“I told Emma we should go for another New York Times liberal patsy, but she insisted you were a better choice. Now I know why—she was trying to undermine me. She wanted someone who wouldn’t get involved in the politics. Someone who would stay in their lane. How wrong she was.”
“So you didn’t know she was a spy?”
“No idea! When I mentioned a ‘leak,’ I was just trying to make you dance a little. See if it wouldn’t help stir up the resistance into making a move. Which Cat here was willing to assist with by acting as bait, once we let her know that we knew where she’d been that night with Lester. And I was right—I always am.” The president pointed his gun at Jimmie’s head. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a show to watch. I hear tonight that the dragon chick is finally gonna bang Tyrion. Too bad you won’t be alive to see it.”
Jimmie closed his eyes. Before he could recant his atheism once more, he heard the clang of metal on the floor. He opened one eye. Christie had Trump in a bear hug from behind. The gun was lying on the floor at Trump’s feet. Lewandowski was pounding away at Christie with the butt of his rifle, trying to get the former New Jersey governor to release the president. It was like watching the panda fight all over again.
Christie lowered a shoulder and twisted, rolling Trump onto the ground. Lewandowski fell forward, slamming the butt of his gun accidentally into Trump’s face and impaling himself on the knife attached to the barrel.
The president uttered a string of expletives that would have gotten a lesser politician impeached. Christie slammed the president’s head into the ground with his ginormous paw. Trump slumped over onto the lifeless body of his press secretary.
Christie pulled a switchblade from his pocket and sliced the ropes binding Jimmie in one swift motion.
“Why are you helping me?” Jimmie said. “I led the Socialist Justice Warriors right into Trump’s tiny hands.”
“You’re a good guy,” Christie said. “But you’re dumb as shit. This was never about the Democrats or Republicans for me—or, God help me, the Clintons and Bushes. I deserved that VP slot, not that pretty-boy ball-licker. I was biding my time until the right dirt showed up on Trump. I don’t know what’s on these interview tapes, but if everybody wants it, it must be pretty important.”
“There’s nothing on them! Weren’t you listening?” Jimmie said with a sigh. “Don’t you get it?”
“No, you don’t get it,” Christie said. “Bend over and spread those skinny cheeks so I can get my hands on that Hello Kitty flash drive—”
Christie’s eyes went wide. He toppled forward, and Jimmie crashed to the ground underneath the janitor’s massive girth. Jimmie fought for air. He hadn’t come this close to the end game to be smothered to death by a Dallas Cowboys fan. Jimmie summoned the power to roll Christie off of him just enough to slide out.
A machete was buried deep in Christie’s back.
Jimmie snatched up the switchblade and spun around, looking for the assassin. The hallowed halls of the Lincoln Monument were empty of lurkers, though. He was the last man standing. Lincoln’s somber visage stared across the carnage, disapproving but unable to do anything about it.
A closer look at the machete revealed an inscription, which read, “PROPERTY OF CARLY FIORINA.” Apparently the former Hewlett-Packard CEO was cutting more than jobs now.
Jimmie’s eyes flicked back to where Ted Cruz had been tied up. There was a pile of cut rope at the base of the pillar . . . and a deflated orca. Cruz and his oddball running mate Fiorina had absconded together, apparently. One of them had saved Jimmie from Christie, though, and he owed that person a debt of gratitude. Or possibly not. Maybe they could just call it even. Yeah, that sounded about right.
Jimmie limped over to Cat, who was just waking up. Sure, she’d planned to kill him. But she’d been acting on Trump’s orders. At least that’s what he told himself as he cut her free.
She fell into his arms. Her eyes fluttered open.
“I tried to kill you,” she said.
“You weren’t going to do it. I could tell all along, you weren’t going to go through with it.”
“I was, though. I had no reservations about—”
Jimmie placed a finger on her lips. “Shhhhh. You’ve been hit in the head pretty hard. Definitely a concussion. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I was choked out,” she said. “I never hit my head. I—”
“See? You don’t even remember it. We’d better get you an MRI. Do you have a phone on you? I’ll call the hospital—”
“You can use my helicopter,” Trump interrupted. He was staggering toward them with Fiorina’s bloody machete in one hand. “Except we won’t be going to the hospital. I’ll be taking you both to the morgue.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Great America
Jimmie lowered Cat to the ground and stood guard in front of her. He waved the switchblade at Trump.
“Mine’s bigger,” the president said, pointing the blood-smeared tip of the machete at Jimmie, who had to admit that he was right. Trump had a full foot-long on him. But there was more to sword fighting than size. He hoped.
“Your janitor is dead,” Jimmie said. “How do you expect to clean all this up?”
“I could just drop a bomb on this whole area. Wipe away the evidence with the push of a button. Wipe away DC with the push of a button.”
“A nuke.”
“It’s actually not a button, did you know that?” Trump said. “All this talk in the campaign from people saying, ‘Do we really want Trump’s finger on the button?’ And it’s not a button! There are codes, there’s a key. No button.”
“You wouldn’t do it.”
