November 7, 2016
The crowd inside Trump Headquarters appeared disconsolate as their candidate had lost the election by 11 points to Hillary Clinton.
Still, they awaited a speech from their leader. A concession, yes, but also a degree of consolation, of inspiration for days to come.
Finally, at 1 am, Trump emerged. His orange hair strayed wildly, as if pulled in anxiety, as he ran onto the platform.
He threw himself to the platform, rolling inconsolably. The crowd watched uncomfortably.
Trump leapt up & raced to the three huge screens behind the podium. “How? How can this be?” he shouted at them. “ I am the only one who can do this!” Sweat dripped through his thick orange makeup as he grasped his tie, &, with a single tug at the frailly-woven Malaysian knot, pulled it off & threw it to the ground.
The jacket. Struggling to remove it from his bulging midsection, he pulled it off, one arm, then the other, & cast it with rage to the floor. Tearing at his shirt, without removing the buttons, & finally, 1 by 1, they popped, flying into the crowd as he threw the tanner-streaked garment bitterly to one side. He removed each shoe–in wild fury, yet taking care to avoid his severe congenital floating bone spurs, & slammed them to the podium.
Standing, in gold thong & socks, he then pleaded with media in the back of the room, in their cage, as if they could somehow, beyond government, beyond the Constitution, beyond the separation of powers, beyond reality: “Rematch! I demand a rematch!”
The 4 remaining credentialed media stared back silently. Despite all the power he had attributed to them, all the gauntlets he had thrown before them–there was nothing they could do.
Campaign officials approached, as Trump rolled to the floor, sobbing. He would not leave.
Finally, members of Trump’s trainee Deportation Force arose from the audience, & led him away, still sobbing, a trail of orange behind him, that grew thinner, & thinner, & finally disappeared as he left the stage.