EYTAN BAYME

A guy once told him a story about how lies could pile up on each other until they collapsed on top of the person telling them and crushed him to death. The guy had been cheating on his wife with a younger woman and feeding his wife bullshit until finally she flipped on him and went to the press. The marriage collapsed. He paid an enormous divorce settlement, filed for bankruptcy, his children were ridiculed about in school, and then he accidentally impregnated his mistress. The guy was him. And he had told himself the story many times since it had happened, but he never truly believed any of it, and he had made the same mistake again - and the only thing that kept him from making it a third time was his diminished interest in sex.

That’s not to say that he stopped lying. He lied all the time. To everyone, sometimes for no discernible reason whatsoever. Like just a moment ago when he told his wife he needed an hour of alone time to read an infrastructure report when he really just wanted to try out a new rub-in tanning lotion in the bathroom. It wouldn't have made a difference to her if she knew what he was up to, they rubbed tanning lotion onto each other all the time. But the lie just fell out of his mouth, like a poker chip-shaped turd, and he wasn't about to pretend like he hadn't meant to have it in there in the first place.

The tanning lotion had a sweet, baked goods-like scent to it, but it went on a little too sticky and he knew it would leave a brownish stain on the collar of his shirt and the back of his hair. The thing with the bricks piling up and collapsing story was that it was a bad metaphor, because when bricks actually fell on your head, your skull caved in on your brain and you died, which never happened to him, no matter how dishonest he was. Little ones or big ones, he’d never died - and wasn't there some saying about whatever not killing you only made you better? So really, lying made him a much better person, because he did it a lot and had always been alive.

The most recent lie he told fell into the big category. He had told everyone that he was Colossian, the prophet of God and had proof to prove it. It was an important lie because it meant that all his decisions were really just God’s decisions that he was implementing - and no one could argue with God. It meant that he could imprison or murder his opponents, steal whatever property he had his heart set on, enslave anyone he didn't like and rename the continent after himself. It was a great lie, and he was sure it wouldn't kill him.  Using his fore fingers, he rubbed some of the lotion into his nose, pushing it into the little corners where it met his face, massaging it along the bridge and even coating the inside of his nostrils with it. Now that he thought about it, the lie wasn't even that big. How many prophets of God were there in the bible? Hundreds? Thousands? He didn’t know. He'd never read it, but he was sure there were thousands. And what were prophets, anyway? Pruny, old women with headscarves, cheap jewelry and glass balls; who worked out of tiny storefronts on Bleeker street, spoke a bunch of mumbo jumbo and gave hand jobs for an extra fifty? He had nothing in common with prophets. If he wanted to tell a really big lie, he could have just said he was God, and not his little messenger boy running around delivering tiddily bits of news. He cursed himself for making him out to look so small in front of everyone. He didn’t pass messages along to anybody! Man, God, animal or woman!

Sticky as it was, the lotion felt nice on his face. It had a warming, tingling effect on his skin. From the kitchen he could smell steaks sizzling under the broiler, and he knew his wife was preparing his favorite meal: ketchup and steak. Ketchup was sweet and smooth, and steak was grisly, salty and could hold a lot of ketchup. It was the greatest meal in the world, no doubt about it. For dessert, he’d fill up on ice cream and leave his stomach in an unpleasant, but worth it, knot. Some liquid settled on his lower lip; his mouth was literally watering at thought, so he left the bathroom for the kitchen to get fed. But when he got there, the room was empty and there weren't any steaks in the oven. And he grew very angry, because someone was cooking steaks and deliberately keeping them from him. He stormed down the hallway, his bronzed face scowling at paintings of John Adams, Abe Lincoln, Something Truman and How-The-Hell-Was-He-Supposed-To-Know-Which Roosevelt. A bunch of elites —all of ‘em — looking down on him, judging him, thinking how much greater they are than him, plotting their next move against him. After he ate, he would tell someone to hang them all lower so he could be the one looking down on the stupid ex-presidents who left such a mess for him to clean up.

The whole goddamned place stunk of grilled meats!

The lotion was getting a bit too hot on his skin, but there was only so many things a man could get upset about at once. He stopped in front of one of his Secretary’s office and smelled the steak smell billowing from beneath the door door. He kicked it in with his wing-tip, expecting to find the piece of shit spearing prime rib from a Hibachi grill on his desk, but instead the man had his pants around his ankles, his palms and forehead were against the wall while the First Lady stood behind him pushing something long and green into him. No steak anywhere.

He watched in awe as the thing slid in and out, like a cat gliding in and out of a flap in a door. The skinny man’s skin sagged. He softly clucked. The First Lady had one shoe-less foot up against the wall, which was strange because she always wore heels with him. And it made him wonder, for a moment, if this meant something profound.