Trump shook his head. “Not in a million years. But it’s a nice thought. I prefer to keep my hands clean of dirty business like this . . . but you knew that I couldn’t help myself from getting personally involved. Especially with the stakes. I had Corey tail you on Friday, when you left to see your ex. Using a microphone hidden in a salt shaker, he was able to listen to your entire conversation. He made a game-time decision to cut Emma from the game.
“Then he followed you back to the White House,” Trump continued, “and you’ll never guess what kind of trouble he saw you get up to.”
Jimmie gulped.
“It was then that I decided you were a nuisance. I told the Navy SEALs I wanted you dead or alive. I specifically said, If he accidentally gets shot in the face, it wouldn’t be any sweat off my sack. I show up at the museum, and there you are—still standing! Who knew that the Human Hiroshima had a code of honor? I left SEAL Team Sixty-Nine at home tonight. Some things are too big to trust others to do. If you want something done right . . .”
“You do it yourself,” Jimmie finished. “Rule twelve, right?”
The switchblade trembled in Jimmie’s hand as he backed up. He felt cold stone with his other palm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cat crawling toward the gun that Trump had dropped. Was she going to use it on Trump . . . or on Jimmie? He would have to take his chances. And to do that, he was going to need to keep Trump talking.
“If you wouldn’t drop a nuke on your own country,” Jimmie said, stalling, “I’m going to guess you wouldn’t risk starting World War III with the UK.”
“You know, we kicked their ass twice—once in seventeen-whatever, then again in eighteen-whatever. It wouldn’t be too hard to do it again. Usually, if you set up a best-of-three series and win the first two, you scrap the third one. Internal polling suggests the American people are all for it, though. But don’t worry: I’m not going to war with England. I’m going to buy them out. It’s a merger.”
“The British people would never go for that.”
Trump nodded. “Hence the threat of war. That’s why they call it a hostile takeover. The queen won’t get her bony ass off the throne. She’s sitting on a gold mine of cash and jewels, which certain members of the royal family can’t wait to get their hands on.”
“Prince Cha
rles?”
“That pussy? Puh-lease. Think further down the line, Jimmie,” Trump said. “We’re moving our ships into place as we speak. Before any shots are fired, England is going to wave the white flag. Great Britain and America are going to become one united country again: Great America. I’m going to be president still, of course. The Brits can keep their silly royal family. However, my first act will be to force the queen to hand her crown over . . . to Kate.”
“Kate Middleton?”
Trump nodded. “We struck a deal. The prime minister and Parliament are in her pocket. The whole country loves her and her royal spawn. We ran into a minor snag with Hillary and Jeb!’s rebel alliance. Kate found out from British intelligence, who must have gotten word of it from Emma. Kate got cold feet—she said she’d call the deal off if I didn’t clean up my own house. A hard body who plays hardball. I like her. Got a coupla kids, but she’s a solid ten.”
Jimmie shook his head. “Great America. That’s what you meant by making America great again?”
“We’re reshaping the world, Jimmie,” Trump said. “Great America is going to be top dog. With England back in the fold, we’re going to get a piece of that European economy—which will be incredibly strong, once we sell off Greece to the Palestinians. Putin was going to bite off a piece of the European Union from the other side . . . but with him out of the way, Russia’s no longer a player. If anyone wants to take us on for the title of biggest, baddest superpower, go for it. It’d be like showing up to a gun fight with a knife.”
“Or a knife fight with a gun,” Cat said, shooting the machete out of Trump’s hand. It clattered to the ground several yards away. “Put your tiny hands above your head, Mr. President.”
“Or what? You’re going to shoot me?” Trump said, advancing toward her. “I was right about you illegals—just a bunch of murderers and—”
Another shot rang out, echoing through the monument’s halls. At first, Jimmie thought she had missed Trump entirely. Then he noticed the tufts of wispy blond hair floating to the ground like cherry blossom leaves. She’d blown a hole the size of a fist in his famously unflappable mane. Trump held his palms out, desperately trying to catch the clumps of hair as they fell. He dropped to his hands and knees and began frantically scooping the rest into a pile.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Bigger Than Jesus
“This is going to make quite the story,” Cat said, watching Trump crying and rocking on the ground. “Too bad we’re never going to be able to tell anybody.”
“He thinks he’s God,” Jimmie said. “But he’s just a man. A small man.”
“I’ve got hands bigger than Jesus,” Trump said from his knees. A river of golden tears streamed down his face. “Bigger than John Lennon. Bigger than Justin Bieber—”
“Don’t say the Lord Bieber’s name in vain,” Jimmie snapped. Then to Cat, “Are you really an undocumented migrant?”
She stared daggers at him.
“Okay, okay—just asking,” he said. “We can’t let Trump get away with this. His plan to make America even greater needs to be exposed. Even if we can’t tie him directly to any of the murders, he was about to kill us both.”
“He was about to kill you. I think he would’ve let me go.”
Jimmie said, “Sure. Whatever. My point is, there’s enough evidence here to put him away for a long time.”
She raised the gun at Jimmie.
“Whoa! What are you doing?” he said.
“If any of this gets out, I’ll be put on trial for the murder of Lester Dorset,” Cat said. “There’s no way around it. Even if the Secret Service did shoot him to death, I meant to kill him.”
