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Trump in Hell part 3


Trump Plans His Takeover

Satan was handsome, well-built and impeccably attired, with a pinstripe blue silk suit, bolo tie with silver clasp shaped like a lightning bolt, and snakeskin boots. He wore ruby and emerald rings on his long, tapered fingers. A soul patch occupied the space below his lower lip; both ears were pierced with skull earrings, while his red arms were heavily tattooed, in the Polynesian style. He looked, thought Melania, rather like Daniel Day-Lewis; she felt a tingling sexual attraction.

“Welcome, welcome, Donald John Trump and family, to my home,” Satan purred. “May I offer you a drink? We have Bleach-tinis, of course, but perhaps you’d rather have a nice hot glass of blood.”

“That sounds nice,” Ivanka said.

“Do you have anything to eat?” Eric inquired.

“Eric!” Melania glared at him. “Mind your manners!”

“No, no, the lad is right. It was rude of me not to offer you fare. You must be famished after all you’ve been through. Hermann!” Satan clapped his hands and a fat servant appeared, wearing a Gilbert & Sullivan-esque admiral’s uniform. “Hermann, bring my guests food. Roasted baby fingers, priests’ testicles, and that dip you made—”

“Puréed spleen of Jew.” Hermann clicked his heels. “Jawohl, mein Fuehrer.” He disappeared into what Trump presumed to be the kitchen.

“Hermann has been with me for more than seventy years now, ever since he committed suicide in Nuremburg Prison, just before he was to be hung. Such a good servant, although he tends to overdress. But I digress. Would you like a tour of my house? It was designed by Albert Speer.”

Melania was particularly interested in the interior design. “What would you call the style?” she asked her host.

“Oh, I supposed you’re call it Contemporary Hell. I’m not into these modern things—change for the sake of change. That’s why I had Speer design it: he’s a traditionalist.”

Melania zeroed in on a recamier in the style of Louis XIV. “Oh, what a lovely piece.”

“Yes, isn’t it,” Satan replied, crossing the room and stroking the couch like a dog’s head. “It belonged to my ex-wife, Leona Helmsley.”

Hermann arrived back with the food and drinks, and Satan and his guests sat around a fiery table and chatted. As Trump watched The Boss, his eyes narrowed into slits. Always an acute observer of men (provided they interested him), Trump was trying to figure out how this rather ordinary person had got to the exalted position of Ruler of Hell. Trump had known many famous, powerful men in his day; it had always been his impression that, beneath the outer layers of pomp and circumstance, most of them were small men who had stumbled into their elevated positions through luck—Wizards of Oz behind a concealing curtain. Certainly that had been his impression of Barack Obama. And what had happened in that case? Trump had replaced him. Could he not do the same here, in Hell?

That night, afterwards, Trump, Donald Jr. and Melania chatted in their new condo. Ivanka and Tiffany had gone out for the evening, to explore Hell and meet some new boys. Eric was tired, and went to bed early.

“This place is a dump,” Melania whined. The condo was cramped, hot and dirty. Cockroaches and ants were everywhere.

“Aw, it’s not so bad,” Donald Jr. said. “And the view of that boiling lake is pretty cool.”

“Look, guys, I want to run an idea past you.” Trump said.

“Uh oh,” Melania said. “The Donald has an idea.”

“What is it, pops?” asked Donald Jr.

“Looks like we’re gonna be stuck here in Hell for a long time. Maybe forever. Did you notice anything about Satan?”

Donald Jr. scratched his head and tried to remember if he’d noticed anything and, if so, what. Melania said, “He’s very good looking.”

Trump scowled. “Mel, he’s not just another Secret Service man you can fuck. I’d be very careful around him. But what I mean is, he’s this great, powerful guy that everybody kowtows to, right? Even Hitler. But you know what I saw?”

“What, pops?”

“A total loser. He’s faking it.”

Donald Jr.’s mouth opened in a wide O. “Really, pops? You think Satan is a loser?”

“No doubt about it. I know a loser when I see one. Obama, Hillary, Macron, Lyin’ Ted Cruz…you can see it in their eyes. Deer in the headlights, especially around me, because they know I’m a winner.”

“Dear, even if Satan is a loser,” Melania cautioned, “he still runs Hell.”

“Maybe not for much longer.” Trump had a faraway look in his eyes, red with flames.

“Dad! What are you saying?”

“I have never met a man whose place I couldn’t take, if I wanted to. I’m telling you, that Satan—he’s replaceable. Mel, how would you like to be the First Lady of Hell?”

Melania thought that over for a moment. “Would we be richer than we are now?”


“I’d like that, Donald. Very much.”

Just at that moment, there was a commotion at the front door. Ivanka and Tiffany had come home from their cruise through Hell. “Daddee! Daddee!” Ivanka cried. “You’ll never guess who I met! Grandpa Fred!” Indeed, Ivanka and Tiffany had brought their paternal grandfather, Trump’s father, Fred, back with them. He’d been in Hell since dying of a heart attack at a KKK rally in 1980.

“Hoo, boy,” said Fred, blue eyes flaming, still wearing his soiled white sheet. “I knew you’d make it here. Welcome to Hell, sonny boy! Let’s get some real estate deals going.”

Trump shook his father’s hand. “Dad, you don’t know the half of it. We’re gonna own Hell!” Everyone laughed maniacally. Melania envisioned her Hellish throne, Eric the slaves he would own, Fred the deals he would make, Ivanka the boys she would sleep with, Donald Jr. the enemies he would have killed. Tiffany thought at long last she could get out from Ivanka’s shadow and become a Princess of Hell in her own right. Silent in their midst, mirthless, was Trump, planning his next move.

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