“Stop! I’m the best!” He lied. Truthfully, he hadn't had or even wanted an erection in the last 36 months. But he continued nevertheless: “I’m the greatest lay there ever was, probably better than any person to ever set foot in this building. In this whole country. People say that!”

“Uh, yes sir. Oh god,” the Secretary scrambled to cover himself. “Of course, you are.”

“I explain,” the First Lady said, her new, publicly funded breasts stood proudly, always in the direction of the flag. “It isn’t how it looks like. Very simple, really. I was helping him with the spreadsheets and then we decide to buy clothes, so the tailor ask us to get undress while he brings fabric and then we made this sexy joke for him when he return.”

“It would have been funny,” the secretary assured.

Just then another Secretary came running in with a bolt of black velvet. “Guys!” he said, “How about this one?” He burst into laughter, mechanically. “Oh they are such kidders!”

He wasn't an idiot. He knew something wasn't right. The First Lady knew nothing about spreadsheets. “You’re lying.”

“No, my love.” she said. “My love, your face: It looks like burning.”

“Don’t change the subject! You’re having an affair!”

“No!” they both said in unison.

“Sir,” the other Secretary then said. “I can’t keep up this charade. They were cheating and I was trying to cover for them.”

The new bill was something special. It would ban women from having sex before he met with them, approved of their partners and personally inspected their pussies. It was great for so many reasons. First and foremost, he was very good at choosing sexual partners for women. He had chosen partners for all his favourite children and for his three wives; and all of them were great choices. Second and foremost, the sex systems in place were just not working. Too many women made poor decisions about the men they had sex with, leaving the regular guy American to pick up the check. For instance, when a woman had sex with a criminal, the guy would continue his criminal behavior because he’d figure he must be doing something right if he was getting laid. It was entirely irresponsible for women to be giving sex to thieves and terrorists. Something had to change. Had any man, in all of history, ever been asked if he wanted to have sex? No. It always came down to how the woman felt about it and that had created the disaster they were in. But now, finally, the power would be taken back and placed in his responsible, intelligent and large hands. It would mean the end of STDs, because he’d spot them on the pussies and forbid them from having sex. It would end all rape because he wouldn't approve of sex with a rapist. And the whole abortion issue would become moot because he wouldn't okay sex with a guy who refused to wear protection. It was called the Pussy Order because he knew that lots of men found it difficult to say pussy front of women. That they were embarrassed by the way it made them purse their lips in a feminine way. That the only way lots of men could say it was very quickly or quietly, or while coughing and looking at their feet. It had even been a problem for him . In bed he’d say “Take out your pu—‘ without being able to finish the word. He’d found that it helped to have other men in the room — men who would nod along and clap his shoulder at how masterfully he could conduct sex. But that wasn't always practical and when he was alone with her, he felt naked saying anything at all— like a kid who'd watched lots of pornography, but didn’t know anything about real women— even vagina made him want to whimper on the bathroom floor and long for the soothing touch of his dead mother. One time he got so frustrated with his bedroom vocabulary that he put his hand in front of his wife’s face and shouted, “Just give me your snatch!” To which she responded by letting him fuck her, but with even less enthusiasm than usual. Anyway, by using pussy in the wording of the law, no man would ever again feel ashamed to say it in front of a woman.

Sure, there were haters who weren't behind the law, calling it an overreach, calling it misogynistical and even, in a few ridiculous cases, calling it widespread, state-sanctioned rape. But how could looking at pussies be rape? He had nothing but love for them. A few people rehashed the whole ‘grab em by the p-word,’ thing, but what no one ever got about that remark was that he had said it out of a sense of respect, that pussy was something he wanted to behold. Did they know how much stuff there was out there he didn’t want to behold? Grabbing it meant he valued it, wanted to foster it, wanted to capture  and ensure it was looked after appropriately. Besides, all women wanted to be grabbed there. It was basic human nature and anyone who thought otherwise didn’t understand the first thing about women. Anyway, this bill would be nothing but great for the country. Yes, it would take a considerable portion of his time, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. And besides, it would only apply to women between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, who weighed no more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds and were no shorter than five-foot-one.

He looked over at Killer Mike, who gave him a thumbs up. The Steve-machines saluted him. And all the women in the room were so proud, they were in tears. He poised his hand to scribble his kick-ass signature, but then realized he had to take a piss, and he excused himself to the bathroom.

