The Day of the Donald Read online

  Praise for Donald J. Trump

  “I’m intelligent. Some people would say I’m very, very, very intelligent.”

  —Donald J. Trump, in Fortune

  “I love beautiful women, and beautiful women love me.”

  —Donald J. Trump, speaking to Norwegian talk show host Fredrik Skavlan

  “It is very hard for them to attack me on looks, because I am so good-looking.”

  —Donald J. Trump, on NBC’s Meet the Press, August 7, 2015

  “What a great honor it must be for you to honor me tonight.”

  —Donald J. Trump, at his Comedy Central Roast

  “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn’t lose any voters, okay? It’s, like, incredible.”

  —Donald J. Trump, speaking at a rally in Sioux Center, January 23, 2016

  “The show is ‘Trump.’ And it is sold-out performances everywhere.”

  —Donald J. Trump, in Playboy, March 1990

  “We want to see winning. We want to see win, win, win—constant winning. And you’ll say—if I’m president . . . ‘Please, Mr. President, we’re winning too much. We can’t stand it anymore. Can’t we have a loss?’ And I’ll say no, we’re going to keep winning, winning, winning.”

  —Donald J. Trump, speaking at Liberty University, January 2016

  Also available by Andrew Shaffer:

  Ghosts from Our Past: Both Literally and Figuratively: The Study of the Paranormal

  How to Survive a Sharknado and Other Unnatural Disasters

  Literary Rogues: A Scandalous History of Wayward Authors

  Fifty Shames of Earl Grey (writing as Fanny Merkin)

  Great Philosophers Who Failed at Love

  ANDREW SHAFFER

  THE DAY OF THE DONALD

  TRUMP TRUMPS AMERICA!

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (paperback): 978-1-68331-045-7

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-046-4

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-68331-047-1

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-048-8

  Cover design by Louis Malcangi

  Cover illustration by Bruce Emmett

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First Edition: June 2016

  “It’s like Mahatma Gandhi said: First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win . . . and then you make them all kiss your ass.”

  —President-Elect Trump in his acceptance speech, November 8, 2016

  Contents

  Prologue: January 20, 2017

  Chapter One: The Even Greater Wall

  Chapter Two: Shawshank (Minus the Redemption)

  Chapter Three: Hello, Nurse

  Chapter Four: An Offer You Can’t Refuse

  Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions

  Chapter Five: Hammer Time

  Chapter Six: The Apprentice

  Chapter Seven: First Impressions Are Everything

  Chapter Eight: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

  Chapter Nine: You’re Fired

  Chapter Ten: Surprise! You’re Dead!

  Chapter Eleven: The Whole Shack Shimmies

  Chapter Twelve: A Hard Bed Is Good to Find

  Chapter Thirteen: Wallbanger

  Chapter Fourteen: We Honor and Remember Their Sacrifice

  Chapter Fifteen: Hope Is a Four-Letter Word

  Chapter Sixteen: Winter Is Coming

  Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions

  Chapter Seventeen: In Bloom

  Chapter Eighteen: Roses Are Red, Lester Is Blue

  Chapter Nineteen: We Don’t Dial 9-1-1

  Chapter Twenty: Close Enough for Government Work

  Chapter Twenty-One: Candy Is Dandy, but Liquor Is Quicker

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Strawberry and Cinnamon

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Trump Zero

  Chapter Twenty-Four: WWTDYL

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Panda Express

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Check, Please

  Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Say Cheese!

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Boomtown

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Twelve Angry Men

  Chapter Thirty: Biebs

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Birds and the Bees

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Hello Kitty

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Prince of Whales

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Mei Xiang’s Revenge

  Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Thursday, Don’t Even Start

  Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions

  Chapter Thirty-Six: A Little Ditty

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Have You Heard the Good Word?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Last Man Standing

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: What’s Our Vector, Victor?

  Chapter Forty: Humble Is on the Move

  Chapter Forty-One: Let’s Go Cubbies

  Chapter Forty-Two: The National Outlet Mall

  Chapter Forty-Three: The Ritz Cracker Barrel

  Chapter Forty-Four: A Very Particular Set of Skills

  Chapter Forty-Five: Table for One

  Chapter Forty-Six: The Seventh-Leading Cause of Death in the US

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Ninety Percent of the Time

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Storming the Castle

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Something Strange in the Neighborhood

  Chapter Fifty: Victoria’s Secret

  Chapter Fifty-One: It Happens to Plenty of Guys

  Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Stupid Is as Stupid Does

  Chapter Fifty-Three: Drawing Chickens

  Chapter Fifty-Four: Stool for Spies

  Chapter Fifty-Five: The Dream of the Nineties Is Alive

  Chapter Fifty-Six: Killing Everybody

  Chapter Fifty-Seven: High Score: 1,072

  Chapter Fifty-Eight: Deny Everything

  Chapter Fifty-Nine: To Catch a Rat

  Chapter Sixty: Lucifer in the Flesh

  Chapter Sixty-One: As Big as It Gets

  Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions

  Chapter Sixty-Two: The Series Finale

  Chapter Sixty-Three: Think of the Pageviews!