Jimmie had the switchblade in his hand still. If he moved fast enough, could he stab her in the hand with it and make her drop the gun?
“If we cover this up, the trail of bodies will only continue to grow,” Jimmie said. “You could put a bullet in me . . . you could put one in Trump . . . but it won’t end. I’m sorry. You may have killed Lester in a fit of rage—”
“It was a fit of passion,” she said, trembling. “You know how passionate I get when breaking a story. I couldn’t let him give the recordings away.”
“I don’t think that passion is for breaking a story—it’s a passion for the truth. And it may be clouded by pageviews or viral shares and dreams of Pulitzers, but it’s really about seeing the truth come to light.”
“The truth is that I killed him over nothing,” she said, the gun still trained on him. Her eyes were wet with tears. “You heard Trump.”
“You had no idea the interviews were worthless. But it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that we do the right thing.”
“What do you suddenly know about doing the right thing?”
He shook his head. “Not much. But I’m learning.”
She spun the gun around, and Jimmie took it by the handle. He breathed a sigh of relief. The switchblade thing would have never worked. It was like Christie had said: Writers had weak stabbing motions. Thankfully, it hadn’t come to that—Cat had fallen for all that bullshit about the truth and doing the right thing. He’d been so convincing, he almost believed it himself.
In the distance, a single firework exploded in the sky near the National Monument. Then another, and another. Soon, they were being set off from all over the city. Game of Thrones had ended, and the people were rejoicing. Soon, they would flood the streets in ecstasy, overturning cars and setting them on fire. A great mob would form at the Lincoln Memorial and watch as the FBI led the president of the United States of America away in handcuffs.
“I’ll be back,” Trump would say, doing his best Arnold impersonation (which wouldn’t be that bad). “I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records for the biggest financial comeback in history, you know. Someday, they’re going to put me in for the biggest political comeback—you just watch, you bunch of losers!”
While the people would grudgingly accept the charges against him, their anger would fade over time, and they would one day accept the Donald back into their hearts, for there was nothing they loved more than a comeback story. And Jimmie Bernwood’s comeback story was just beginning.
Three Months Later
Epilogue
In Loving Memory
Jimmie stood before the bronze statue of Putin fighting the panda. He fingered the Pulitzer Prize ring on his pinkie. It hadn’t solved all his problems, but it was a nice conversation starter on Tinder. They seemed less impressed with it on FarmersOnly.com.
Far behind him, Kate Middleton was droning on to the press corps about the greatness of America—the United States of America. The one and only America (unless you counted North America and South America, which nobody did).
To hear the Duchess of Cambridge tell it, there’d never been any deal on the table with Trump. She was clearly heeding the advice on the shirt Bill Clinton picked up at the Spy Museum gift shop: Deny everything. Though Trump liked to exaggerate, Jimmie had never known him to flat-out lie. There was some truth to what he’d said about the aborted geopolitical merger of the century. How much truth, nobody would ever know.
Regardless, World War III had been averted. Somebody sent Jimmie an SJW finch shirt as a thank-you. He’d donated it to Goodwill and saved the receipt for his taxes.
“He was an awful man,” a familiar Eastern European voice said.
Jimmie turned around. At first, he thought Victoria Trump was talking about her estranged husband. He changed his mind when he saw her staring at Putin’s bronzed visage. “I tried to tell Donny that Vladimir was evil. But Donny was always a sucker for anyone who goes hunting topless.”
“I thought you’d already cleared out of here,” Jimmie said.
She smiled warmly at him. “I left something behind.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I left you behind,” she said, taking his hand. “I made a mistake. I told Donny about us. You could have been killed.”
“It’s not your fault. I should
have taken you with me when I had the chance. What’s done is done. We can’t change the past—we can only change the future.” He shook her off. “And my future isn’t here. I’m leaving Washington.”
Jimmie removed the lanyard from around his neck and dropped his badge at the base of the statue. It seemed like a fitting resting place: The memorial was on the same spot where Lester Dorset’s body had been exhumed. The former first family’s dachshund, Opulence, snatched up the lanyard and began tossing it around the South Lawn like a chew toy.
Victoria said, “But your job in the press corps—”
“My new editor at the Daily Blabber was just throwing me a bone,” Jimmie said, shaking his head. “Everyone told me I’d be a fool not to accept the job, but that’s what I am: a fool. I could give two shits about President Pedicab Ryan or politics in general.”
“You broke the story on the Colonel Sanders. You were all over the news.”
“You mean Bernie?” he said. After much digging, Jimmie had, indeed, found the former Democratic presidential candidate—in the Senate chamber. It was the same place Bernie had worked in virtual anonymity for years before the 2016 race and where he returned to following it. Though he’d been “missing” for over two years, no one had even thought to check the US Capitol Building for him.
Jimmie shook his head. “Sorry. This political stuff just doesn’t do it for me. I was a fool to take this job.”
“You are a very cute fool,” Victoria said.
He took her in his arms and drew her close. The warmth of her body felt good against his. Her silicone was really heating up in the sun.
The Day of the Donald Page 19