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Tommy_Carcetti

(43,085 posts)
Thu Jan 5, 2017, 01:20 PM Jan 2017

The Madman's Press Conference: A short story by Tommy Carcetti

Last edited Thu Jan 5, 2017, 03:32 PM - Edit history (4)

It all came back to where it had first started--where everything had first started.

Several dozen reporters sat somewhat patiently in the gilded gold lobby of the Darth Vader-like Midtown Manhattan monstrosity that was Trump Tower. The din of murmured conversations echoed against the vaulted ceilings and brass plated fixtures that slowly squeezed the transversing humanity inside of it like a tacky, gauche boa constrictor. At the front of the folding chair set-up stood a podium, empty at the moment, with a Kinko's manufactured sign hastily taped onto its face.

A red, white and blue unofficial logo on the placard read: "Donald J. Trump. President-Elect of the United States."

Members of the press mostly browsed on their phones. Some checked their watches. Others explored their modest press packets containing one eight ounce miniature bottle of Trump Water, a pen with the Trump Tower logo, a Trump Tower notepad, and two Andes chocolate mints. Those who did talk amongst themselves were admittedly curious, because the Madman who at one point in his campaign attacked Secretary Clinton for not holding enough press conferences had gone silent for months after one July press conference where he notoriously dared the Russian government to hack into US government emails and mine them for valuable information.

The advance press release teased that the Madman would discuss the subject of the hacking of Democratic National Committee emails and the possible culprits of such infiltration, but questions abounded. Would the Madman point his modestly-lengthed finger at the Russians? Would he call for greater cyber security measures? Would he bring along Don King this time, or perhaps would it be Dennis Rodman instead?

The clock ticked passed the announced 11:00 am start time for the press conference. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Still, the press stayed, in great anticipation of whatever newsworthy information the Madman might intentionally--or unintentionally--throw them.

Just as the collective patience of the audience was about to wane, the Bose speakers flanking the podium rung out and throttled the attention of everyone in the lobby.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," an unidentified voice announced, "The President-Elect of the United States.....Donald....J.....Trump!"

Immediately, music began playing.

Cheesy, 1980s styled synth rock instrumental music.

The intro to Van Halen's "Jump," to be exact.

The reporters looked around trying to find where the Madman would be entering. The answer should have been obvious, knowing the past. A large mass of people wearing dark suits began descending on the Trump Tower escalator. In the middle of the gaggle stood a figure that was unmistakable to the entire world. That yellowish-whitish tuft of sheened hair, oddly sculpted in helmet like fashion around the spray-tanned orangish wrinkled face, all on top of the sloped, hulking shoulders that somewhat resembled a vulture at rest.

It was the Madman.

The Madman made his gradual, mechanical descent down the escalator, extending both his thumbs out to the crowd while a smirk formed at his mouth. At the bottom of the stairs, as if on cue, the music segued from Van Halen to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" as the Madman and his entourage made their way toward the podium. As the huddle began to disburse, a second figure emerged walking next to the Madman. This one was much shorter than the others, wearing a dark suit and red tie, his hair thick blonde but much more naturally so than that of the Madman. It almost appeared as though there was a genetically miniaturized version of the man walking alongside him.

"Good God," one reporter whispered to his neighbor. "He's cloned himself."

In reality, it was the Madman's 10-year old son, Barron Trump.

Mercifully, the Greenwood tune died down as the Madman took to the podium. Barron took to the Madman's right, looking as understandably bored as any 10-year old would being forced to accompany his father on the job as opposed to lazying the day away on an X-box.

"Good morning. Good morning everybody," the Madman said in his unmistakable nasal-tinged New York accent as he fiddled with the microphone attached to the podium. "Isn't this great? Isn't it great to be here? You all love it here. Admit it. There's nothing that beats this, nothing at all."

Flashes and camera snaps abounded as the Madman begun his remarks. Dualing teleprompters stood at the side of the podium. They were both left unplugged.

"I'm calling you all together today to give you a very brief statement and announcement regarding the claims from the intelligence community that the DNC emails were hacked during the election," the Madman continued. "A lot of you out there have made a lot of claims that I somehow benefited from these hacks or had something to do with them. Some of you have even said that the Russian government was behind the hacks because they wanted me to win."

