Sting like a Bee

The first time Donald Trump saw Lilah—at the Mar-a-Lago resort—his head swiveled like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist. He slipped his Secret Service guys and followed her to a room that belonged to her escort, some asshole real estate developer who thought he was up for a wild ride but wound up comatose on Rohypnol and stashed in a closet. Another roofie put Trump into a stupor even more profound than his usual vacuity, and he was wheeled out of the premises stuffed in a laundry cart by Lilah, who was now wearing a maid’s uniform. She got it all on video.

The abduction was fairly straightforward. We stuffed him in a van and brought him to an abandoned boxing gym in Riviera Beach, six miles and a demographic light-year north of Palm Beach. The place hasn’t been used in years; even the meth smokers have abandoned it. Last week, we brought in a generator and got the lights going, swept rat shit and used condoms off the ring’s floor, and rigged the place to burn when we were done with it.

Now Trump sits in the corner of the ring, naked except for a pair of diapers. He shakes his head, groggy from the drug stupor he’s just coming out of, then squints across the ring at me sitting in the opposite corner. I’m wearing boxing shorts and a Joe Biden mask, watching as he tries to focus, his expression changing from confusion to recognition to rage.

Lilah prances into the ring, hot in a swimsuit, weird in a Hillary mask. A bell rings and she holds up the card for the first round. I jump up, shuffling and throwing punches into the air. Trump shakes his head and stares in disbelief. Frankie, over in Trump’s corner wearing an Obama mask, yells “Round one!” but the fat man stays in his seat. Frankie bends over and hits him in the diaper with a stun baton.

Five million volts to the ass gets Trump out of his seat in a hurry. He roars like a wounded yak and charges. I wait until he’s two feet away, then sidestep, catching him with an open-handed smack to the mouth as he stumbles by me. It makes a wet sound like dropping a raw steak on a hardwood floor. Frankie follows us around with a camcorder.

The fat man nearly stumbles but keeps his feet. He glares at me and says, “Are you out of your fucking mind? You’ll fry for this.” His lip is split and there’s blood on his chin. I dance around him, making him turn, first left, then right. Float like a butterfly . . . Left, right, left. I bob and weave and throw more air punches. He puts his fists up and steps in, but he’s slow and I’m gone, and all he sees is a skinny guy in a Biden mask, hopping in place and out of reach. The bell rings.

Lilah holds up the card for round two. Dipshit launches out of his chair after another megavolt prompt. Frankie, his Barack face implacable, ignores a barrage of screaming and follows with the camcorder. The fat man, teeth bared, sad strands of bottle-blond hair pasted to his orange forehead, plods forward. I can see he wants to hit me. I pop him in the eye with a left, but not hard. He moves in, growling, and fumbles for my mask, but I back off and start circling again. He stays with me, turning round and round, grabbing for my face every time I get close. After about ten spins he stops, slack-jawed and disoriented. I slap him twice, open-handed, and watch him keel over.

It’s fine. We’re done. I don’t want to hurt the man. Frankie and I bundle him out to the van. Lilah drives. Frankie hits the remote on the incendiary device and we see the night sky flare orange. We dump The Donald in an alley behind a dollar-a-shot biker bar in West Palm Beach.

This is gonna blow up on YouTube.