The recently displaced president chewed dispiritedly on a piece of well-done, ketchup-soaked sirloin and thought about his displacement. At times, enviable Palm Beach views from the penthouse window distracted him from these thoughts, and other times not.
He kept an eye on the window of his email inbox, open on the greasy, foundation-lined laptop next to him. Swallowing the last mouthful of meat, he wiped a greasy, foundation-lined mouth with a wide red necktie loosely fastened to his neck—right as an automated email chirp alerted him of the new message.
The former president had half-expected it to be residual words of lukewarm affirmation from Ted Cruz, who he’d successfully intimidated the evening previous during a heated phone conversation. Donnie had vehemently insisted Cruz perpetuate attestations of Joe Biden’s early failures over Twitter. Following the discussion, Cruz had texted overnight clumsy phrases of endearment and affection that failed to permeate the former president.
Looking at his inbox, the former president tried to make up his mind as to how he felt about the new bolded solicitation. The sender line read ‘FROM THE OFFICE OF THE DEVIL.’
Certainly spam, the former president felt. Yet opening the body of the email made him less confident of this.
The email was as follows:
‘Dear Donnie
We must discuss your posthumous plans at once. As it stands, you have two options for afterlife. Please dial the following number upon reading.
I hope this message finds you well.
Best,
The Devil’
Certainly a form of spam, Donnie conceded. Or perhaps just more of the pranking he’d grown accustomed to in the twilight months of his tenure in Washington; myriad emails and letters containing affirmations of his firing prepared him well for more trivial fare like the message from “The Devil.”
Thinking of the nonsensical jests made him parched, causing Donnie to reach for the DIET COKE button on the far side of the desk. Eyes still on the email, Donnie’s ketchup-sticky fingers pushed the DIET COKE button, unaware of the severed, curling wires underneath that dangled over the desktop.
He discarded the email into the folder marked TRASH, when another email promptly came chirping into his inbox— ‘FROM THE DESK OF THE DEVIL.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Donnie. This is your future.
Fondly,
The Devil’
The same number was listed again.
Irritated, Donnie picked up his cell and dialed the number. A free hand reached over to hit the DIET COKE button a second time.
A voice answered on the other end immediately. “Donnie, baby! At last.”
“What kind of sick joke is this and why are you watching me?”
“Watching you, Donnie? Not me, pal. No sir, I’m where one can always find me—Hell! I never leave. Listen, pal, we got some things to discuss.”
Donnie leaned back in his chair. “My welfare.”
“That’s right,” said the Devil.
“What would the Devil know about my welfare?”
“Well, as it turns out, Donnie, you’re at a crossroads in your beautifully horrendous, sinful life, in which I must now intervene, and offer two options for your—er—retirement.”
“How do you figure? What’s my crossroads?”
“Donnie, baby, please. You’re seventy-four and considerably overweight. The dark, wide-fitting monkey suits can’t conceal that. Not on my TV, buddy. A better Devil would’ve made this call years ago, but I knew you were tied up, being American president and all. Now that it’s over, I figured you’d have the time...”
“For a phone conversation?”
“Not only this! Look, baby, you’re looking at two options for your afterlife. Let’s face it, heaven isn’t one. You’re a corrupt bad apple with no taste. Heaven isn’t feeling it, but I am. I’d love to have you down here.”
“What’s the other option?”
“Total complete nothingness. You’d be nothing. For all eternity.”
“Sounds awful...”
“Which is why I was hoping you’d come hang down here with me! It’s Hell but it ain’t nothing, baby. I must tell you, Hell is actually composed of two classes. There’s the common folk—KKK members, KGB, Libyan guerrillas, overzealous Manhattan parking enforcement officers, et cetera—that roam the fiery lands of Hell, and suffer for all eternity. That’s second class, but second class ain’t you, Donnie. First class is aboard my special cruise—the Big Hell Cruise!”
“Hmmm...”
“Yeah, baby, a permanent vacation for those who made a real name for themselves while still flesh and bone. Reserved for the special Hell residents. Not only are you entitled to the cruise, I’d like to invite you for a preview tour before it’s your time! At your earliest convenience.”
“Alright, fine, I accept. Hell cruise it is.” Donnie frowned at the DIET COKE button he had just pressed for the third time.
“Good choice, baby.”
“Just one condition.”
“Let’s have it, baby.”
“I’ll need unlimited Diet Coke, as soon as possible.”
*****
After brief consultation with his weekly planner, Donnie responded to the Devil’s email with a preferred tour date. Tomorrow, as it turned out, was wide open. Donnie indicated the appropriate date, and sent an email back to what he assumed was the Devil. With that business taken care of, he dialed for another sirloin well done, loosening further the soiled necktie as he did.
*****
Some time after the second slab of well done sirloin, Donnie stretched across the gilded sheets of his penthouse bed to have himself a little nap. Upon wakening, the presence of gilded ceiling inlays assured him he was still in Florida. Yet the views from the window bespoke of a different reality. He was in motion; what would’ve constituted ocean as yesterday’s closest body of water was now a sea of burping and bubbling lava surrounding him. Dried, desolate islands moved past. On distant shores he could make out men in various suits, uniforms, and costumes. Some resembled classmates of his from Wharton, one an accountant he once owed money to.
