First Contestant

He's tan, he's restless, he's ready!

© 2023 Gage Skidmore, used under a Creative Commons license.

[The Throne Room at Mar-a-Lago. One innovation from previous Throne Room episodes: stage right of the Supplicants’ Bench is a replica of the Resolute Desk from the White House — except made of cheaper wood, and with a laminate relief on the front of an eagle, stars and banners, two girls in bikinis, and the words TRUMP 2024. TRUMP, dressed in his Jackie Gleason in Miami Beach outfit, sits behind the desk in a puffy black leather chair; on the desk is his iPhone, a Diet Coke, and a big ornate box containing The Formula, with the lid open and metal straws stuck in it like tiny umbrellas in a fancy drink. He is fiddling with the phone as a golf cart pulls up, driven by a FLUNKY in a nondescript black suit/black tie/white shirt outfit. When it stops, VIVEK RAMASWAMY hops out, and the FLUNKY drives upstage of the throne steps, parks, and rests. RAMASWAMY is wearing well-laundered and artfully faded skinny jeans, an untucked Stefano Ricci medallion print silk dress shirt, a blue Brioni cashmere sport jacket, and blue Riomar Deck Drivers. He charges up to the desk, grinning ferociously; TRUMP does not seem to notice.]

RAMASWAMY: At last! Finally I meet the man himself! What an incredible honor, sir! Really!

TRUMP: Just a sec.

RAMASWAMY: Alright, sir!

[TRUMP taps the phone a bit, sets it aside, looks blandly at RAMASWAMY, then squints.]

TRUMP: You don’t wear a suit? What do you think this is, Beefsteak Charlie’s?

RAMASWAMY: Ha ha, well, you know me, sir, I don’t play by the rules!

TRUMP: The old days, you go to the Russian Tea Room and you don’t have a tie, they give you one and make you wear it.

[TRUMP yells to the FLUNKY.]

Ramon! Give this guy your tie!

[The FLUNKY comes over, undoes his tie, hands it to RAMASWAMY.]

RAMASWAMY: OK, sir. You the man! Literally, you the man.

[The FLUNKY starts to go; RAMASWAMY grabs his arm and wordlessly gives him to understand he needs the FLUNKY to tie it for him, which he does.]

TRUMP: This is why you flopped, see. You don’t show respect. People can see it.

RAMASWAMY: Oh, never doubt I have respect for you, Mr. President! Nothing but the utmost. You’re my hero. You’re like a god to me. I have pictures of you all over my house. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. My friends think it’s extra, but I don’t care. President Trump is a great man, I tell them.

[The FLUNKY, done with the tie, goes back to the golf cart — and as he goes he pulls another black tie out of his jacket pocket and puts it on.]

TRUMP: You got pictures of me in your bathroom?

RAMASWAMY: Yes, sir.

TRUMP: What are you, nuts?

RAMASWAMY: That’s right, I’m nuts — nuts about you, sir! My wife’s nuts for you too, sir. Even more than me.

[Leaning in, in an intimate voice — still smiling:]

Sometimes when I make love to her, I pretend I’m you. I do the voice, the gestures — I even wear the long tie. She loves it, sir. She begs for it.

[TRUMP stares at RAMASWAMY, who just smiles back at him. The FLUNKY shows some interest. Pause.]

TRUMP: Ya got moxie, I give you that.

RAMASWAMY: [With some extra intensity] Sir, I quit the race because I know there can be no other. I only got in the race to show myself worthy of you, sir!

TRUMP: You wanna be vice president you gotta make some changes though.

[RAMASWAMY tries to reach across the desk to shake, or possibly kiss, TRUMP’s hand.]

RAMASWAMY: Oh, thank you, Mr. President! Thank you! Thank you! I won’t let you down —

TRUMP: [Rolling his chair back] Whoa whoa whoa. Who said you got the job?

RAMASWAMY: You did, sir! You said “you wanna be vice president,” question mark. Here —

[RAMASWAMY pulls out his iPhone, shows the Recorder program in process.]

See? This is a legally binding offer.

