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Goings and Comings Around

“Stupid fuck,” she said quietly but more like the low, rumbling hiss a pressure cooker makes just before it blows.

“Stupid fuck,” this time she screamed at the top of her lungs so hard that her face turned redder than her glossy, overbearing lipstick.

“Sorry, Mel,” said the president with a woebegone face as long as a beagle’s ears and sounding as regretful and sincere as he possibly could, which isn’t very sincere or regretful, as they are emotions he had considered altogether alien and not appropriate for a man of his stature.

“Sorry?” she said incredulously. “Sorry, ain’t gonna cut it baby. I didn’t care if you didn’t wear the fucking mask because I didn’t care if you caught the fucking plague. But now I have it and I am so fucking mad that I could spit right in your sanctimonious face.”

The president sat at the end of the long breakfast table, like Charles Foster Kane at the end of his world, his expression unchanged, not saying a word, which is quite a feat for him. His age was certainly showing, something that a person of such unending vanity, would find rather uncomfortable.

He had not combed over his baldness nor had he put on makeup to cover his sallow skin or got tied into his girdle to control his uncontrolled waistline and he looked altogether pathetic when Melania brought him a glass of some kind of liquid for breakfast.

It looked yellow and brown and had a distinctive odor that the president found puzzling.

“What is it,” said the president meekly, which is an adjective never applied to him ever before.

“Just drink it,” Melania said. “It’s Mr. Clean. You said it would work, so you drink it up. And please, turn on the fluorescent lights to quicken your recuperation. Moron.”

There was then as uncomfortable few moments of silence that said volumes.

“They’re saying we got it from Hope (Hicks),” Mr. President said.

“And how did Hope give it to you?” said Melania.

“Don’t ask,” Mr. President said brusquely but not denying that he and Hope had been extremely close.

The President was at this moment all alone. His wife was cursing him from a million miles away and Ivanka, Junior, Tiffany, Eric and even Barron wouldn’t get anywhere near him, not with the virus. He tried to keep a positive attitude about how he’d get better in no time and he thought about his own mortality and how though he was the fittest president ever, maybe being obese, getting no exercise and gorging on fast food might not have been wise for his longevity.

And a pall and great sadness that fell over Trumpland was palpable, almost like a thick, malignant, syrupy concoction that threatened to congeal and cover and consume everything, not even letting any light in. Not so in Bidenland where there was great unbridled and nearly unspoken glee. Biden said it would be wrong to feel good that the president has the plague. But he whispered to anyone who was around, “I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel witty and pretty and gay and I know it’s a pretty wonderful day.”

“Do I want him dead?” Joe said to nobody in particular and more to himself. “Of course not. Of course not. Let me get back to you on that.”

Joe thought of how Mr. President had mocked him for wearing a mask, called him weak. How he had endangered millions of Americans, belittled the government’s own scientists and how he hadn’t alerted Americans sooner to the potentially mortal danger of COVID-19 and how this totally political decision had cost thousands of lives. And Joe had to reconsider the question of a paragraph earlier.

In a great irony, Mr. President, the great progenitor of weird conspiracies, was now playing a major role in something so big and so unbelievable that it will certainly spread like wildfire in the virtual world.

It is being asked if Hope Hicks was a double agent, an agent provocateur? Hicks, the former model; Hicks, the previous White House communications director; Hicks the chief communications officer at Fox Corp. Hicks knew where all the bodies were buried and she was no longer able to sustain the lavish lifestyle that she formerly enjoyed under (not literally) Trump.

Was she angry enough to accept a major payday from persons unidentified and willingly contract the virus, knowing she was in young and in good health and would certainly get better while the fat Mr. President might not do as well? Maybe.

Was Trump really sick or is it another of his wild and weird attempts to solicit concern and empathy from America now that it was less than a month away from the election and the polls show Mr. President losing in a bigly way? Was he faking the virus just so he could get out of Washington, D.C., and fly to Moscow where he would enjoy diplomatic immunity from prosecution?

Time will tell with the wild and crazy world of Donald Trump that never fails to entertain even if it is unspeakably horrible.