He scrambled down to the foyer, well, what passes for a ‘scramble’ wearing shoe lifts and a girdle.
He was nothing more than a wrinkled sack of grease and bile; once the Ozempic kicked in, his sagging skin draped from his fragile bones.
A few strips of corn husk glued to his scalp resembled the hair on a doll from the eighteenth century.
He knew he couldn’t move too fast or he would get winded and his Depends would make that damn swooshing sound again.
His gait resembled a drunken Minotaur with vertigo and bunions.
He sensed they all laughed at him.
Especially these uppity Europeans he was constantly meeting now that Putin’s boys were living so close.
He puffed out his chest and put on a scowl in the way his father had taught him - and how he then schooled his own boys.
The ‘Trump Power Stance’ along with his ‘White Titan’ that he had perfected over the years posing for tabloid news pics.
He remembered fondly the first time he was in People Magazine; it felt better than lust for the man who desired to be desired.
Deep down he knew he was unworthy of admiration but would settle now for being feared.
He was about to greet Viktor Orban, a man he admired greatly.
Still reeling from watching Biden on the world stage doing what he could never do: speak of something other than himself and not air his grievances.
He resented men of empathy and vision and how they inspired it in others.
Compassion was his enemy.
All he inspired was hate and in his heart he knew he deserved nothing more.
Why was Orban even here - what did he want?
It came through an intermediary to invite him but who sent him?
It must be on Vlad’s orders.
He hoped they weren’t looking for a stronger ‘strong man’ already.
‘F*ck, did the whole world see how weak he really was?’ He could feel it all slipping away.
He sniffed back the Adderall drip and waited.
Donald left the stage after his speech, feeling elated the pharmaceuticals hit his brain at the right moment.
Most days his synapses fired like an old Plymouth with timing issues but not tonight.
He hoped he would be back in the White House soon enough where he could get his hands on the good sh*t.
For now he would repair to his suite with some of the stepped-on stuff he gets from Don Jr.
The meet and greet with Orban went great, he could see much of himself in the younger man.
He had good hair for a dictator too - Trump admired that.
Some of those Trumpettes weren’t half bad in the audience tonight.
He wished Schiller was around like in the old days.
This Waltine kid was loyal but too short to pick up on the eye movements he and Keith had down to a science.
In the ‘good old days’ he’d pick out two at a time and they’d be waiting backstage when he was done taping.
Or better yet at the after-parties.
‘Apprentice’ days had it all.
Maybe this time around I’ll get the bikers into the White House, I need f*ckin' soldiers he thought to himself, not these pencil-necked lawyers that were always hanging around.
‘I’m making all these cases go away on Day F*ckin' One’ he thought to himself.
‘They won’t know what hit ‘em. Anybody objects they’re outta here…’
Vik Orban had taught him a few new tricks and he was itching to use them.
For now he was content to ruminate on retribution and wait for orders.
Kush had a WhatsApp working with MBS and the Kremlin.
That dude was weird AF and a little Lululemon for his tastes but he sure got sh*t done when it came to making money.
And even better at keeping it all in the dark.
That two billion he got from KSA really impressed the old man and the kid didn’t even flinch when US Intel described what they did to that WAPO reporter in Turkey.
He just sat there, cold-f*ckin’-blooded and didn’t bat an eye.
Of course with all the Botox that little freak uses how could he, the old man laughed ruefully to himself.
Vanky says he’s got big plans for the next term, we’ll see.
He might have to fight it out with Bannon again but that would be fun to watch - he liked nothing more than pitting his underlings against each other.
He wondered what old Steve was up to now that prison was looming and his last pardon wouldn’t save him.
They were all aware that the clock was ticking and November was their last shot.
This time they would leave nothing to chance.
The flamed-out, grizzled and mottled human gin blister stared at himself in the mirror.
Not much more than a decade ago he was living in Miami making bathtub meth low-budget porn while figuring out his next move.
Sure he went bust as a producer in Hollywood and made the move so many before him had - embracing the burgeoning neoCon-influencer movement.
MAGA wasn’t Pat Buchanan’s rank xenophobia and certainly a far cry from Buckley’s prep school-tweed-reactionary-fancy speak.
This was new, blood and guts, batsh*t crazy stuff and he wanted in.
He had heard about how much Limbaugh was bringing in sitting on his lazy ass popping pills and spewing hate.
Why shouldn’t a drunk like him with a three-day stubble and a librarian’s haircut get a piece of the pie as well?
Trump was his ticket and he wasn’t gonna miss out.
Besides he had enough dirt on Stone to get in early and that’s exactly what he did.
Some days he couldn’t believe the dumb bastards even gave him a desk in the White House.
If it wasn’t for Kush he would have stayed there too but that little weasel sold him out.
He’d get his revenge, he promised himself, as he buttoned his second shirt.
Carefully placing the multiple pens he always carried to stir his cocktails since he’d heard the CIA could poison a man with swizzle sticks.
They didn’t like loose ends and he was the loosest of all - but was killing it on his ‘War Room’ podcast and MAGA needed him.
Putin would surely send word to find him another role this time around.
He was the sort of man others avoided in airport bars, the kind who gave recitations on why the Germans were the real victims of the Treaty of Versailles, while dandruff fell like snow onto his soiled bomber jacket.
Crusty bits of egg stuck in the corner of his mouth.
It hurt to look at him.
When he first entered their orbit, he found the adult Trump kids to be as dumb as oxen without the work ethic.
He told Donald as much, not exactly endearing himself to the old man who thought Vanky was ‘a ten with brains’.
He thought she was a six at best but her dad was smitten.
He was hoping this time he would be able to extract cash upfront for his services.
Aware that now that Manafort was back the cash would be hoovered up quicker than rails in a bathroom stall at CPAC.
Hell, there was less coke on the ‘Hotel California’ tour than in MAGA world.
Not that he minded, though he ran mostly on scotch and beef jerky.
It kept him regular.
He recalled a recent face to face with the boss, “She’s a ten by any standards, look around you…”
“Sir, we’re in Mar-a-Lago, the Costco shrimp are fresher than these faces.”
“Still Vanky’s a ten Steve - and I need you to say it if you want back in…”
“Ok Sir, she’s a ten……in Seattle, maybe Portland.”
“How about in Dallas or Nashville?”
“No f*cking way man, are you high? Wait, don’t answer that, it’s a rhetorical statement and you never know who is listening…Sir, can we get to talking compensation? I feel that I’ve earned a raise. I can deliver you ALL of the militias and most of the Proud Boys.”
“Sure Steve, just make it happen this time. Capiche?”
"Some days he couldn’t believe the dumb bastards even gave him a desk in the White House"... yep, most of us can't believe it either and we will fight much harder this time to make sure you never see the Resolute Desk again. Thanks again Noel for another great addition....
Noel, you’re painting incredible images in my head. I can almost, ugh, smell the scenes. Great stuff!