Black Books-Chapter Five

A fictional account of life in MAGAritaville.

He stumbled down to the omelette bar at Bedminster, a small replica of the much grander one at Mar-a-Lago he so cherished.

His staff had simply set up a table in the corner of the dining room, covered it in a tablecloth and added a hot plate and a line cook wearing a toque.

Vinnie from Parsippany had drawn the short straw this morning and instead of kicking out eggs benny with the rest of the kitchen crew, he was face to face with the man he both feared and admired.

A neat row of miniature ketchup bottles were arranged on one end of the table but the old man sensed something was amiss.

The servers - only women per his orders - looked different.

They lacked the plump lips and plasticine faces he had become so accustomed to in Palm Beach.

Nary a butt implant in sight, the relatively normal looks of New Jersey horse country was jarring to him.

He pined for a bee-stung pout and stripper hair.

This certainly wasn’t the Jersey of his hey day in Atlantic City.

Hell, he was wearing more hairspray than most of the women in this room.

It made him feel claustrophobic, exposed.

He needed everything to feel like a fucking pageant, even breakfast.

“Extra bacon, extra cheese,” he barked at the young man holding the skillet.

“Christ it’s cold in here.”

It had been in the low 50s overnight and the ride over from his private bungalow in the golf cart had been downright jarring.

His old man nipples poked out from underneath his custom ‘POTUS 45’ golf shirt, the cold breeze made it appear as if someone had thrown a bed sheet over a couple of traffic cones.

It was disconcerting to his fellow diners but they worked hard to pretend to not to notice.

A valuable skill for anyone choosing to spend time around such a man.

His eyes were merely slits this morning like some ancient monitor lizard that had just crawled out of his cave into the sunlight.

His mottled skin appeared to crackle and flake as he moved through the room.

The clanking sound of the hard plastic girdle he poured himself into every morning made him sound like one of those robots in a Star Wars movie.

The swooshing sound of the Depends he wore underneath his golf pants provided counterpoint and announced his arrival.

As did the noxious fumes that emanated from the thin-lipped hole in the lower half of his painted orange face.

He was breathing heavy this morning, each exhalation filled up the room with the fetid stench of a Cosco dumpster in July.

One half expected seagulls to appear overhead each time he opened his mouth.

The members followed protocol and addressed him as ‘Mr. President’ but he was in no mood for pleasantries this morning; it dawned on even him that the honorific they pasted in place of his name would never truly be an official title again.

He had passed out early last night and his aides had resorted to posting memes of down-ballot MAGA candidates that had ‘won’ thanks to his endorsement.

The election was still over two months away so the aides attempt to cover for his benzoed disappearance was comical at best.

After Monday night they knew he needed the sedation, they were almost grateful they had been spared his watching the second night of the DNC live.

He woke this morning feeling groggy and addled but was soon seeing what he had missed.

The horror seemed to settle into his brittle bones.

Each word rang out like a bell tolling only for him; clever, succinct, cutting.

Night two had been his worst fears realized.

He was mocked mercilessly, at least that’s how he saw it through his bloodshot eyes.

The fact that it was coming from a couple he both envied and feared made it sting all that much more.

Barack Obama was smarter, fitter and a better man than he would ever be.

He could never measure up, not in looks, not in talent, not in being loved.

He knew that and they knew that but the fact that he went after the thing he had feared the most cut him to the core.

His size, or lack thereof, was his Achilles heel so to speak - and a shortcoming he would prefer to keep secret.

Although it was anything but a secret to those who knew well enough or had been forced into seeing it.

His diminutive phallus was the stuff of legend and more than one NDA among the professional escorts and brothels of New York City.

One former paid companion had described it as a ‘small mushroom that a dog had chewed on’.

Words that cut him to the core and the quick.

His small hands and leprechaun feet were relatively minor in his personal sensitivities compared to the tadpole that lived between the folds of his suprapubic fat.

Sticking out like a clove bud stuck into a dollar store ham.

Insignificant and minor, much like his intellect and his family’s accomplishments.

They had been handed down their wealth and used it only to further their own grift - and now it felt as if they were fools on the world stage.

Their goal was always to avoid accountability or any circumstance where they would be judged on merit instead of given a free pass; as if nepotism alone would be all they would ever need.

Now their legacy of lies was being exposed to an arena of smarter, happier people and it wounded the broken septuagenarian in a way he hadn’t quite felt before; no amount of Adderall or forced adulation was gonna make him feel better.

At least not this morning.

He sulked at his table in the corner as a server placed a greasy omelette on cheap china in front of him and failed to look him in the eye.

He knew in that moment that even his staff had lost all respect for him.

He was certain the hushed voices he heard all around him were mocking his manhood too.

The speed had always increased his paranoia but now it was as if the gears in his brain had shifted into overdrive.

A hyper-kinetic motion that made it all but impossible to think or to focus, which if he was being honest, was never his strong suit: thankfully for him he was incapable of honesty.

His father had taught him it was a weakness.

Like empathy or compassion.

Now he lacked the ability to soothe himself.

He felt broken, it both alarmed and angered him.

He knew he needed to lash out at something, anything.

To do what he had always done when the emotions of his intrinsic inferiority swelled like a symphony in his chest.

He needed to hurt something back.

He knew who to call and turned to an aide, barking a command as little bits of egg and masticated bacon flew from his mouth.

His voice coming out in a way that sounded like half scream, half whimper.

“Get me Jared on the phone!”