Sarah Huckabee Sanders Was Asked to Leave Restaurant Over White House Work

“I can’t believe they would treat Pie like this,” Donald said, fuming and shaking, the silk lining of his pants sliding over his semi-hard penis as he strategized in his War Room, splayed in a web of straps and nutrient feeds. He paused his rant long enough to lap at a Diet Coke reservoir like a manic hamster.

“Stay calm, Donald,” the hair said, riding out the convulsions of the support system as Donald writhed. The notification tones of incoming messages rattled like machine-gun fire as tweets, replies, retweets, and sub-tweets rolled up the LED wall.

“PIE!” Donald screamed.

“Womp, womp,” the hat said and yawned.

*****
Melania dabbed eye-cream on the crow’s feet forming on the thinning skin at the corners of her eyes. They seemed to deepen every time she even thought about squinting.

“Vroom, vroom,” Barron said as he ran his fire truck along the bedroom floor. The furrows in the carpet were deep, down to the underfloor in places. “Vroom, vroom,” he said, “Vroom, vroom,” over and over again.

“Barron, my love,” Melania said, her accent thick, tired.

“Vroom, vroom,” the boy said.

She leaned into the vanity’s mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and milky. She wondered if she needed a few more days in the clinic. “Be best,” she whispered as she dug her right thumbnail into the nailbed of her left thumb painfully. “Be best.”

“Watch out, Mommy!” Barron said as he rammed the firetruck into her ankle.

*****
Sarah vomited into the toilet again, thin streams of bright yellow bile that lingered on the roof of her mouth and burned. She groped for the handle and flushed the toilet. Her chest and abdominal muscles ached and her whole face hurt. Stomach acid had etched the enamel off the back of her front teeth and the nerves there seemed to shoot bright bolts of pain all the way into her scalp.

She wiped the tears away and staggered to the bathroom scale. She looked at the ceiling while waiting for it to beep. When she looked down, she had to blink a few times to read the numbers. She sobbed and kicked it back under the sink.

She forced herself to look in the mirror. Raccoon eyes and dark streaks of mascara, blotchy and bloated and pale. She started crying again.

“Mr. President,” she said and sobbed.

“Mr. President,” she said. She willed the emotion from her face. She pushed down the pain.

“Mr. President,” she said, a quaver still in her voice. She washed the tears and make-up and snot off her face. She scrubbed until her skin hurt.

“Mr. President,” she said. She smiled and it broke on her face after only a second. She began putting on a thick layer of foundation.

“Mr. President,” she said. Her stomach clenched like a fist, but she held her smile. She reached out to touch the Sarah in the mirror.

*****
“How could someone be so cruel as to deny Pie food? What kind of monster would do that?” Donald asked wonderingly.

“You literally slapped a piece of cake out of her hand at the office birthday party yesterday,” the hair said.

“Fake news,” Donald said. “Never happened.”

“Womp, womp,” said the hat.

*****
Ivanka had a money fight with Jared. She got him good in the face with a banded stack of crisp 100s and she laughed.

*****
“I don’t want to be President,” Chelsea screamed at her mother. “That was your dream, it was never mine. I hated the White House, I hated the attention, I hated everything about it.”

“I was cheated out of it,” Hillary said. “Russians and Facebook and Putin and the entire media and redneck, KKK racists all got together and cheated me. I was cheated!”

“Now, honey,” Bill rasped. “Maybe we should let her…”

“Pipe down, intern-fucker!” Hillary snapped. “I would have been President if it wasn’t for your tubby-punching!”

“Don’t talk to him like that!” Chelsea screamed.

Hillary closed her eyes and held her head in her hands. “I was so happy when they pulled you out of me and you didn’t have a penis. I thanked God you were a girl.”

“Whatever, Mom,” Chelsea groaned.

“I said to myself, ‘She can grow up strong. She can grow up proud. She doesn’t have to be led around by her disgusting penis like Bill.’”

“You’ve told me this a thousand times, Mom.”

“But you’re weak, Chelsea. Weak.  You could be President. But you refuse. Weak.”

“Hillary,” Bill whispered. Her hand hit his face before he even saw it move.

“You are all terrible disappointments to me,” Hillary said in a low, sonorous voice.

“Mom…” Chelsea began.

Hillary held up her hand. She squatted on the floor without a sound and shat a black egg out of her womb. She picked it up and wiped off the corrosive slime.

“Infertile,” she said, inspecting it. She tossed it to Bill. “Put it with the others.”

*****
“Donald, please get off Twitter. Please,” the hair whispered.

“Womp, womp,” the hat said and giggled.