The Madman let out an impulsive sniff. Barron stood passively next to him, hands at his side, taking in the press before him.

"I just think for you all to say that, it's sad," the Madman declared, "It's sad and it's pathetic and it's sad. So sad. You guys just want to sabotage me as I start my journey with the people, the people, to Make America Great Again©. And it's not fair to me and it's not fair to the Russian government and Vladimir Putin who has so graciously reached out to me and expressed a desire to repair relations between our two countries after years and years of the failed Obama policies."

He paused and sniffed again.

"But enough about you, because it's not about you. It's about the American people. And of course, me," the Madman said.

"Anyways, the reason I'm calling you together here today is because I decided to conduct my own intelligence review about the hacks," the Madman continued. "So I got a bunch of guys, smart guys, the best guys, and they sat down together and they looked at the intelligence, all of it, and they found out what was really going on. And I have to tell you, it's shocking. It will shock you. Truly shocking."

Another sniff.

"So remember when I had that debate with Crooked Hillary Clinton, I mean Hillary Clinton, sorry, and I told her that anybody could hack a computer, even some really fat disgusting 400 pound guy?" the Madman asked. "And then I went on about how great my son was with computers, and all you guys could talk about was how stupid I sounded and how you thought Crooked Hillary Clinton, I mean Hillary Clinton, won the debate?"

Barron, at the time nearly falling into a standing slumber at the boorishness of his father's remarks, shook to alertness upon being referenced by the Madman.

"Well, when I had my guys, who were the best guys, look into it, and yeah, so it turns out that Barron is actually the one who hacked the DNC. My son. He's the one who did it," the Madman announced.

"Huh, Dad?" Barron shot his father a quizzical look.

"Much as I'm as proud of my children, all of my children, but especially my oldest three, I know you here in the press are going to demand accountability, so I have to do something about it or you guys aren't going to shut the hell up," the Madman declared. "And I'd really like for you guys to shut the hell up."

"Wait, what?" Barron gestured as his father, who ignored him and continued on unfazed.

"So that is why I, with a very heavy heart, and using the absolute powers granted to me by the United States Constitution as the President-elect, am hereby instructing my private security detail to seize Barron and transport him to the detention facility at Guantanamo Bay to be held indefinitely, and maybe then, just then, he'll learn his lesson."

"WHAT THE FUCK, DAD?!?" Barron shouted.

Gasps of horror emerged from the press corps. Out of a side corridor emerged two large, muscle-bound men dressed in khaki fatigues and black bulletproof vests, their faces obscured by balaclavas, with no insignias on their uniforms but for a golden "T" badge sewn on their shoulders. They surrounded Barron and grasped him by both arms.

"Dad....Dad....DAD!" Barron screamed as the men began to pull him away.

The Madman shrugged and sniffed before continuing with his remarks.

"So, in conclusion, I alone have solved the DNC hacking mystery and thanks to you as a result of you people continuing to pester me about it, a ten year old boy is going to be sent off to a detention center to live alongside terror suspects who have spent years stewing in custody without the benefit of due process of law," the Madman said. "I hope you in the press are all very happy for yourselves for that fact. I know you are. I'm sure you all just love it."

The Madman shot off a silent glare to the reporters. Barron's shouting became more faint as the Madman's security detailed pulled him off towards the hallway.

"Oh, Barron," the Madman shouted in the direction of the hallway, "While you're down there, say hello to your sister for me."

More muffled sounds emerged from the hall.

"No, not Ivanka," the Madman answered. "You know, the other one."

The Madman turned to the press corps and smirked. "Ivanka," he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

The entire group of reporters sat in stunned silence, their mouths all agape.

"Oh yeah," the Madman added. "And in the event that Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton somehow are able to evade my security detail and successfully flee the country before I take office, any subsequent economic downturn, err, um, well that all is going to be Barron's fault as well, so two birds and one stone and all that shit."

More silence. The Madman sniffed again.

"I think this is the part where you guys are supposed to ask me questions, so let's get this over with," the Madman said.

It took three more sniffs of the Madman before a female reporter finally mustered up the courage to stand up. She raised a shaking hand.