  Chapter Sixty-Four: No Spoilers

  Chapter Sixty-Five: The One With Mel Gibson

  Chapter Sixty-Six: Great America

  Chapter Sixty-Seven: Bigger Than Jesus

  Epilogue: In Loving Memory

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  January 20, 2017

  The skies were overcast on a bitterly cold January day, but that didn’t stop the massive crowd from gathering at the US Capitol Building. The crowd was bundled up, pumped up, and in more than a few cases, liquored up. This was a day that would set the Guinness World Record for the most fistfights at one location in a single day.

  But far away from the protests, up on the Capitol steps, a thin ray of sunshine broke through the clouds to illumina
te what, from a distance, looked like a thick wisp of rust-flavored cotton candy. The strings blew about in the wind, eventually settling back down on top of the head of the man about to become the forty-fifth president of the United States—Donald J. Trump.

  The billionaire businessman and WWE Hall of Famer stood tall and proud on the platform, joined by his five children. No first lady. The “October Surprise” of this election cycle had been his split from Melania—which did nothing to slow his momentum. If anything, polls indicated it may have helped.

  As five Cessnas flew overhead in tight formation, Donald Trump stepped forward. He placed his hand on the Bible being held by Donald Trump Jr., which was in turn resting atop a copy of Trump: The Art of the Deal. He raised his right hand as Chief Justice Roberts administered the oath of office.

  After being sworn in, Trump stepped to the microphone.

  “My fellow Americans, we are about to do some really, really fantastic things! It’s gonna be terrific! It’s a new day. Last November, the American people made their voices heard loud and clear in nearly every state. California, Illinois, I don’t know what you were thinking—you got some big financial problems going on out there, and I’m a very good businessman. I could have helped out, I’m just saying.

  “And now we’re going to Make! America! Great! Again! That’s right. If you don’t have a hat, by the way, they’re selling them at the merch booths near the exits. Twenty-five dollars for some really good workmanship. It’s quality, a great value.

  “This is a terrific nation. Sure, it has some problems. But hey—I have a lot of experience inheriting extravagant commodities, and they almost always retain most of their value. I totally got this.

  “Let’s stop to give a great round of applause to Obama. I was tough on him during the campaign, but he did a pretty nice job for a Hawaiian American.”

  The viewers at home saw a shot of President Obama waving graciously to Trump and the crowd. And then, perhaps thinking the cameras had already cut away, Obama turned to Michelle and mouthed, “We can go.” The outgoing first couple were halfway out of their seats by the time the cameras returned to Trump.

  “I want to say how humbled I am to have earned this sacred trust. I want to say that, but we all know I completely deserve this. I’m the most qualified guy to win the presidency since Eisenhower. So let me say to you: Good choice, America. You nailed this one.

  “Let’s make America great again, from sea to shiny sea. It’s not just for rich-o’s, either. Look, folks, my car has windows. I know that there’re some run-down neighborhoods in America. We’re going to fix that. The poor people are going to be so happy. I promise tomorrow, day one, to end the program that gives tax breaks for making your home more energy efficient. We’re going to replace it with tax breaks for making your home more classy. I want a granite countertop in every kitchen and Bermuda grass on every lawn!

  “So, America, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m going to be a first-rate, grade-A, big-league commander in chief. I’m going to deliver the goods. That’s what you gotta do, right? Deliver the goods. I’m great at delivering the goods. There’s nobody better. We’re going to turn a profit in every sense of the word. And we’re going to tell America’s enemies . . . you’re fired!”

  There was a two-minute-long wait for the applause to subside. Half a mile away, a car was flipped over, set on fire, and then flipped over while on fire—all for still having a Bernie bumper sticker.

  In Madison, Wisconsin, a frat boy passed out. He’d been playing a drinking game where he took a shot every time Trump said the word “great.” He would survive. The new president would even cover the cost to pump his stomach.

  And in Manhattan, six late-night talk show hosts joined hands in a prayer circle and gave thanks for the bounty that they were about to receive.

  “As the great Abraham Lincoln once said, ‘Put up or shut up.’ And I am the best at putting up. I put up Trump Tower. I put up the Trump casino. I put up the other Trump Tower in Chicago, and have you seen how tall it is? Majestic. It is a building that Abraham Lincoln would have been thrilled by if he had lived to see it. He’d be amazed. It would have blown his mind.”

  He paused as if he’d just realized his poor choice of words but continued on. Such was the Trump way.

  “I’m a rising tide, America, and I’m going to lift all the boats. If you don’t have a boat, you’ll be able to afford one by the time I’m done.”

  Trump paused for dramatic effect. He brushed away a tear, or maybe his eye just itched.

  “We’re going to do more than make America great. America is going to be really, truly amazing. This is the finest, richest, most upscale nation in the world. I’m proud to have my name on it, I really am.