He always preferred pissing in stalls instead of urinals. Contrary to what everyone thought, his penis was actually very small, and it didn’t extend far enough past his zipper to piss in a urinal without wetting himself. In a stall he could let his pants fall to the floor in a bunch by his ankles, and he could lean over the bowl and relieve himself while airing out his legs out at the same time. Inside the men’s room though, he found that the stall was already occupied. Something told him that he should wait for it to open up, but people were waiting for him, and he could see a pair of trousers bunched up at the floor beneath the partition so whoever was in there was obviously taking a shit,  and he really needed to piss. So against his better judgement he dropped his pants in front of the urinal, but the moment his gold belt buckle struck the tiles and he poised his dick in place with the tip of his pinkie fingernail, the toilet flushed. He was about to bend down when a weak stream of piss began to flow. Stopping now was out of the question.

“The D man!” shouted a familiar voice. He felt a large, warm hand slap his shoulder and disrupt the delicate balance with which he held his penis in place with. Urine soaked his legs and pants, and he cupped his hands over his crotch, but it only spread the piss out over his thighs and knees.

He looked over his shoulder and grimaced at the sight of Barack Obama. “Man! What the hell are you doing?”

“Was in the hood. Thought I’d see what’s happening in the office since retirement. Man, you and I piss the same way. Only thing is I only use the stall. Don't wanna be caught with my pants down. Lol!”

“Can you get outta here!” He shouted.

“Yeah, man. Sorry, didn’t realize I was intruding. Everything alright?”

“Yes! Fine! Just go!” One of his socks were so logged with urine, it squelched.

“Alright, I’m gone.”

He watched Barack move to the door and open it, but after a pause, he let it close again and then, strangely, locked the dead bolt.

“What are you doing?”

The ex-president turned around and stepped behind him. He could feel his hot, sweet breath on his thin scalp.

“I asked, what you’re doing?” He shouted.

In one swift movement Barack placed his hand on his neck and pushed his head into the wall, holding it there tight. He heard him unbuckle his belt and say, “Been wanting this for years,” and then something hard entered him. It pushed passed his anus, shredding his delicate, already chaffed skin, before plunging deep into his rectum and telescoping right up his colon.

“What the hell are you doing?” He shouted, his face full of cold tile.

“No one ever asks who I wanna fuck,” Barack said. “I’m fucking who I want to fuck.”

“But I don't want to be!” He pleaded. Barack’s penis was hard and unforgiving, like the unfinished leg of shaker dining chair.

“Why you saying that like it’s my problem?” Barack asked. His penis thrashed about inside him, pushing his lower intestines and stomach up towards his chest, doing untold damage, for sure.

“Please?” he cried. The tile tasted like window cleaner and the urinal flushed on his shirt. Barack crashed into him over and over again, demolishing him, ruining him, tearing him down like a piece of by-gone era Manhattan real estate. He longed for the horrible, deafening sound of a jackhammer chipping away at seventy-five year old concrete to drown out Barack’s pleasure grunts at each terrible thrust. He smelled shit and shea butter, and sweat was somehow dripping up his nostrils. He wanted to scream, but couldn't find his voice. He wanted to punch Barack away, but couldn't call upon the muscles in his hand. Finally, the forty fourth president shuddered, sighed and pulled out, a  something messy fell out of the forty fifth.

Barack let go of him and pulled his pants up before pushing him, only slightly gentler this time, into the urinal, saying “Mm,” and he walked out the door.

Gently, he closed the copy of The New York Times at its crease and set it down face up on the desk. He patted it softly and smiled. There were many people to call, much to tweet, lots of copies to order and send out to friends and enemies alike, but first, he just wanted to appreciate this moment, this feeling, this achievement, since there was no certainty that his name would appear in every single article of the entire New York Times, Monday edition - including Arts section - ever again.

He closed his eyes, sat straight and gripped the leather armrests. There was a flutter in his stomach, like moths flitting their wings, and he could tell his heartbeat was up. His finger tips felt weightless, his palms like rubber balls were being pressed into them. He sweat under the collar and there was definitely some kind of swelling going on inside his skull. His anus itched. This must have been what it felt like to be a larger than life solid gold statue, he thought. Shiny, heavy and difficult to melt. Accomplishments like these outlasted you. It was the difference between presidents like George Washington or Abe Lincoln - the one’s who were studied in elementary and high school - and those like Woodhamrow Somethingorother or Tricky Teddy Whateverhisname. And it strengthened his resolve even more that he couldn't remember any other presidents names.

