Thread by @owillis

Trumpalago: The Deepest State Continues...

Ivanka stabbed the knife into the gaps between her fingers, her hand a blur as she moved left to right then right to left. The tattooed man rubbed his chin, his eyes transfixed.
"Satisfied?" she asked.
He nodded.
"So we have a deal."
"20 of my best men."
"Good."

Sarah Sanders typed away on her laptop as Hope Hicks lit a cigar. "Are you gettin' all this, Sarah?" "Yes ma'am." "Good."
Hope was fed up. This whole operation, since day one, had been a complete clusterfuck. Shit was going to change, if she had to make heads roll.

The fake mustache kept brushing against Barack Obama's nose. It made him want to sneeze. He looked around the dimly lit Macau casino and wondered why nobody could recognize him. It was just a mustache. Was everyone really that oblivious? Michelle nudged him with an elbow.

Joe Biden liked being outside, especially after all those years of DC offices and cloakrooms. "Real pine," he thought, as he brought the axe down on the chunk of lumber. "Fucking 'A'"

Donald Trump shoved the pie into his mouth, filling every nook and cranny with flaky crust and gooey apples. He always had this problem. He saw the food, and the blinding impulse that shot through his brain was to get the pie down his gullet, no matter how. He sometimes choked.

Kellyanne Conway dabbed at the corners of his mouth. This was not why she had worked her way through Republican politics. But the pay was decent, and she had his ear, and frankly, she was addicted to appearing on CNN. It gave her a high no drug could.

"More!" Trump yelled.

"Always bet on bla-- ouch!"
Obama winced as Michelle squeezed his hand. With his other, he reached for his winning chips.
Michelle loved him, but sweet Jesus, he made the same cornball quips no matter where they were, the South Side, the White House, or undercover at a casino.

Eric Trump woke up with a start. He rubbed the crust out of his eyes and quickly looked around. Some kind of shed. He was cold. He looked down at his ghost-white hands. Something black appeared to cover the edges of his fingertips.

Blood.
Again.

George W. Bush sat in a rocking chair staring at the bed. Dick Cheney. Inert. The equipment showed no breathing. No heartbeat. Bush had held vigil for 7 straight days. He and Rove had followed the manual precisely.

"Damn you, Dick. Git up."
Cheney was still.

Mitch McConnell rolled his head back and listened to the recording of screams. It thrilled him, and filled him with the energy he needed to go on. Paul Ryan entered the dark basement, carrying a bucket filled with raw octopus.
"Jiminy, Mitch, it's dark as all heck in here."

McConnell hissed in response, then beckoned Ryan closer. He preferred fresher seafood, when it was still squirming, but this would have to do. He would send his manservant to Maryland on the weekend. He had to keep his strength up.

Mother sipped her drink. Pence sat in the drawing room, listening to hymns. As usual. If he had seen her, he would have assumed it was "juice," like he always did. She loved the hard liquor. She loved how clueless he was about it all.

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The small crowd clapped as John Kerry finished his song and pulled the clarinet away from his lips. He smiled a wide, toothy grin. "Just a little something I picked up in Marseille," he remarked, a gleam in his eye.

Kerry hated admitting it, but he liked the adulation. He had been raised to be more humble, but Kerry loved a crowd. It always reminded him of '04, and what could have been. As he stepped away from the group and towards the fire pit, his phone rang.

Donald Jr had to swipe at his screen 20 times before the phone would unlock. He had such a hard time with it, every time. He was excited. He had such great ideas for what he would tweet. The guys at Infowars would love it. He felt like a soldier on the front lines.

Tweeting got him away from the headaches. Dealing with all the contractors who demanded he actually pay them. And Eric was having his episodes again. He hadn't seen him for days, and that would be a mess. But Don Jr had his tweets. Daddy would be proud. Probably not though.

Donald Trump stared at the young woman who had just walked into the Oval Office. He flashed a smile, but couldn't understand why her face looked familiar.
"Hello," he said, extending a hand, "miss--"
"Daddy, it's me. Tiffany."

