTSP.”
The article continued to describe the steps Trump planned to take with DTSP, which included handing all of the work out to smarter individuals, and filming a special feature for his reality TV show titled “Trumping Over the Sun.”

“He’s really going through with this, isn’t he?”
Hillary Clinton sat across Alex Wright at the coffee table in the White House kitchen, the Sunday Wall Street Journal in one hand and an adorable espresso cup in the other.
“He is,” Alex told her. “Trump wants to reach up and pull the sun out of the sky.”
“He can’t possibly think it’s a good idea. I mean, yes, this gravitational field shift is an issue, but we can’t blow up the sun just because it rose a few inches higher than normal-”
“Millimeters,” Alex corrected her. “Three millimeters.”
“Well, someone will stop this DRSQ, or DTPSS, or whatever the hell his arrogant acronym is. Right? There’s someone who will get rid of it?”
“D-T-S-P. And no, I don’t think so. Hillary, you and I are the highest in power right below Trump. You’re Secretary of State, and I’m- I’m-”
“His advisor-turned-mistress,” finished Clinton. There was a hint of bitterness in her raspy voice, probably brought on by some Monica Lewinsky flashbacks. Alex never thought of herself as anything like the beautiful lover of good ‘ole Bill, but maybe they had more in common than she knew.
“Advisor,” continued Alex, standing up to get some more coffee from the pot by the twelve-burner stove. She leaned on wall for balance, but ended up pouring more coffee on the ground than in her cup. The gravitational shift was always the worst in the morning, right as the sun rose. “I’m still his advisor, just as much as you are.”
“Yeah, the only difference is that I don’t give him advice in bed,” snorted Hillary.
“Regardless of where I discuss policy, I am a serious politician. I want what’s best for him, and the country, which is why we need to shoot down the DTSP. Russia has been threatening nuclear war if we continue on with the plan, and they have other countries in support. Even Switzerland signed into an alliance with Russia, and promised to supply their army with 13,985 tons of chocolate every day in order to boost morale. This would be World War Four, and you know we can’t afford that. Two World Wars in one man’s presidency? It’s unprecedented.”
“Exactly. Which is why we have just cause to get Trump out of office. He’s eighty-four, for god’s sake. And yes, I may be eighty-three, but I’m not the one who has enough unbridled power and stupidity to end the entire world.” Hillary paused and leaned toward Alex. “You’ve tried talking him out of this, haven’t you? You’ve explained why it can’t happen?”
“Of course.”
Hillary sighed. “Back in the day, I would go to Congress with something like this. But since there’s only three members that haven’t abandoned their office, I think you know what we have to do. We launch the DTP: Dump Trump Plan.”
At this point, Alex and Hillary heard the all-too familiar screeching of First Lady Betty White’s walker on the tiled floor. She hobbled over to the coffee pot and, instead of pouring herself a cup, grabbed the entire pot and poured in an extravagant amount of pumpkin spice creamer. Sipping right from the spout of the coffee pot, the First Lady slowly made her way over to the table and sat next to the two nervous women. Even though she was 108 years old, Betty was still kicking (and punching, for that matter). She often did interviews for health magazines and shows, where the first question was always, “What’s your secret? How have you lived so long?” And Betty would, of course, attribute her remarkable health to an all-kale diet. Kale smoothies, kale salads, kale chips, kale juice, even kale face masks.
“Good morning ladies. Hope you don’t mind that I’m finishing off the coffee,” said Betty. Alex and Hillary smiled and shifted awkwardly in their chairs. Despite her age, Betty still had the ears of a bat (thanks to the kale enimas, she said), and Alex and Hillary knew that she had heard their conversation about DTP. “Don’t you think I should be involved in this little planning committee of yours? Don’t you think this is First Lady business?”