There were fifty two articles in the paper that morning. Half of them were about him and his conflicts of interest or a vindictive comment he made or a piece of legislation he was pushing forward that, yes, would benefit his businesses, but reporters always failed to recognize the trickle down effect, that when he does well, the country does well. There were a bunch of articles in the middle of the paper that he skimmed through until finding his name. The term ‘The Trump Age’ was mentioned a handful of times which meant that he was on par with the Ice Age or the Stone Age or the Age of Innocence. In other words, time was him - which was a little difficult to wrap his head around completely, but nevertheless sounded great. He was all over the business and opinion pages. And in an obituary of some musician he'd never heard of, it said that the dead guy had “bought Dizzie Gillespie’s trumpet at auction,” which he was counting, whether anyone liked it or not.  

He opened his eyes. His head still hurt. He picked up his phone and started dialing.

“Ivanka,” he said, “I did it!” and he hung up.

“Mike, I did it!” He hung up.

“Rudy, I did it!”

“J-Dawg, I did it!”

“I did it, Stevemachine.”

He hung up on all of them and then called Reince: “Every citizen gets a copy of the Times today. The midday edition, not the late one - that one might be different. Also keep a thousand in storage and come get the one on my desk to send to the bronzer.”

He pulled a piece of scrap from his drawer and began writing his name on it over and over again. He loved seeing his name in print. It was handsome, sharp and very clear. No one ever asked him how to spell it or butchered the pronunciation. He remembered how long it had taken him to get Melania’s name right. How for the first three months of their relationship he couldn't stop calling her Melanie, and then, when he saw how it was spelled, he got even more confused. Melaynay-uh? How could someone so stunning have such a freakshow name? It was like he didn’t know this woman at all. And then, when he finally did get it right, right before the wedding, he got annoyed at the first A. Why couldn't it just be a normal sounding A? Why did it have to be so long and French-like? Couldn't she just change the whole thing to Brandy or Morgan - he always wanted to date a Morgan. Anyway, it turned out that Melania was a fine name, it was just no Trump, that was for sure. And yet, if he was being truly honest with himself, the U and the P were a bit weird, almost foreign-like; they weren't regular letters used in all the regular words he spoke; they were like handicap letters that you had to fall back on when the main ones failed you. Now the T and the R and the M, of course, were some of the strongest, most American letters in the whole alphabet. And sometimes he thought about writing a law that would make the letters TREMS sound like Trump so he’d only have the best letters in his name, but such a rule might confuse people, he realized.  He did think a good, new law would be to make TRUMP the highest scoring word in Scrabble and that when any player used it in Bananagrams they automatically won.

His head was really hurting now and he was getting angry so he paid a visit to his doctor. The man ran a series of tests on him, then sat him down and said that he was suffering from an inflated sense of self and that, if he didn’t stop focusing on himself so much, his head might burst.

The Donald was still thinking about the newspaper that morning and how truly wonderful an achievement it was. When he heard what the man was telling him though, he scowled and said that it was the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said and if anything, his sense of self wasn't inflated enough, that his sense of self should be the most inflated sense of self in the whole world. Zeppelin sized, actually.

But the doctor didn’t appear have heard him because he just repeated himself and said his self would explode if it got any bigger, and that’s when Donald Trump stood up and walked out of the office without paying.

On his way back to the White House his head was killing him, but he still tweeted.

And right after he hit the little tweet button, he heard a pop, like a sagging water balloon bursting in his head, and his headache magically disappeared. Great! he thought, I’m cured! But he knew something was wrong, because he forgot his name. It just seemed to disappear from his mind. And when the car dropped him off at the White House and he was led back into the Oval Office, he wracked his brain. Thhha- something, he thought. It was on the tip of his tongue but he just couldn't remember it. He looked at the name plate on his desk that read PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP but, for some reason, it didn’t register. He told the nearest body guard to bring in his daughter, but he had forgotten her name as well, and he forget the word daughter. And what came out of his mouth was: “Go get my… person.”

The bodyguard was confused and he brought back Steve-machine, who Donald knew was someone he was supposed to know, but couldn't for the life of him remember who he was. And Don Trump just stared down at his own lap and waited until Steve-machine left.

He’d begun to refer to his three favorite children as The Omertà; as in, “No one’s to bother me for the next hour, I’m meeting with The Omertà.” He didn’t know what the word meant exactly, but lately, when he was supposed to be reading national security reports, he’d locked the Oval office door and watched the Godfather trilogy over and over, and at the beginning of the third installment - his favorite - there was an ad for four leather bound Mario Puzo novels, one of which was called ‘Omertà,’ and damn did that have a nice ring to it. And so here was The Omertà, altogether in the Oval Office.

“I get that everyone thinks Brando is the greatest actor who ever lived,” he said from behind his President desk, “but what they don’t know is that Andy Garcia is very underrated, believe me. He just might be better.”

“Really, dad?” Eric asked. “Better than Brando?” “I don’t know,” Don Jr. said. “Remember the Freshman?”

