A matter of national senility
What happened when Pence was called back?
[The Oval Office. TRUMP is sitting on a sofa, staring dully ahead. His face is red, slack. Chief of Staff MICK MULVANEY is sitting in a corner on a chair, reading some papers. Vice-President MIKE PENCE enters. MULVANEY stands.]
MULVANEY: [In a quiet, urgent tone] Did anyone come with you?
PENCE: [Staring at TRUMP] You should address me as Mr. Vice-President.
MULVANEY: [rolls eyes] Did anyone come with you. Mr. Vice-President.
PENCE: No. Mother is at the Observatory.
[MULVANEY snorts.]
What’s so funny?
MULVANEY: Nothing, sir.
[Not taking his eyes off TRUMP, who has not moved or acknowledged his presence, PENCE crosses to MULVANEY. They both mostly look at TRUMP.]
PENCE: How long has he been like this?
MULVANEY: About three and a half hours.
PENCE: [Looks at MULVANEY] You’ve been with him the whole time?
MULVANEY: I went to get lunch and left him with Stephanie a while.
PENCE: The new press secretary?
MULVANEY: Yeah. Poor kid. She was crying when I left. I think she was afraid he’d grab her. Can’t blame her. My sources say this is how he is every time he — well, I’m sure you don’t want to hear —
PENCE: No I don’t.
MULVANEY: Of course. I told her just to stay clear of him, and if he got violent to lock him in and call the Secret Service.
PENCE: That was unwise, Mick.
MULVANEY: Yes, sir? What would you have done?
PENCE: Men like this have appetites, Mick. Better to lose a lamb than to lose the flock.
MULVANEY: That’s lovely, sir. What book of the Bible is it from?
PENCE: You were saying about lunch.
MULVANEY: I went down to Red Apron for sandwiches. Oh, I ran into Dan Quayle! He says hi. He’s in town to pick up some kind of award. We went down to the Ebbitt Grill and had a couple of drinks.
PENCE: [Aghast] With him sitting here like this?
MULVANEY: It’s okay. I knew by the look of him it’d be a while.
PENCE: You know last time it was a heckuva mess.
MULVANEY: That’s okay. He doesn’t have his big boy pants on, if you know what I mean.
PENCE: Do I actually have to be here? Because I can, you know, maybe I shouldn’t be the first thing he sees when he comes to.
MULVANEY: Actually he asked for you.
PENCE: Asked for me? He could talk?
MULVANEY: He kind of grunts. He said “holy man.” At first I thought he meant Franklin but he shook his head, then said something that sounded like “Veeb.”
[TRUMP sneezes, then begins to squirm. MULVANEY comes over to him.]
MULVANEY: How are you, Mr. President?
[TRUMP stares at MULVANEY. Pause.]
TRUMP: Whhaa goddis.
MULVANEY: Vice-President Pence is here.
[TRUMP, still looking at MULVANEY, puts a finger against one of his nostrils, sniffs.]
Not a good idea, Mr. President. You just had one of your incidents.
[TRUMP reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out a little glass vial and, with difficulty unscrews the top.]
Oh gosh. Don’t do it, Mr. President. Mr. Pence, do something!
PENCE: [Gently] Well now let’s not be too hasty. He knows what he’s doing.
MULVANEY: Sir, he might kill himself!
PENCE: Let go and let God, son.
[TRUMP snorts from the vial. Pause. Suddenly he lumbers to his feet. He raises his hands waist-high; the fingers twitch, then his head.]
TRUMP: VEEB! PAAAAANCE!
[PENCE comes forward, smiling.]
PENCE: How are you, sir. Good to see you, sir. You’re looking very well. And how is Mrs. Trump?
[TRUMP puts his hands on top of PENCE's head, stares off to the side.]
Oh, my goodness. Mr. President, what are you doing. That’s my hair, sir.