"Mr. President-elect," the reporter began. "Any idea as to what the future First Lady might think of this, with you sending her only son to Guantanamo Bay?"

"First Lady?" the Madman responded, "You mean Ivanka?"

"Um, no," the reporter replied, puzzled. "I mean Melania."

"Oh yeah. Her," the Madman went on. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't really care. Truth be told, the odometer on Melania keeps on going up and up and there's only so much plastic surgery can do for her. Time to trade her in for the newer model. She's like what, thirty-four?"

"She's 46," the reporter answered. "Forty-six years old."

Impulsively, the Madman shuttered and clenched his teeth, like a vampire faced with a crucifix.

"EHH!" he exclaimed. "Yeah, I guess you can say that settles that, then. Say, how old are you, sweetie? Because I have to say, not bad. Not bad at all."

The Madman leered in and smiled. The reporter shook her head and sat down, disgusted. Another one several rows back stood up in her place.

"Mr. President-elect," the reporter said, "Is this some sort of horrific publicity stunt? Sending your own son to Guantanamo Bay for hacking that the intelligence community clearly believes was perpetuated by the Russians to help get you elected? Do you really intend to keep your son down there as a scapegoat while blaming us for it?"

The Madman shot off a brief eyeroll accompanied by a sniff before answering.

"Well," the Madman said. "There's the pardon power. That's the great thing about being President, it's that you can pardon people. And I intend to pardon people around me. A lot. Like, constantly. And I'll be pardoning myself too, just to be fair. So to answer your question, sure, I could always pardon Barron if I like, so maybe I'll do that eventually."

The Madman stopped, waiting for some feedback from the reporter. Instead, he got shut out.

"But maybe I'll let him stew for a month or two before I do that," the Madman continued. "Teach him a lesson. You know, Millennials. He's a Millennial. They all just think they're entitled to everything, those Millennials. They think the world should just give them a job, even if they're not even remotely qualified for it. And everything will be about them, only them, that's all they want to talk about, themselves. And they're so goddamned obsessed with social media and broadcasting every single little thought in their head on social media and at some point you just have to say just shut the fuck up about yourself because you're just making yourself out to be a damn fool to the world and making more and more people hate your guts."

The press corps remained dead silent. The Madman sniffed again.

"Okay, well, I'm about tired of all this, so it's been fun. Really fun," the Madman said. "You're all going look forward to my next few tweets, believe me. I'll do this again, well, whenever I really want to. And when it happens, you're going to really love it. You really will."

With that, the Madman stepped away from the podium and was quickly surrounded by his entourage as they made their way to the escalator. Soon, the P.A. system kicked in the familiar choir intro to The Rolling Stones "You Can't Always Get What You Want," the unofficial and very much unauthorized show closer of the Madman's campaign. The Madman climbed aboard the golden escalator and gave the gathering one more double barreled thumbs up as he ascended upwards before being ushered into an elevator back to his palatial apartment at the top of Trump Tower.

And the press, somewhat overwhelmed by the spectacle that had just unfolded before their very eyes, slowly began to stand up, gather their things and leave, and wonder as to the next time they'd be called before the Madman.

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The Madman's Press Conference: A short story by Tommy Carcetti (Original Post) Tommy_Carcetti Jan 2017 OP
Well written story world wide wally Jan 2017 #1
Well, I did release the Chuggo Novella a few years back on DU.... Tommy_Carcetti Jan 2017 #2
Tales of WTFery, Volume 91 Dr. Strange Jan 2017 #3
Not quite enough material for a novella this time. Tommy_Carcetti Jan 2017 #4
Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, such awesomeness. I loved it, bookmarking to read the other stuff..n/t monmouth4 Jan 2017 #5
I'll have to come up with something. Gotta give me time. Tommy_Carcetti Jan 2017 #6

Tommy_Carcetti

(43,085 posts)
4. Not quite enough material for a novella this time.
Thu Jan 5, 2017, 05:44 PM
Jan 2017

But perhaps a running series if I ever get so inspired.

Tommy_Carcetti

(43,085 posts)
6. I'll have to come up with something. Gotta give me time.
Wed Jan 11, 2017, 02:08 PM
Jan 2017

What we saw today wasn't that much less absurd.

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