“That movie was great,” said Eric. Then in a nasal voice: “Bueller. Bueller.”

“That’s not it,” Don Jr. said.

“Yes, it is!"

“He might be, dad,” Ivanka said in that authoritative way of hers where she held her fathers gaze and her brothers shut up in awe.

“See? I told you,” he said to the boys. In truth, he didn’t actually believe Andy Garcia was a better actor than Marlon Brando, but he hated that everyone thought Brando was so talented, like he was some national treasure. It was just acting - really, really good, heartbreaking, emotionally moving acting that struck him at his core as representative of what it meant to struggle at, and experience life as, a human being - but still just acting. Unlike glass and concrete buildings with laser etched signs out front bearing his name, Brando's performances died after the movie ended and the TV descended back into its 24 karat box at the foot of his bed. He’d never say out loud, but he was secretly happy when Brando died, over a decade ago, because it meant that the actor was no longer a threat to his own prestige. A lot of people thought Brando was the greatest, but now he was dead, and what better opportunity to show everyone that he, The Donald, was actually the greatest. He realized then that he should say this aloud and as The Omertà waited silently, he tweeted that he was so glad overrated Marlon Brando is dead bc now every1 can know who is actually the greatest!! DJT!!! Some other people he was looking forward to dying were Michael Jordan, Steven Spielberg, That Guy Who Everyone Mentions When They’re Talking About Soccer, Muslim Malalia Whatever-Her-Face, Madonna and The Queen of England.

He put his phone away and leaned over the alligator skin desktop, “So here’s what’s happening: We’re privatizing the hotel and gaming industry. We’re going to take it back from the people and make it all great again. No more crappy casinos and motels littering the country.” “But it’s already privatized,” Don Jr. said. “You mean you want to make it publicly owned?” “Whatever you want to call it. I’m saying it will all be Trump brand. Everything from Sally and Dave’s Stupid Bed and Breakfast in Crappytown, Maine to the MGM Grand on the Strip. All Trump, all ours.”

“How are we supposed to manage hundreds of thousands of businesses all of a sudden?” Eric asked. “It sounds like a lot of work.”

“What?”

“Will people even think this is a good idea?” Don Jr. wondered.

“What will happen to the owners of all those businesses?” Eric said. “They might have to start from scratch.”

“People might hate us for it.” Don Jr. said.

“They won’t hate us,” Ivanka said in that way of hers again. “We can do it and it’s going to be great. They'll love us for it. This is probably the best idea I’ve ever heard.”

The Donald grinned. “Exactly.”

“But is this even legal?” Eric asked.

“It’s one hundred percent legal. These are failing businesses. They need us.”

“It feels a little like stealing,” said Don Jr.

“It’s not, Don. Stop it. I got Jeff dealing with Congresss. You just be ready to sign the paperwork and hire the contractors, we’re gonna refurb everything in gold, platinum and diamond. There won’t be an Airbnb in this country without a hundred thousand square foot ballroom out the back.”

“Okay, dad.” Don said. “Sounds awesome.”

“Yeah,” Eric agreed. “One thing though, you promise?”

The Donald paused for a second to almost reflect upon himself, but he didn’t. “Of course I promise."

Just then the intercom came to life and his secretary - the not important kind - said the Attorney General Jeff Sessions was here.

“Okay. Send in our Jeff session,” DJT winked at Eric, who blushed. Sessions entered through the door that looked like it was trying to camouflage itself a section of wall and The Donald said, “I was just explaining the plan to The Omertà. Privatization! My new favorite word.”

“You mean nationalization, sir.”

“Whatever. The kids have it all worked out. They couldn’t be more excited."

“Right. Listen, I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t do it. Congress wasn’t into it. They thanked you for taking the time to bring them the proposal, but they can’t sign off.”

“What?”

“Maybe we can try again next year. Maybe we can ram it down the Senate's throat or use some kind of eminent domain angle, but we got to shelve it.”

The Donald stared at his palms. His meaty palms. His ‘meats’ as he liked to refer to them.'Meet my meat,' he’d said to countless world leaders and dignitaries before shaking their hands on tarmacs and state ballrooms around the globe. He wanted to wrap his meats around Jeff Sessions stupid throat. He had vouched for this man when no one else would and now he couldn’t do the one thing he asked of him. “That’s not fair,” he mumbled.

“Sir?” Sessions asked.

The Omertà looked confused.

“Let me tell you something,” DJT said, “This deal is good for everyone. It creates jobs. Name one person who wouldn’t stand to gain from this? You cant! Nothing says wealth and success better than Trump. I want this! And you said you could make it happen.”

