Tweakers

Yet another adjustment to the Formula

[The Throne Room at Mar-a-Lago. Seedy pseudo-Secret Service agents skulk the perimeter. TRUMP, wearing a hospital gown and looking stupefied, eyes slightly out of focus, sits on the Supplicants’ Bench, facing out. Standing to either side of him are RONNY JACKSON, Texas Rep/Trump drug mixer, looking miserable, wearing a sad and ill-fitting blue Men’s Wearhouse jacket, a dirty white button-down shirt, sweatpants and athletic shoes, and STEPHEN MILLER, former Trump security advisor/Nazi, wearing basically an SS officer’s Tricot uniform without the insignia, epaulets, and peaked cap. Next to JACKSON is a little cart with beakers and bins of powders — the makings of The Formula. Sitting on the stairs, half looking, half playing with their iPhones, are the flunkies PINSY and DIBS in their usual costumes.]

JACKSON: We’re going to go slow, Mr. President. This is a timed release –

TRUMP: [A little loud, deep voiced, but not all there, like he’s half asleep or in a seance] Just fix it so I don’t get sleepy.

JACKSON: Oh, of course –

TRUMP: It’s your fault I fell asleep. You hear me. Your fault. I told you take the edge off and what’d you do. I look like a fuckin’ retard. Like whatshisname. The guy. The chin, the guy. Mobster. Had a bathrobe.

[Pause.]

What are you all, stupid? Retard. Gangster. Robe. Jesus Christ. Walkin’ the street. Little Italy.

DIBS: Vinny the Chin.

TRUMP: Vinny the Chin, right. What kind of morons I got on payroll, you don’t know that. It’s history.

[Pointing almost at JACKSON without looking at him.]

This is your fault, Ronny. You watch it or you catch another beatin’. You hear me. Dibs is ready to go. You ready to go, Dibs

DIBS: [Looking at his phone, dully] Fired up, ready to go.

TRUMP: Dibs is the real McCoy. He knows where the bodies are buried ‘cause he buried them. Ain’t that right, Dibs.

DIBS: Plead the Fifth.

JACKSON: Mr. President, you’re doing great. You’re alert, responsive — and you’re not getting over-excited, like we talked about. [To MILLER] Right, Steve?

MILLER: [Not looking at him] I do not presume to answer for the Leader. Also do not address me as “Steve.”

TRUMP: It’s no good. Sure I can stay awake. But I gotta have pep.

JACKSON: Pep, sir? You have plenty of pep.

TRUMP: Bullshit. Like just now, when I said Bullshit. I wanted to yell, pin your ears back. But it come out weak. Like I was on drugs.

[JACKSON opens his mouth, thinks better of it.]

You gotta fix it so I got pep. Moxie. Put somethin’ in it so if I get mad I show it.

[JACKSON scrapes some powder from a red bin into a pink bin, and thence to an inhaler.]

JACKSON: Alright, Mr. President.

TRUMP: Not too much now.

JACKSON: Alright, Mr. President.

TRUMP: Normal, like I am when I’m normal. Not this zombie shit. You do if right or I kill you.

JACKSON: [Holds out inhaler to TRUMP] Two squirts, sir.

[Pause. TRUMP’s hand comes up, falls. MILLER reaches, snatches the inhaler, glares at JACKSON, drops to one knee, bows, proffers the inhaler to TRUMP, who takes it.]

TRUMP: [To MILLER] I want a blowjob I’ll call your mother.

[PINSY and DIBS laugh.]

MILLER: Ha ha! Very good, sir!

[MILLER springs back to his position.]

PINSY: [Yells at MILLER] Hey Hitler! Mommy sucky sucky!

[PINSY sucks his thumb. DIBS laughs. MILLER pretends not to notice but blows air violently out of his nose a few times. TRUMP takes a puff on the inhaler.]

TRUMP: Two squirts you said.

JACKSON: Yes, sir.

TRUMP: Headroom, you call it, right.

JACKSON: Yes, sir.

TRUMP: Yeah, fuck your headroom. Watch.

[TRUMP takes five puffs in rapid succession. JACKSON regards this coolly; MILLER tries to do the same. PINSY and DIBS look on with interest. TRUMP takes some deep breaths. He makes to leave the bench, seems to falter; MILLER steps forward and takes his arm, but TRUMP bats it away and stands, still breathing deeply.]

MILLER: Leader, you are in magnificent form! What courage! [Gesturing contemptuously toward JACKSON] This scheißkopf would have let you waste away, but you have proved the stronger!  

[TRUMP takes several more pulls on the inhaler. He loosens up physically but his eyes remain unfocused.]

MILLER: [As if to a large audience] Gaze upon the magnificence of der Übermensch! That dose would have killed an ordinary man. [To TRUMP] Führer! Now you will show them! You will show everyone how to deal with the crooked judge, the crooked court, the Lügenpresse, now you will show them all!

JACKSON: [Pointing at MILLER, shouts] Mr. President! Show him, Mr. President!

[TRUMP swings his body, arms loosely following, toward JACKSON.]

Show that lying judge! Show that crooked judge! Show those bastards what you can do!  

[TRUMP swings his body toward MILLER. The look in MILLER’s eyes flips from adoration to terror. TRUMP seems to catch this. He makes a noise like Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s Monster and charges MILLER. At first he merely bumps into MILLER, pushing him back. MILLER puts up his hands as if to ward him off. TRUMP makes another Frankenstein noise, louder and angrier, and swings, with the force of a bolo, his fist at MILLER’s head. It connects and MILLER falls like a dead weight. PINSY and DIBBS cheer. JACKSON meanwhile has backed very far upstage. TRUMP spins in a circle, lights on the cart, grabs one of the little bins out of it and throws its powdery contents at his own face, roaring like Cocaine Bear. He spots PINSY and DIBS and chases them around the room; the fake Secret Service agents show little interest. Finally TRUMP runs into the steps to the Throne, clumsily gets onto them, climbs a few, then, panting heavily, straightens up, beats his chest, suddenly freezes, and falls backward onto the floor behind the steps. JACKSON dashes over, bends behind the steps presumably to check TRUMP’s condition, and after a moment stands up as PINSY and DIBS watch.]

JACKSON: I think we can get a continuance!

[Minsky pickup, blackout.]