OCTOBER 19, 2022 – (Cont.) The rest of the flight to Fort Lauderdale put me to sleep. In a dream, the Don was wearing a cheap, plastic, Halloween mask of Mike. The first thing the Don-disguised-as-Mike asked me was, “How many barroom brawls have you been in?” I woke with a start, shortly before our descent.
Less than an hour later, my über-Uber was allowed into the gaudy grounds of Mar-a-Lago. Strapping on a MAGA mask, I announced myself to the doorman at the entrance to the kitschy palace. He said I’d been expected. Another lackey led me through the outsized, pyrite-plated foyer and handed me off to another staffer, who wore white gloves and said, “Follow me.”
He led me down a series of corridors. Along the way we passed several more staffers (without gloves) pushing carts stacked perilously high with banker boxes marked, “CLASSIFIED.” Eventually we came to a reception room, where I was told to have a seat and that Mr. Trump would be right with me. As soon as my escort disappeared, I put my phone to my ear, ready to jump into a “fake conversation” the moment the Don appeared.
A minute or two later, one of the double doors to his office opened, and outstepped his personal assistant. In the background I could see an artificially tanned face under an orange hair arrangement atop his head. The man was seated at an enormous desk with an outsized presidential seal plastered onto the side facing the doorway. I immediately swung into action.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Senator,” I said into my iPhone, as I gestured with my chin to acknowledge the assistant and passed into the Don’s garish lair. “The grand jury is going to indict you, so we have to fire back immediately; throw strikes, steal bases, seize the initiative.” As my eyes locked onto the Don’s I winked and waited a beat before continuing (into the phone). “My hourly rate? Fifteen hundred, and given that your Republican ass is in a giant sling, half a million gets us started—Good!” . . . Look, Senator—sorry to cut you off, but I’m going into a meeting. I’ll call you later.” Only then did I lower my gaze from the Don’s nervous eyes and look at my iPhone to disconnect the call.
“Hi, Mr. Nilsson,” said the Don.
“Good to meet, sir,” I said, as I slid the phone into my pocket. “Sorry for the call. No rest for the wanted, huh?”
“What, the very, very radical, socialist, leftist DOJ going after a Senator on another witch hunt?”
“We live in strange times,” I said.
“I’m not a loser,” said the Don.
“Who’s saying you are?”
“The losers.”
“Right. So, let’s fix that, shall we?”
“I tried to,” said the Don, crossing his hands on the desk. He hadn’t offered to shake my hand, and I wasn’t keen on shaking his. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