“Yeah,” Don Jr echoed. “You said.”

“Yeah!” said Eric.

“Kids!” The Donald said, “Calm down. We don’t want a scene.”

“But he said so,” said Don Jr. “You promised and said that he would say so and now you’re going back on the promise you just made.”

“Easy, Don Jr.” The Donald felt the room getting away from him.

“No, Don Jr’s right,” Eric said. “Dads aren't supposed make promises and then take back their promises.”

The Donald looked at Ivanka for some levity, but she was staring at the floor. He turned his attention back to Sessions. “The Omertà is getting angry and I assure you it aint fun when they’re angry. They had their hearts set on this and you ruined it. I highly suggest you fix this.”

“But, I can’t.”

Don Jr then stood up calmly. He went to the fireplace and removed the painting of George Washington above it.

“Son?” Sessions asked.

But Don Jr. smashed it on the edge of a solid gold end table and it fell to the floor in tatters.

“Lord!” Sessions cried out. “Washington sat for that painting! It’s the only thing that survived the fire of 1814.” Something wet was dripping on his legs, and he realized that the other Trump son was standing very close to him. The boy’s pants were unzipped and he was urinating on him. “What in the name!"

“You said, dad!” Eric cried. “You said!”

Don Jr. hurled a crystal bust of Winston Churchill across the room and it exploded against the safe where the nuclear codes were stored.

The Donald stood up and moved behind his giant Presidents chair. No one knew what The Omertà could do when they were denied something he promised them, but Ivanka was still sitting which gave him a measure of relief.

“You better get this deal done, Jeff Sessions,” spit was flying off Eric’s lips and landing in the man’s eye. His penis was still out of his pants.

“I can’t,” Sessions pleaded. “There’s nothing we can do. Our hands are tied.”

The Donald looked down at his meats, they weren’t tied at all. He watched as Eric bit Jeff Sessions in the ear. “Now Eric,” he said. “Take it easy.”

“You promised!” the boy cried.

Don Jr. was setting the curtains on fire and smoke began to fill the room. The Donald knew he should have gotten the fire-proof curtains - the same thing had happened on Park Ave countless times - but, to be honest, he kind of liked the high pitch wail of the smoke alarm. Was there anything more relaxing than a noise so loud it drowned out life's constant self doubts and pervading sense of mediocrity? Was there any better way of escaping his wants and frustrations for a few fleeting, yet glorious moments than the ear drum popping, migraine inducing, arthritis stoking, high decibel cry of a cheap, Chinese-made, plastic and wire board gizmo that left the taste of matches in the back of his mouth? The Donald didn’t think so, and as that piercing wail began, he closed his eyes for a second to let it run its oh-so-delightful course through his body. But then he remembered Ivanka, he couldn’t let her out of his sight. And when he opened his eyes, her chair was empty. He looked at the platinum relief of himself hanging on the wall to his right, he looked at the ‘Dear Leader’-style mock-up statue that was set to be installed in front of all government buildings by the flag. “Where’s Ivanka!” He shouted.

“Sir,” blood was pouring from Session's ear. Eric had him in a choke hold. “Help me?”

“Where’s Ivanka!” He yelled again. The alarm was doing nothing for him, it was just a sound that could have been louder. Where was Ivanka? And then he felt something thin and rigid pierce his left eye. It went in about an inch and then stopped.

“You promised,” Ivanka seethed, clinging to his body like the foam gargoyles who clung to the fake turrets on top of the mixed use office space/Medieval Times arena he’d built outside Camden.

The Donald raised his meats to his shoulders and shook them, he shrieked loud and high and awful, and Eric let go of Jeff, Don Jr. hid behind a case of rub-on tanning lotion he’d agreed to place on the edge of the lectern at his upcoming state of the union, and Ivanka stepped back and dropped the other screwdriver she had planned to take his other eye out with. Even the smoke alarm turned off because, after all, nothing could truly silence his own sense of insufficiency. When he went quiet, he slumped into his President Chair and stared at his desk, and he remembered a time in the late eighties when things weren’t so good….