Alex’s thick eyebrows knotted up and figured she might as well fess up. “Betty, we think Trump needs to get out of office--”
“Yeah, so that makes you, me, and the rest of the world!” Betty laughed and slapped the table with a surprising amount of force. “I overheard about your little DTP arrangement, and I want in. After Don’s second term ended, I was beyond ready to settle down and retire in Cancun, like we had always talked about, lying on the beach together, sipping pina coladas out of pineapples until we die… Which, let’s face it, isn’t far off for either of us. I need my Cancun. I’ve been waiting so long to break out my coconut bra. So, how are we going to get Don out?”
Alex and Hillary glanced at each other and sent a mutual look of, “Why not?” They might as well take the First Lady’s help, even if the visual of Betty modelling a coconut bra was enough to make Alex and Hillary consider running to Canada.
Hillary had an idea. She had been dreaming about this coup d’etat since Trump’s fussy inauguration. “Here’s what I was thinking. Since no one really wants him as president, no one will protest if we just ship him off, right? We don’t need to stage a big trial or do any of that paperwork. This isn’t Watergate. I say we have you, Betty, take him on the jet and say you’re going to New York for a DTSP meeting. The pilot takes you to Saint Helena, that island off Africa where Napoleon was exiled, and you both live out your lives. You get your happy retirement, and we get Trump out of the country. He’ll have no cell phone, no private plane, no laptop, no way to get out. And when he’s gone, we have Alex take over as president. We haven’t seen Vice President Arnold Schwarzenegger in years, not since he took that vacation to Vegas in ‘21. The American people clearly don’t want me as president, or they would’ve elected me one of the five times I ran. So, I would say Alex is next in line.”
“I like it,” approved Betty, rubbing her palms together with a faraway look in her eyes. Her dreams were finally coming true. The coconut bra would become a reality. Hillary nodded and smiled, making the two of them look like partners-in-crime, a reincarnation of Bonnie and Clyde, plotting to steal the President.
Alex knew it had to be done. She had to say goodbye to the first man she had ever loved, and more importantly, who had loved her back. The first man who had encouraged her to leave her caterpillar mustache alone, stopping the endless waxing and shaving and plucking and bleaching.
She stared down at the coffee in her cup, the liquid still rocking back and forth in waves. There would be waves in Saint Helena, beautiful, flowing waves tickling her feet… And she pictured Trump lying in the sun, shedding his heavy toupee so she could rub sunscreen on his cueball of a head. The fantasy was too much for her. That was the sight that changed her mind.
“Alright,” she told the other two, swaying as she stood up from the table. “We’ll do it. Saturday night, Don and Betty leave for the island.”

On Friday morning, Alex called her friend, a private pilot, and scheduled a flight for two on his personal jet with the final destination of Elba, the island off Italy. “We need to leave at midnight tonight,” Alex demanded. And because the pilot had always been a little frightened by Alex and her ability to grow facial hair better than him, he complied.
Alex ordered two bottles of Bordeaux, one for Hillary and one for Betty. Before they were delivered to the separate rooms, Alex inserted a syringe of Valium in the corks and attached notes reading, It has been a pleasure working with you two women. Enjoy this Bordeaux and drink to a successful DTP tomorrow. Sincerely yours, AW.
By 11 o’clock on Friday night, Alex had packed two suitcases, filled a cooler with wine and cheese, and loaded it all onto the plane her pilot had landed on top of the White House. She rolled Trump’s wheelchair past Betty’s private room and Hillary’s office on the way to Trump’s bedroom, holding onto the walls to keep steady. Alex arrived at the door she knew so well, and took a deep breath. When Trump slept, he was dead to the world. Her secret plan was going to play out perfectly. Alex would make her smooth getaway with the love of her life, and Hillary could pick up the pieces of the country.
The world would get used to the gravitational shift. You could get used to almost anything if given enough time, Alex thought.
She had been standing in front of Trump’s door, lost in her thoughts and listening to his roaring snores. She checked her watch: 11:45 PM. It was time to get Don and run. Alex stared at the door handle and slowly turned the knob.