The Road to Derpdom

Maximum freedom's just another word for maximum nothin' left to lose

Via.

[A not-oversized suite at the Washington Hilton. DONALD TRUMP is wearing his usual suit but with the long red tie loosened so that it reaches his crotch, and his jacket off. He is surrounded by his inner circle: Former policy advisor STEVEN MILLER, wearing an SS officer summer tunic with the insignia removed, black pants and shoes; his former intelligence director RICHARD GRENELL, wearing a nice blue suit with red tie; his former spokeswoman KELLYANNE CONWAY, wearing a bold, bright tropical pattern top with matching sarong and beige sandals, and a Rita Midtown crossbody bag; and campaign operative STEVE CHEUNG in a self-effacingly midrange charcoal grey suit. TRUMP is trying to smash something against a writing desk — eventually we can make out that it is a Libertarian Convention swag bag. TRUMP, unable to break the thing, throws it into the center of the room and stomps on it, causing him to topple; his staff reach out and hold him upright, then step back. TRUMP seethes noisily, pulls an inhaler of The Formula out of his pants pocket, snorts twice, puts it back. Pause.]

TRUMP: What the fuck was that. You said you had it under control! Room gonna be full of my people, you said! They love me! Well, where the fuck were they! I hadda read in the paper they all got moved out!  Who the fuck was in charge! Who –

[TRUMP suddenly goes to the swag bag, bends over, gets down on one knee, then both knees — grunting throughout; he grabs the bag, shakes it over his head in rage, then flings it. He starts to get up, falters; staff help him to his feet, then step back.]

[Panting] We gotta get that head libertarian. Kill the guy, break his legs. Aiden Rand, that his name? I hear he wrote the book.

[Uncomfortable pause.]

GRENELL: Ayn Rand, Mr. President?

TRUMP: You heard me.

GRENELL: Rand wrote the book but she — Mr. Rand is dead.

TRUMP: Yeah! Treat people like that, that’s what you get! We’re gonna fuck them all up but first I wanna know whose stupid idea this was.

[Uncomfortable pause.]

I suppose you’re gonna tell me it was my idea?

[Uncomfortable pause.]

CHEUNG:  It was an intern on the team, sir. Bright young man but maybe a little —

TRUMP: Get him in here.

[CHEUNG exchanges glances with MILLER, GRENELL, and CONWAY. CONWAY goes out.]

That Bronx thing, that was perfect. Beautiful.

[Takes out inhaler, snorts, puts it back; goes to bed, sits on the edge.]

All those guys from Long Island, Suffolk, Baychester. Real people! Beautiful, like when Reagan did it, but better! Because I had the people! I got cheers! Fuckin’ Reagan, he was out to lunch, probably didn’t even know where he was. I knew! I had rap stars! Real rap star gangbangers, like the boons go for, ‘cause I’m a rap star too. I take drugs. Yeah.

[Takes, snorts, puts away.]

Yeah. I roll with homies. I got bitches. [To CONWAY] No offense. Stormy Daniels, they all know I fucked her, they love me for it. I’m a gangbanger. I’m gonna walk out of that courtroom like Two-Pack!

[TRUMP, suddenly agitated, bounces on the bed until he stands upright. CONWAY comes in with a frightened looking INTERN, about 21, wearing the red hat and a modest Calvin Klein suit and black Sketchers.]

And that fucking judge, those fucking dinge prosecutors, Aiden Rand, all the rest of those fuckers, I’m gonna kill ‘em, kill ‘em all —

CONWAY: Mr. President, this is the intern we told you about.

TRUMP: [Growls] Fucking fuckface, fucking fuckface.

[TRUMP waddles over to the INTERN. CONWAY holds the INTERN’s arm. The others come a little closer and look at TRUMP.]

Libertarians! The fuck! What! Hah! I’m Biggie! You lose!

[TRUMP goes to a dresser, open the drawer, pulls out a gun, shoots the INTERN. The INTERN goes “arrrgh” and slowly starts to collapse; CONWAY, MILLER, GRENELL and CHEUNG all converge and half-carry the standing-but-limp INTERN to the door. TRUMP drops the gun; his eyes roll back in his head; he collapses. CHEUNG notices.]

CHEUNG: He’s out.

[The others look; the INTERN straightens up; MILLER, GRENELL, and CHEUNG go to TRUMP while CONWAY fishes in her bag.]

CONWAY: You did good. Here.

[CONWAY presses some papers into the INTERN’s hand, opens the door.]

Nothing happened, OK.

INTERN: [Looking at his hand] Twenty dollars and some drink tickets?

CONWAY: Plenty more where that came from. Remember your NDA!

[CONWAY shoves the INTERN out the door, closes it behind. MILLER, GRENELL, and CHEUNG have gotten the limp TRUMP onto the bed. CONWAY goes around and turns off all the lamps except for the overhead. They all exchange glances, head for the door. CONWAY is the last one out.]

[Quietly] Good night, Mr. President.

TRUMP: G’night.

[CONWAY clicks off the light and shuts the door behind.]