He was on the verge of bankruptcy, his marriage was in shambles and he was still recovering from his first tummy tuck. He, Ivana and the kids had gone to Dutch County Pennsylvania for the day in a stretch limo to visit Hershey Park. He could have taken them to Great Adventure, which was an hour closer, but secretly he wanted to go to Pennsylvania to stare at some Amish people. There was nothing more satisfying and inspiring to him than watching some idiot Amish pretend that they were still living in the seventeenth century while he was out chasing the gold and diamond encrusted American dream. After an agonizing afternoon at the amusement park, The Donald told the driver to pull over at a roadside country store where he hoped they’d find some. But their were no Amish inside and as the kids picked out flavored honey sticks a personalized keychains, The Donald stepped outside to get some fresh air. He wondered if he was going about his life the wrong way. Maybe he needed to dump the side chick and make it work with Ivana, maybe he needed to start over and take an honest job in Queens. He looked over at his driver, donning a boat admirals cap he told him he had to wear if he wanted to work for him. The man smoked a cigarette while staring at the sun, low over a hay colored meadow across the road. He seemed content and the Donald wondered for a moment if they could switch places. Would the man even want his life? Would anyone? In the meadow, three horses moseyed up to the edge of the road to chew some grass and when Ivanka strode out of the store, her arms loaded with crap, Don knew what was coming.

“Are those my horses, daddy?”

“No sweetie, let’s get in the car and go home.”

“Where are my horses, Daddy, the one’s you promised you’d get for me?”

“Sweetie, I will one day, but not right now.”

“Are those Ivanka’s horses?” Eric asked running out with his brother, both armed with newly purchased air rifles.

The afternoon unravelled from there. Ivanka clawed eight fingernail-sized frowny face scars under his chin and eyes, and the boys shot out his knee caps at point blank range while calling him horsefucker with more glee than he’d witnessed all day at the chocolate park. Ivana stood there arms crossed, smirking and the driver pretended he’d seen it all before. The horses didn’t look up from their meal.

When Ivana ushered the kids back inside to buy more stuff, Don sat up against the limo’s bumper, blotting blood from his face with his tie, his useless legs swelling inside his cotton suit pants like sausages filling out casings, and almost learned a lesson. He remembered a song, part of a song, by those guys who looked a little like women he’d probably fuck— You can’t always something something . But before he got the rest, a kid in burlap pants and a shirt that must have been stitched together with twine led, not a horse, but a mule - a fucking mule - down the road in front of him.

“Sir,” the kid said, nodding.

And The Donald did something he didnt often do: he laughed. He laughed loud and hard and smacked his thigh and shook his head like he’d never been told a funnier joke. He pushed himself off the street and said to his driver, “you see that guy?” Then he shouted for his family. “Let’s go get you a whole pack of horses, Ivanka!”

And he did.

It was the night of the inauguration and all the parties were over. Melania conked out hours ago. The kids were gone by one. Stevemachine and Mick said they had work in the morning, but Reince - who would’ve thought, Reince - stepped in for the save. And now they were flying - like a motorcade of space horses - north on 95. He wasn’t drunk, but damned if this wasn’t what drunk felt like. The ball at the resort was big - like really, really big; the one at the convention center was top notch - first class top notch; and the one at Hyatt was truly something - like something to behold right in the palm of your hand, like an actual ball. But this party wasn’t ending before the sun came up - not by a long shot - and sometimes it felt like the sun never came up over A.C. which was where he and Reince were headed at 3:36 in the morning in a bullet proof stretch Escalade.

“Like you mean it, you slow poke!” DJT screamed at Santino, the former navy seal driving the car. “Like your being chased by Taliban’s ISIS's!” 

Santino just barely nodded and the car raced forward. DJT felt his body press into the black leather seat and he pushed probably his most favorite button in the world, the button that raised the privacy glass.

“We need a word that everyone has to say after The Donald tell them what to do,” he said to Reince, sitting opposite him, "Like ‘ayay’ or ‘roger’ or ‘copy that.’ You know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir,” Reince said.

“I got it: ‘Maga.’ Right? Watch: Reince, pass me a sparkling water.”

“Maga, sir.” Reince passed him a bottle.

“Oh that’s great. Really. Let everyone on the team know about it. Everyone’s gonna be using it in a couple of days. And fire this guy tomorrow morning.  Can’t have a slow poke driving The Donald President around. We'll get Marine One to pick us up.”

“Maga.” Reince downed his Disaronno sour and poured himself another from the limo’s wet bar. “Sir?”

“I don’t need that. I’m high on the good stuff, the clean stuff, the stuff that never let’s you down. Full flavor Trump.” DJT thought to write that down to use as a tagline at some point later, but he was certain he’d remember it anyway. He pulled a gold comb from his breast pocket and pat his hair with it. “Let me tell you something, Rinsy: At a Donald A.C. party the slots are loose, the blackjack's no limit, the girls are tasty and the steaks are tasty also. My guy, Tony, he’s got everything set up for us; suites, jacuzzis, Cubans, full continental breakfast, thirty-six holes in the morning. The works. Don’t worry, I know you forgot your bathing suit, so Tony’s got you covered. Hey, let’s get real suits tomorrow? I’ll have my tailor helicoptered in. He’s Italian and the best. We got craps, by the way if that’s your game, but I peg you for a black jack guy - amirite? Anyway, Tony. The man’s gonna introduce you to the primest rib you ever met. Mark my words.” DJT glanced down at Reince’s pocket. “Go on.”

