"Mulvaney, come in here. I want to write a letter to Pelosi," Trump said, his tiny index finger struggling against the intercom button. As he released, he left one of his usual orange-red smudges on the device that the custodial staff had spent months figuring out how to remove.
"On my way sir," Mick Mulvaney replied, his face immediately exploding into a thick sheen of flop sweat that instantly drenched his MAGA polo shirt with the miniature Trump hair pin affixed to the chest pocket.
He downed a full bottle of Maalox and his innards gurgled.
He downed a full bottle of Maalox and his innards gurgled.
Swinging the door to the Oval Office open, the musk of sweat and something vaguely resembling urine crawled up Mulvaney's nostrils. He had tried to get used to it and often marveled at how easily Ivanka flowed in and out of the dank environment without retching.
Trump was intently staring at his television screen, watching his DVR'd edition of Fox and Friends and reveling in one of the few things in the entire world that brought joy into his heart. He barely noticed his aide and professional whipping boy enter and didn't acknowledge him.
Trump grunted and Mulvaney could hear the flem wash up against the backside of his boss' teeth. Without hesitation, Trump started his ranting. Mulvaney desperately tried to get the run-on sentences down, wishing he had taken a dictation class at some point.
Mulvaney didn't even bother to try and make sense of Trump's yammering. He had given up on that long ago and often told new aides to just go along with it no matter what. They had a team in place to comb through the nonsense, hoping that Trump was too addled to notice deletions.
As he wailed, Trump smashed his fist against the Resolute desk and winced in pain as the solid material slammed against his hands. Mulvaney took note of the action and made a note to tell the custodians the orange effluence would need to be scrubbed before the next morning.
Trump yelled "space force," "witch hunt," "hoax," and other terms he had picked up on TV and at his rallies, expelling his noxious breath in Mulvaney's direction without concern for the man's well-being. Spicer hadn't been able to withstand the onslaught.
Trump wheezed, signifying he was running out of steam. Mulvaney winced, quickly scanning the disjointed statement he had written down, terrified that the pen would soon run out of ink.
Trump wheezed again and fell to the floor, spent, resting on top of a rug in his own image.
Trump wheezed again and fell to the floor, spent, resting on top of a rug in his own image.
Mulvaney pulled the gaudishly gold-colored blanket Kellyanne Conway packed next to the desk for occasions such as these and pulled it over Trump, tucking the cloth under Trump's skin and shuddering as the little orange puddles formed on his fingertips.
It was over. For now.
It was over. For now.
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