A tuneful knock on the door then, followed by a familiar voice which called from the other side. “One Diet Coke?”
Donnie opened the door to find the Devil; he was about his height, but the similarities stopped there. The Devil was dressed in a red tux, upon which red hands protruded from red sleeves. A red wrist wore a fine-looking red watch. The only accessory which violated this uniformity was the Diet Coke can in an outstretched red fist. “Welcome to the Big Hell Cruise, Donald. So glad you could make it.”
Donnie took the soda, nodding thanks as he untapped the can, taking a long sip. A sigh of relief accompanied a soft burp as he gave the Devil a once-over. “You know, Devil, some people might wonder where I’ve gone off to. I got a wife and a bunch of kids that depend on me...”
“Donnie, please. Stop worrying so much. Did you always worry like this? This is Hell Cruise. Relax, buddy.”
Donnie finished the Diet Coke and crushed the empty can. The Devil handed off a fresh one as Donnie dropped the empty to the floor. “So where do we go now?”
“Before we start the tour, I got something of a surprise for you…your neighbor on the other side of the wall…he has been dying to see you.”
“Fine. Who is it?”
The Devil motioned to a door in the far wall. Opening it, he poked his head into what was apparently another suite. “Ready for him?” Some excitable noises resounded from the other side of the wall. The voice which made them was familiar, and it made Donnie’s blood go cold.
The Devil moved aside, allowing Fred Trump to walk through the door. Fred studied his son, fiddling with his mustache. “Tssssk,” he said after a moment. His tongue exaggerated the ‘s’ so that he hissed like a snake.
The Diet Coke can dropped to the floor, spilling soda over a flame-patterned rug.
“Look who’s back!” The Devil cackled at Donnie.
Fred moved further into the room, regarding his son with another snake-like “Tssssk.”
“What’s the matter, Pop?”
“You tell me, boy…”
“You saw I was president I guess? I really went for it after you left, Pop. Four years of making America great. Made a ton of new jobs, built up the military...then those radical Dems rigged the election. All of my work will be ruined in no time. I got robbed, Pop.”
“Yessss,” Fred hissed back. “I’d say you got robbed, boy. Very badly, in fact….so? Why didn’t you rob it all back?”
“What are you talking about? I was knocking on everyone’s door trying to overturn the results! All we needed was 11,000 votes, Pop! I was calling governors. I got a legal team together—you remember Rudy, don’t you? You ought to see the country, Pop…my fans are out of their gourd. They fought right along with me…not believing the outcome, making all kinds of signs…some of ‘em actually still think I’m president!”
“Mmm,” said Fred. He sat on the bed and withdrew a cigar from his jacket. Biting off its cap, he spat the cigar head onto the floor before igniting the end.
Donnie looked at the Devil for assistance, who only smiled smugly back at him.
“There’s nothing I can do, Pop. They’re voting to impeach me so that I can’t run in ’24. I’m out of luck on this one.”
“Mmmm. It would seem…” Fred nodded, exhaling a thick cloud of cigar smoke. “You must know what that makes you, boy..”
“Don’t you say it…”
“Mmm...”
“You wouldn’t dare…”
Fred nodded to the Devil, who in turn beckoned to Donnie.
“What is it?”
The smirking Devil opened the door to Donnie’s room, summoning him with a long red fingernail. Stepping out into the hall, Donnie read the large placard mounted next to his door:
THE LOSER SUITE
Donnie shuddered, looked back at the Devil in disbelief.
“Sorry, baby,” said the Devil, putting his hands up. “It’s Hell, what can I say?”
“No! No no no no no!”
“You can’t imagine how I feel, boy,” Fred said as his son rejoined him in the room. “For all eternity, I must now live alongside this humiliation.”
“For all eternity,” the Devil echoed.
“No! I can’t, I just can’t…” Donnie ran across the room and opened the window. “I’m out! I want out!”
“Don’t be a fool, boy,” Fred said. “Stay with your father, and we Trumps will suffer together.”
“Not as a loser,” Donnie yelled back at them. “Not a loser, not a loser, not a loser…” Repeating this cant, Donnie mounted the windowsill. Closing his eyes from the sight of the molten sea of lava below, he jumped ship.
*****
“Not a loser…not a loser…not a loser…”
Donnie woke to find himself back in bed. He searched the room for his father and the Devil, but saw neither. Turning back the curtains, he sighed in relief at the sight of West Palm from the penthouse window.
Recounting the horrific dream, he sat at his laptop again, moving aside plates of fatty, ketchuppy remnants of well done sirloin. There was life to be lived still. To Donnie, that meant an opportunity to negate prospects of ever seeing his father again. Not only this, but the chance to delouse himself from the loser title of which he’d been relegated.
Opening Microsoft Office, he clicked upon COMPOSE NEW MESSAGE and started typing.
‘My Dearest POTUS,’ he began…
THE END