Reince almost spilled his drink rushing to pull his pad and paper out. “Uh, maga."

“Jesus, Rinsey, it’s a joke. We’re having a good time. 'Mark my words,’ c’mon? See that’s what the press doesnt get about The Donald. My humor. It's probably one of my greatest skills, The Donald's probably the most hilarious president in the history of the country, maybe even in the history of any country including those countries that don’t have presidents, the ones with prime misters, I’m funnier than them too.”

“Sir,” said Reince.

“If you’re more of a swordfish guy, I can make a call. It’s not a problem. Just say the word, Rinsed, you’re slipping into a prime time slot with me.” DJT looked out at the shadows of trees rushing by. A few feet ahead he could make out the side of the headlights illuminating the steel barrier running along the edge of the highway. If he narrowed his eyes just the right way, the legs beneath the barrier would disappear, like fan blades whizzing by, and the steel barrier would appear to be floating in mid air. One never ending silver ribbon hovering two feet above the asphalt from Miami to New Hampshire, or something. It was the probably one of the coolest tricks he knew about, and he had to admit that it made America great. The safety barriers alongside America's highways were already MAGAed, although no politicians ever talked about them, so he planned on taking credit for it at some point.

The Escalade lightened up on the acceleration and DJT felt his mood darken in equal measure. He lowered the privacy glass an inch and raised his voice. “We’re never gonna get there if this idiot keeps driving like he’s Miss Daisy. My twelve year old could get me to the casino faster than this. We coulda walked and we’d of been there by now.” Like more magic, the car picked up speed and the glass rose again.

DJT winked at Reince. “That’s how The Donald gets things done.”

All of a sudden the front of the car began to take off and Reince’s drink flew out of his hand and smashed DJT in the face.

“What the-

DJT watched as the roof of the car caved in on him and Reince flew towards him sideways and crashed into his midsection. DJT smelled burnt toast as he then crashed through the privacy glass head first. He really didnt want to see Santino again, but as he passed through the front seat and continued through the windshield, Santino was asleep with his head lodged inside the steering wheel, so it didn’t even matter. Outside it was cold and the asphalt on the Delaware Turnpike was a wet and gritty, which was really annoying. And DJT slept.

When he woke everything hurt and he went to grab his phone to tweet about the crazy thing that just happened to him, but his arms weren’t working properly. Also there was something large stuck in his mouth and the ceiling above him was just plain white. He heard his daughter say something but couldn’t see her and when he tried to call to her, his voice sounded like one of those deaf people’s voices, all garbled and dumb sounding. DJT fell back asleep.

It took a few more days before he felt lucid enough to listen to what the doctors had to say and another several weeks for all of it to fully sink in. He’d never walk again, he’d never lift his arms again, he’d never have sex with a woman again, he’d never tweet again or flip through a magazine, or step down the stairs of a big plane again. He’d never be able to cut up a slab of the primest rib you’ve ever seen again or walk onstage with the Sopranos theme song playing and the dry ice machine raging again and he’d never be able to wipe his own ass after the greatest shit of his life again. In fact, the greatest shits of his life were behind him now, along with most of the skin between his upper lip and scalp. With practice and patience he might be able to speak and learn to control a wheelchair with his breath.

In the months that followed everyone took turns wiping his ass and changing his catheter;  Barron and Tiff, his regular kids, J-dawg, Stevemachine, Mick, even Chris and Gulio all dutifully showed up to clean him down and tell him they admired him - all of them except Reince who was dead. But it wasn’t just his family and team that showed up to wipe his ass, Barry Hussein and his wife came by, Hill and Bill, Alicia Machado, Bruce Springsteen, a bunch of writers from Brooklyn, that Muslim guy from the DNC and people he’d referred to in the past as ‘lyin,’ ‘elite,’ ‘overrated,’ ‘out of touch,’ ‘cooky,’ ‘ugly’ and ‘fat tit monster.'  Whenever these people showed up unexpectedly, he wanted to ask them why they were here, but his voice still wasn’t working and so all he could was just look into their eyes as they reached behind him and hope they understood that he was grateful and humbled and never wished anything remotely similar to happen to them or anyone they loved.

There is a collection of 19th century erotic scrimshaw on display at a London art exhibit called Every Object Tells a Story. Lots of interesting items are on display at the show, only a small part of which are pornographic. For more information, visit http://www.everyobjecttellsastory.com