TRUMP: That’s very smart. [Gestures off.] Hey, fellas, toss this guy,

[The seedy pseudo-Secret-Service agents who always haunt the margins of the Throne Room suddenly materialize, seize RAMASWAMY, who never stops smiling, and roughly search him, throwing his iPhone and other effects into a burlap sack. When they finish, still holding RAMASWAMY, they look at TRUMP, who makes a dismissive gesture; they retreat. RAMASWAMY watches them, waits until they’re out of sight to speak.]

RAMASWAMY: You realize that was on broadcast, don’t you, sir?

TRUMP: Your balls will be on broadcast if you make trouble. Don’t push your luck. Like I said, you got moxie. Lemme ask, you got swastikas in your house?

RAMASWAMY: Oh, yes, sir! Tons!

TRUMP: I’m from Queens so I know how you Indian guys are. To you swastikas are a religious symbol, right, not you-know-what. Is that how it is with you?

RAMASWAMY: [Still smiling, leaning in] If it wasn’t, who’s gonna know?

TRUMP [Points at RAMASWAMY] That’s good, kid. Very promising. You got pep. You know that?

RAMASWAMY: Comes naturally to me, sir, and to be frank I top it up with a little something something now and then.

TRUMP: You don’t say.

RAMASWAMY: Yes, sir. And, uh, if I may say so it’s of a quality I don’t think even you have seen.

TRUMP: You don’t say.

RAMASWAMY:  Mm hm. Would you like to try some, sir?

[Pause.]

TRUMP: What the fuck did you just say to me?

RAMASWAMY: Sir. Let me be honest.

[RAMASWAMY puts his hands on the desk. TRUMP does not react.]

There’s a saying: Real heads know. I so deeply respect you, sir. I know what it’s like to have to perform at your peak, day after day. And what it takes to get there when you need a little something extra. It’s just necessary, and men like you and I, sir, we do what’s necessary. So let’s not play games. I’ve got it with me, sir. Just say the word, I’ll lay it on you.

TRUMP: The boys tossed you.

RAMASWAMY: It’s in a plastic bag up my butt, sir. All I need is some Handi Wipes to make it happen, and I know you keep those in your desk. Of course I know. I’m your biggest fan!

TRUMP: Tell you what. Forget that stuff in your ass. That’s disgusting by the way.

[TRUMP taps the Formula box.]

This is the real shit here. Take a straw and see for yourself.

[RAMASWAMY gasps, puts a hand to his chest.]

RAMASWAMY: I, sir? You, you’d share your stash with me?

TRUMP: Don’t be disgusting, just do it.

[RAMASWAMY takes one of the metal straws, crouches, looks up.]

RAMASWAMY: Don’t you chop it, sir?

TRUMP: What are you, a faggot? Dive in.

RAMASWAMY: Will you do me the honor of joining me, sir?

[TRUMP is fiddling with his phone again – without looking up:]

TRUMP: I been doing that shit all day.

[Pause. For the first time, RAMASWAMY seems to hesitate — then he dips and takes a snort. He places the straw in his other nostril, dips — then freezes for several seconds. He drops the straw, which hits the desk, rolls off and clatters on the ground. He braces himself on the edge of the desk, then suddenly flies backwards about eight feet and shakes his head like a dog trying to dry its fur. The FLUNKY pays attention and some of the pseudo-SS appear, peeking out of the darkness. RAMASWAMY fidgets in place; blood leaks from his nostril.]

RAMASWAMY: Amma amma amma gamma. [Loud] FUCK!

[RAMASWAMY does what look like kung-fu moves as performed by a man having an epileptic seizure, then falls to the floor. He froths and writhes.]

RAMASWAMY: AHHHHHH! AMMA AMMA GAMMA! AMMA AMMA GAMMA! AHHHHH!

[He goes limp. TRUMP snaps his fingers and makes a circular motion; the pseudo-SS come in, drag RAMASWAMY, now catatonic, to the golf cart and load him in.]

TRUMP: [Yelling] Ramon! Good job with the tie.

[The FLUNKY gives a thumbs-up, then drives RAMASWAMY away. The pseudo-SS recede into the background. TRUMP puts the phone to his ear.]

Yeah, this Byron Donalds. He still on drugs? [Pause] Not a deal-breaker, but can he handle his shit?

[CURTAIN.]