Donald awoke and took a moment to orient himself. For some reason, he’d decided to see what it would be like to sleep in each of the 58 bedrooms he had at Mar a Lago. He reached across to the other side of the bed, but, of course, she wasn’t there. He had no idea where she was these days. Instead, he felt the warm bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken next to him.
This was part of the fee that Jack C. Massey, the former owner of KFC, had paid to “The Donald” to close a deal for the narrow strip of land between Mar-a-Lago and the beach owned by Massey, who had threatened to build a home that would block Trump’s beach view. Donald had to pay millions and was having trouble closing the deal. At the last moment, with it all falling apart, the idea of a free bucket of chicken for the rest of his life had finally gotten Trump to okay the transaction.
After breakfast in bed, Donald got dressed and began to walk slowly through the mansion. With its many bedrooms, 33 bathrooms, 29-foot-long pietra dura marble-topped dining table, 12 fireplaces, and three bomb shelters, this took some time.
He smiled as he passed through the massive ballroom and remembered that in this very room, Lisa Marie Presley had shared her first kiss with Michael Jackson. “Wacko Jacko.” He’d let them spend their honeymoon there. It was also where he and Jeffery Epstein had privately hosted a party for 28 semi-beautiful women. Good times.
He eventually reached the stage and walked up to the podium. He couldn’t remember which Presidential Directive he wanted to issue that morning, but seeing that the room was empty, he simply made a few cursory remarks about making America great again. He looked around the Louis XIV-style ballroom and again admired the 40-foot ceiling and the $7 million of gold leaf decorating the walls, and then he left for the communications room.
He was surprised that the door was locked. He simply assumed that, like most days, his presence wasn’t needed in the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. Being connected to the White House and the Pentagon was fine, but he had other things to do that day.
As he headed for the front door, he briefly wondered where all the guests were. Suckers, he called them, because who in their right mind would pay an initiation fee of $200,000 plus $14,000 in annual dues, and thousands of dollars a night, just to hang out here?
It had been Ivana’s idea to move to Palm Beach. Donald had also married Melania there, but Donald told Ivana that it had been worth it just to watch Hillary and Bill Clinton fight their way through his other guests to try and congratulate him.
Donald decided that today would be a good day for golf. He’d made that same decision most of the days of his first two terms. He walked out the front door, passed by his spa, tennis, and croquet courts, and looked up at his 80-foot flagpole on the front lawn with its 15-by-25 American flag proudly waving. He didn’t care about the $250-a-day fine that local authorities had charged him for violating Palm Beach codes. It had been money well spent.
He walked out the front gate and suddenly felt a throbbing on his ankle. He looked down and noticed a bracelet had been attached to his leg. The bracelet was making a dull, continuous noise. He looked up and saw a group of police officers running toward him.
You see, Donald Trump was not serving his third term as President of the United States; he was serving it as an in-house prisoner of the United States government.
