“Who will be my VP?” Donald asked the hushed arena.
“I said WHO WILL BE MY VP?” he screamed into the microphone. The crowd sighed as one but made no other sound.
“Don’t you all rush forward at once,” the hat muttered.
“Don’t get picked up by the microphone,” the hair hissed back. Donald reached up and gently tucked a stiff wing of the hair behind his left ear.
“Nobody? Really? Sad. Just sad, people,” Donald said. He shook his head in disgust. “OK, let them out.”
A large man in a mask and a greasy loincloth on the arena floor threw back a giant bolt on an enormous door and pulled it open slowly.
“Faster, please. C’mon,” Donald scolded. “OK, OK, who is the first one?”
Rough hands pushed an elderly man out into the dusty arena floor, his white hair disheveled, the face on his round pumpkin head red and blotchy. He had a filthy cloth wound around his midsection and he carried a short sword.
“Newt Gingrich, everybody,” Donald said. A dozen or so people clapped with no enthusiasm.
“The crowd loves him,” the hair whispered. The hat chortled.
“OK, the next one,” Donald said.
A fat man covered in sweat was pushed out next. He only had a pull-up diaper on and was armed with a trident and a net. The crowd began to laugh when he threw the weapons down and tried to run back into the door. He was pushed down to the floor of the arena and got back up with his back and legs matted with sweatmud.
“Disgusting,” Donald said. “Chris Christie. Yeah. OK. Don’t clap, then.” A nervous giggle rang out as Chris stumbled while trying to collect his weapons.
“OK, come on. Let’s GO!” Donald said.
Another old white man was pushed out into the actinic glare of the arena lights. He was flabby and nude and made a show of sucking his gut. Foot-long spikes jutted out of leather gauntlets that had been laced up his arm and there was a tight metal collar around his neck. He raised his arms in triumph and there was an effeminate “WOO!” from a lone voice in the crowd.
“Mike Pence!” Donald said. In the thunderous silence that followed a cricket died quietly.
“Mike Pence? Really? Nobody? The governor of Indiana?” Donald held his arms up questioningly. “Indiana. It’s a state. It’s, like, right there in the middle. OK. Whatever.”
“INDIANA! WOO!” Mike screamed. In the agonizing silence that followed he yelled, “Y’all are just a bunch of FAGGOTS!”
“Has he seen what he is wearing?” the hair asked.
“Closet case,” the hat said. “You know, a wide stance.”
“Oh, I get it.”
Donald shook his head like a horse annoyed by flies. “OK, OK. There’s one more. OK, send him out.”
A large, imposing figure walked into the arena, dressed in an armored codpiece and wielding a long sword. The crowd cheered as the door creaked closed behind him.
“Wow. OK. Cheering already,” Donald said. He looked down at his notecards.
“General Michael Flynn. General Flynn. Look at him. Isn’t he just great?”
Flynn swung his sword around and pointed at Newt, Chris and Mike. Mike exclaimed, “My heavens!” and the other two cowered.
“Mike Flynn. Great guy. Love him. Afghanistan. Iraq. Very distinguished. He’s gonna just murder these other three.”
“Are we just doing this so he can just slaughter them?” the hair asked.
“Wait for it…” the hat replied.
Donald squinted at his note cards. “It also says here that he’s pro-choice.”
The crowd booed deafeningly. They threw programs and rotten fruit into the arena. They rushed the fences that kept them in the audience area and began pushing against them, snarling and screaming.
“Poor dumb fucker,” the hair said. “He might as well not even fight.”
The grunting and farting of Newt and Chris filled the arena as Mike stopped gloating. Their labored breathing and half-muttered curses got louder as the crowd quieted.