  “God bless America, and let’s make some money.”

  He waved to the cheering masses and headed inside, out of the cold.

  The Trump era had begun.

  Eighteen Months Later

  Chapter One

  The Even Greater Wall

  Jimmie Bernwood didn’t know what was more suffocating: the darkness or the stale air. How far below the surface were they now? Forty, fifty feet? As long as the concrete-reinforced tunnel didn’t collapse, he supposed it didn’t much matter.

  Jimmie heard a cough behind him. A deep, phlegmy cough. The old man. The moment he’d seen the man’s sunken face and withered body in the back of the Toyota, he’d pegged him as a goner. Unfit to army-crawl underneath a limbo stick, let alone the mile and a half of tunnel leading to the promised land. Yet here they were, nearly at the end of their journey, and the old man was still breathing. For how much longer, Jimmie couldn’t say.

  Sad truth was, the old man wasn’t his problem. Jimmie was simply a journalist on the trail of a story. Once the migrants set foot on the other side of the Even Greater Wall, he would watch as they stumbled off into the desert. He’d take a drink of water from his canteen. Slip back into the tunnel. Repeat the trek a few more times—as many times as it took to get the story. As many times as it took to get inside the heads of the men and women desperate enough to make the dangerous journey. All any of them wanted was a better life. Was that a crime? In the immortal words of Secretary of the Energies Palin, “You betcha.”

  Something crunched beneath Jimmie’s forearm. Lots of scorpions and tarantulas down here. Whatever it was, he brushed its crumpled body aside and crawled on. He’d been stung and bitten more times than he could count. His bare arms were as mottled with scabs as a fry cook’s.

  What you really had to look out for down here were the bigger pests. Run headfirst into a pack of hungry rats, and say hello to heaven. There was no room to turn around; they’d eat you alive.

  Another cough. Even if the old man survived the coming days and nights crossing the no-man’s-land, he wasn’t going to get a job picking fruit. Not in the condition he was in. The last thing anyone hiring migrants wanted to deal with was body disposal. Though they might just let him lie there in the orange grove to fertilize the plants.

  Up ahead, he could see a faint sliver of light. The edge of the tarp that covered the opening let a shaft of moonlight through—not much, but just enough. The end was in sight.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Jimmie Bernwood was throwing the tarp open and gulping down his first breath of fresh air in hours. Fresh, unpolluted air. It smelled like jobs. Like health care. Like hope.

  Thirty-six minutes after that, he was helping the last of the American migrants to their feet in Mexico.

  And ten seconds after that, he was staring into a bright light, straight down the barrel of an AR-15.

  Chapter Two

  Shawshank (Minus the Redemption)

  After the Mexican border agents lowered their guns but before they could cuff him, Jimmie pulled out his duct-taped wallet.

  “I have rights,” he said, fishing out his press credentials. “Don’t you believe in freedom of the press down here?”

  A helicopter buzzed overhead as the agent
s examined his 2009 Cannes Film Festival press pass.

  Jimmie shielded his eyes from their spotlights. “They don’t hand those out to just anyone. You have to be a member of an elite media organization to be on the red carpet at Cannes. That year, I interviewed Harrison Ford and Natalie Portman.”

  This piqued the interest of one of the agents. “¿Harrison Ford?”

  “Han Solo,” Jimmie said, pointing at the press pass. Although his days on red carpets were long gone, the Mexican border patrol didn’t need to know that.

  “Han Solo,” the agent repeated, staring for another moment at the press pass. He shook his head and handed it back to Jimmie. “No eres Han Solo. Te ves como . . . Chewbacca.”

  This got a few chuckles from the other agents. With the crazy beard and unkempt hair, Jimmie had to admit he probably did look a little like a Wookiee. His postbreakup “no-shave November” scruff had eventually given way to a “zero-fucks-given 2017” beard. He was pretty sure it was 2018 now. Like, 90 percent sure.

  The agents weren’t really interested in hearing a sob story. They carted Jimmie and the American migrants off to San Miguel—the most lawless prison this side of Guantanamo. No phone call. No text. Not even a tweet. “I want my hundred and forty characters!” Jimmie shouted as they tossed him into the general population.

  The Mexican authorities no doubt expected him to be shivved and left to bleed out in the shower. If so, they had no idea just how resourceful Jimmie Bernwood was.

  On his first day on the inside, he would seek out the baddest hijo de puta in the yard . . . and beg him for protection. In exchange, he would use his superior command of the written word to pen love letters to the man’s girlfriend or wife.

  Unfortunately, Jimmie quickly learned he wasn’t the only aspiring Nicholas Sparks in San Miguel. The prison love-letter racket was every bit as competitive as New York City publishing. Too many pencil jockeys. Not enough horses. The big difference between New York and San Miguel, however, was that if you scored a cover story for Rolling Stone, your competition wasn’t going to shank you in retaliation.