Leye - Every other Wednesday
It was a cold, cold day in New York, but it was warm in Trump Tower. The mogul whose name the tower bears had just settled into his golden settee, a gold trimmed housecoat smug against his skin, and he was watching President Obama on Fox News when a Russian spy walked into the parlour fit for kings and queens, and dropped a dossier on his exposed laps.
He looked up at the spy for an explanation, and non-forthcoming, he opened the manila file to see what this was all about. A dozen blown-up photographs fell onto the Persian rug beneath. A dozen more remained in his hands. There he was, in Technicolor, HD, as if the photographer had been in the room with him giving instructions for the photo-shoot. It had been a great day in that hotel room in Russia. A great day with great girls. All tens. But not anymore.
Still clutching sheets of the damming evidence, he looked up at the spy standing over him and he began to do what he does best. Negotiate.
‘You want a divorce?’ he asked. It would be like any other business deal.
‘No. You will receive your instructions tomorrow.’
‘Instructions? What instructions? You got lawyers already?’
‘No. I told you. This is not about divorce. Tomorrow at five o’clock you will receive instructions.’
‘What is this? Blackmail? You want money?’
At this, Melania laughed. It was a laugh he had never seen her laugh before. It threw her head back and made her breasts shake and shiver. And it was long. It was long and loud, and when she looked at him again, she had tears in her eyes. Tears. He had never heard her laugh like that before. It was real, this laughter, this time.
With the back of her hands she mopped tears from her face, careful not to scratch her skin with the diamonds on her fingers. When she was sufficiently recovered, she explained it to him.
‘Moscow wants you to be president of the United States. You will receive a call and get your instructions. I don’t have to fuck you anymore.’
And she laughed that laugh again as she left, leaving him with the pictures, with profound confusion, and with a hole in his belly the size of his last divorce settlement. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
When the call came, it was not as he expected. The voice on the phone spoke fluent English. They even sounded English. British. They asked how he was doing, how his day was going, was he happy to have the talk now or would he rather fix another appointment? He could not wait another full day, feeling sick in the tommy and staying clear of Melania. A Russian spy. All this time. Whoa. How did he not see it? A whole lot of things made sense now.
He nodded that he was ready to talk and the man on the phone continued. It was then that he looked out the window. How did they know he’d nodded ‘yes’?
‘We’ve made all arrangements to support you. You just have to run for President and we will do the rest.’
‘What do you want?’ Donald asked when the man on the phone had stopped talking.
‘For you to be president,’ the man said.
‘And if I’m president, what would you want from me then?’
‘Not If, my Trump. When. When you become president, you will receive further instructions.’
He wanted to tell the man how crazy it was. He was never going to win the Republican nomination let alone run for president, and even if he did somehow run, who in their right senses would vote for him? But he didn’t say it. The Art of the Deal. Never show your hand. He already had a hand. He would beat them at this. They were dealing with Donald J. Trump.
And so it was that Mr Trump did everything to make sure he did not win the Republican nomination. Everything. He spoke crazy, he aligned with the KKK, he insulted Muslims, he insulted women, he insulted Mexico. He did everything to get disqualified. But he won. How in the God did that happen? He won.
Ok. There was still the campaign. He could still beat the Russians. He had this. He cranked up the crazy. He said he’d build a wall. A great wall, and he’d make Mexico pay for it. He said he’d ban Muslims. All Muslims. He lied. He lied and lied and lied. He lied about his lies. He said crazy stuff. He mocked a disabled man. He considered using the N word. That could have done it.
He said he’d punish women who got abortions. He said all sorts of crazy shit. He did everything to loose to Hillary. It should be a walk in Central Park to loose to Hillary, but he wasn’t taking chances. He mocked her. He said he’d lock her up. He publicly called upon Russia to hack her. He did it on live tele. Surely, they would disqualify him for that. Maybe even arrest him. For good measure he said Putin was a good guy.
Then the tape came out. There he was on record, boasting of grabbing women by their ….. Whoa! The polls were savage. God was on his side. Surely, he would loose by so great a margin, the damn Russians won’t be on his case for the next four years, preparing him to try again. Getting him ready to run against President Hillary Clinton.
Then the FBI told the world they had received new evidence and they were investigating Hillary and he knew it was the Russians. They were stopping at nothing. Damn.
Three million fewer Americans voted for him but he won. He fucking won. Against Hillary. He fucking won. He was President. Fuck. They did it. They had grabbed him by the p... They had him. Fuck. What would they make him do? What would they ask him for? The nuclear code? What?
But, the deal is never done till it’s done. Losers quit. Not Donald J. Trump. He could still beat them. He could still do it before the inauguration. He went full loco. But even that failed and he was sworn in.
Each day alone in the White House (Malenia had made it clear; she did not have to fuck him anymore. She would not move with him into the White House) he waited for the call to come. Each day it did not come, the patriot in him dreamt up new ways to sabotage the Russians. He sent ever-crazier tweets. He slammed the phone on world leaders. He lied about the size of the crowd at his inauguration. He made his press secretary lie. He tweeted even more batshit crazy.
You can use people’s perception of you to your advantage. They thought he was stupid. He’d built this entire empire, made all this money, and the damn democrats were calling him stupid. They underestimated him, the fools. Maybe if they hadn’t they would have done more to make Hillary win. It should not have been up to him alone to loose the damn election. But Russia underestimated him as well. They also thought he was stupid. They would not suspect that he’d taken the time to read the law and that he knew he could be impeached. He played his Trump card. Obama illegally wiretapped him.
Sure enough, the press went wild. Even Fox had started to turn against him. Friends called to warn him of the implications. His daughter called. Senators called. Heads of states called, secretly. Then the Chief of the CIA called and asked for a private meeting. No cameras, no press, back door into the White House, that sort of thing. This was it. The man was going to tell him how big a mistake he’d made. Great. Fantastic. He would tell him to go suck his… or something like that. Or he’d tweet during the meeting. Something like, ‘Crooked chief justice telling me to hide Obama’s criminal bugging of my building.’ Yeah. That would do it. They’d have no choice. They would ask him to resign.
The Chief arrived. Donald received him in the Oval office. Donald refused to shake hands with the man. Never drop the con. He was mad. He was unstable. He was not fit to be President. Damn, he was dangerous as President. (And he was, only that they didn’t know it. They didn’t know that the Russians had put him there for a reason.)
‘Mr President, before you say anything,’ the CIA chief said, ‘every word uttered in this room is recorded.’
As if he wouldn’t know that. Donald nodded. The man thought him an imbecile. Good. Get on with it.
‘I thought I’d have this conversation with you,’ the man continued, ‘about the wiretap allegations.’
‘Yes. He did it. He committed a crime and I’m gonna have him arrested and deported to Kenya.’ Batshit crazy. Stay in character.
‘Yes, yes. Remember what I told you about this room?’
‘Now you’re wasting my time.’ He checked the time on his wristwatch as if he had somewhere else to be.
‘Our boys are the ones listening,’ the Chief said.
Who else’s boys would it be?
‘I just want you to know it,’ the CIA boss said. ‘We are always listening.’
There was something about the way he said it. Starring straight into Donald’s eyes. What was he saying?
‘Moscow is always listening,’ the Chief said. ‘We know what you’re trying to do. You will not be impeached. You will not be asked to resign. We will find proof that Obama bugged you. But you must stop this nonsense. It’s become annoying. Here are your instructions…’