OK, this is how the Trump story ends.
Trump is hauled into a small room, bare except for a table with three metal chairs. He’s wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, contrasting his paddle, sallow skin now that he is without his signature spray tan. His hair has been cut, showing a mostly bald, old man, grossly obese in his ill fitting uniform.
Shackled to the table, the guards leave him. A few moments later, Sean Spicer is led in and similarly shackled to the table.
“What the hell’s gong on, spicy?”
“I don’t know… They just dragged me out of my cell. Where did we go wrong, Donald? How did it all fall apart?”
Leak after leak had slowly eroded their administration, eventually exposing criminal tires to Russia that put them all away for the rest of their lives. No one had ever figured out the source of the leaks, or the forces that ultimately bright the Trump administration to it’s knees.
Just then, the door opens. In walks a tall man, in a well cut suit. Spicer immediately recognizes him. But as the man takes a seat across from Trump and Spicer, Sean can only stare at him, slack jawed.
The man sits, flanked by two large men in suits with dark glasses. One of them hands him a folder, which he proceeds to open and lay onto the table.
“Who are you?” Trump asks.
Ignoring him, the man says, “you are both being transferred to Guantanamo tomorrow. I wanted to let you know myself. It was my company which drove the campaign to expose you for the treasonous scum that you are.”
“Who the hell are you?” Trump shouts.
“He’s… Scott Fischer. He’s… The CEO of Dippin’ Dots.”
Stunned and confused, Trump tries to understand. “But why? WHY?”
A sly grin creeps across Fischer’s face as he whispers, “because we are the future, motherfucker.”
Fade to black, this song plays.