"Oh God, here he comes again," said the Senator, ducking his head down in hopes that he wouldn't be noticed.

"Senator," said Devin Nunes, grinning broadly and waving furiously.
"Hello, Devin."

Nunes was now legendary on Capitol Hill for his crackpot conspiracy theories.

"I've authored a highly classified and sensitive memo on a series of abuses within our government," the California congressman continued.

He proceeded to hand the Senator a packet of disheveled papers.

"Devin, this is written in crayon."

Nunes nodded excitedly.

Marco Rubio held his arms out at the end of his story, expecting a laugh. Even a chuckle. Kellyanne Conway did neither.

"You're funny. Not amusing," she said, crushing his spirit. For the past two months they had gotten closer. Plotting. He was a pleaser.

Trump scratched his head.
"Tiffany" did not ring a bell.
"Your daughter," General Kelly offered.
"But she's..."
"The other one," he hastily added. "Not the boy."
"Oh." His grin weakened. He stood up and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder.
"Well, er, hi, sweetheart?"

Hillary was spending way too much time in the garage for Bill's taste. Long married, they had settled into a routine. She did her thing, he did his. But this time in the garage weirded him out. Especially when she walked into the house, overalls covered in oil stains.

"Have fun, dear?"
"Yes," she replied.
He wanted to ask her ten million questions. What was she doing in there? Why was she doing it? He bit his bottom lip until his teeth left indentations.
"Okay, dear."
Hillary chuckled to herself, knowing it drove Bill mad not knowing.

Michelle adjusted her blonde wig in the bathroom mirror. Barack was out there on the casino floor, doing his charm thing. She liked to give him room to work. He was a natural but he always pulled back when she was too close. This way, he could get it done.

The blackjack dealer felt the tall, skinny man had an oddly familiar look, but she could not place the mustache. She felt like he was the type of person she could speak to. He felt strangely like ... a neighbor? Like some sort of conscientious neighbor.

Obama nodded as the dealer spoke, mentally cataloguing everything she said. It was a trick he had picked up in the dead of winter in Iowa. Now, it was almost like second nature. He didn't like deceiving people. But she had information the world would need.

Mitt Romney knocked on the door using the pattern he had learned at the initiation ceremony on his 19th birthday. As the giant wooden door slid open, he whistled "zip-a-dee-doo-dah."

"Hello, friend," he told the doorman as he took his coat. This place felt like home.

Looking up to the vaulted ceiling, he thought just how much they were the right height. Everything here was perfect.

The doorman handed him his jet-black cloak.

"The fellows are here?"
"Almost all of them. The ritual begins soon."
"Capital."

Jared Kushner was hot and uncomfortable, but he dared not say it out loud within earshot of Ivanka. But it was true. He didn't know why they were down here in South America, not even at a resort or something he was used to, but instead in the jungle.

He sucked down his juice with tiny, concentrated sips. Earlier, he had overdone it and gotten lightheaded. He had at first resented the child-sized juice box, the same ones his daughter drank from. But they were yummy.

There were so many bugs, and the sweat dripped down his thin neck and down his spine. It was much more fun back at the White House in his nice office, where he could just sit in the overstuffed leather chair and play Nintendo Switch all day. But Ivanka said go, so they went.

She walked across the uneven stone path in her high heels, expertly balancing herself. It was a trick she had picked up at finishing school, and now, even without her instructors around, it came second nature to Ivanka.

There were a line of men, the best her contact had to offer. They were all killers. But she wanted their skills to be honed. They fired at the targets and she watched to see how good their marksmanship was. She would accept nothing but the best.

"Ivankafada" was the name she was thinking of for her militia. She was going to do some brand testing to make sure it worked. But she felt confident it was the right name, and when the time came, they would kill in her name without hesitation.

"Rockin' Red, my favorite flavor," Jared thought as he sucked down another juice. "I hope there's a mint on my pillow when we get back."