[TRUMP drops his arms. His eyes are a little clearer. He looks at PENCE. Suddenly one of his arm flings out. PENCE and MULVANEY both flinch. TRUMP points to a door.]
TRUMP: Ouuuuut. Ouuuut.
PENCE: Do you want me to leave, sir? Is that it?
[TRUMP waves his arms in a dismissive gesture.]
TRUMP: Yaaa no gaaah. You no gahh.
[TRUMP stumbles to the Resolute desk, picks up a paperweight, throws it at PENCE, but it only goes about a foot and crashes to the ground. TRUMP turns, rummages on desk, comes back with a pen and a piece of paper, holds them out.]
TRUMP: Sy.
PENCE: Sign? Sign what, sir?
[MULVANEY comes forward. To PENCE:]
MULVANEY: He wants you to resign.
PENCE: Resign? But that’s ridiculous. I —
TRUMP: [Nodding] REZNIGH!
[TRUMP violently waves the pen and paper at him.]
PENCE: [Quietly, to MULVANEY] Does he know, will he remember what I’m saying?
MULVANEY: [Quietly] I can’t be sure but look at it this way, sir — when he got like this in January he kept saying he was going to kill me, and it hasn’t happened yet.
PENCE: [To TRUMP, cheerfully] You want me to sign? Alright sir — give me the paper and pen. [He takes them. To MULVANEY] It’s blank.
MULVANEY: Just sign the blank page, sir. When he sees that he’ll probably calm right down.
PENCE: [To TRUMP] Alright, sir — here I go, see? I’m signing my resignation.
[TRUMP lurches forward, directing PENCE by tapping the page to sign at the bottom of it. PENCE does so, and TRUMP grabs the pen and paper away, throws them on the ground. Suddenly he grabs PENCE and wrestles him to the couch.]
What are you doing, sir! Owww! Owww!
[TRUMP has PENCE face down on the couch and is humping him.]
Oh no! Oh no! Lordy! Lordy Lordy! Lordy Lordy Lord! No sir! No sir! No sir! Aaaaagh! Aaaaaagh! MOTHER!
[TRUMP finishes. He falls back, crouches, grabs from the floor the signed paper, stumbles to the other couch, lays face down holding it to his chest. After a few moments he starts to snore.]
MULVANEY: There we go. He’ll be better when he’s rested.
[PENCE, dazed, gets to his feet. He steps to MULVANEY with blood in his eye.]
PENCE: [In a low voice] You filthy Papist, I’ll kill you, you Papist piece of shit, you cunt. It’s your fault I’m swearing you son of shit, you son of a son of a shit, shit, shit, Mother.
MULVANEY: Come on, Mr. Vice-President. It was all on the outside. Not like with those girls. Anyway, better to lose a lamb than to lose the flock. Isn’t that right?
[PENCE seethes a while, then stalks out the door. When he has gone, MULVANEY crosses to the still-snoring TRUMP, pulls the signed blank page out from under him, tucks it into his jacket pocket.]
Proddy bitch.
[MULVANEY goes to the door. Just before he turns out the light:]
Night night.
[Darkness. Door closes, then reopens a crack. MULVANEY pokes head in:]
I mean, night night, Mr. President.
[Door closes. BLACKOUT.]
Excellent portrayal of what I believe is a Serotonin Syndrome attack (although could be an Anticholinergic Toxidrome). Trump's Adderall would be an unlikely precipitant but the good Dr. Bornstein could be salting his med cocktail with an SSRI or an SNRI or maybe both. Mulvaney should keep some cyproheptadine around, in case he doesn't want this to progress to fatal hypertension, tachycardia and rhabdomyolysis.
While Pence's staffers and press secretary were saying his rushing back to the WH wasn't due to health, national security, or even a personal or family problem, I knew there had to be an even simpler explanation. Roy's insider report here is clearly what must have happened, and it's so obvious I'm amazed CNN or the Washington Post didn't raise it as a possibility. You must have some great sources at the White House, Roy.