The Trump Complex

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November, 2016:

President-Elect Donald Trump stands before a large, amassed crowd for his acceptance speech. Most of the crowd is cheering, the protestors having been forcibly removed by his own team of secret service agents and privatized police. He looks pleased as he stares below at, what from a distance looks like an amorphous blob, but up close is a sea of individual people.

His lips curl over his teeth and he silently mutters to himself, “This is it. I’ve done it.”

Across the world, hundreds of millions of people watch him accept his victory live. Some of them are angry; some of them are nervously wringing their hands; many of them are nodding in approval—their wish has come true. This moment has both brought families together and torn them apart. People who wonder, “How could this have happened?” on either side of the political spectrum drink to ease their pain.

Trump stands before them silently for a minute with his eyes almost seeming to squint as someone would who was bathing in direct sunlight. He turns his head and you can almost feel a palpable warmth glow from his masses below, licking his face like flames. The stage lights are bright and harsh, glinting through his thinly combed-over hair, exposing his red scalp beneath.

Finally, he speaks.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the United States… we. Have. Done. It—”, and while he intends to scream the last word, “it”, a flash of inconceivable light, far brighter than any of the flashbulbs from the press from below, startles him before he can finish. The bright light lasts longer than any light naturally should, slowly fading and fading, with thick smoke billowing at the base of the orb. The light and the smoke both begin to clear, and now standing before a trembling, stammering Trump is a man wearing an outfit that appears to be made out of a space-aged spandex. In his hands, he is holding a futuristic ray gun, with indicators of energy levels blinking on either side, in red and in green.

“It worked!” The time traveler excitedly cheers to himself. “I can still stop it!”

“Who the hell are you?” Trump demands of the man stealing his spotlight.

Rather than answering, the time traveler levels his rifle of technological marvel and fires once. A slow-moving bolt sparkles from the barrel and connects with Trump’s torso and engulfs him in a glow of plasma. In a matter of seconds, the President-Elect is reduced to a skeleton, mouth still open mid-yell and arm outstretched accusingly. The skeleton collapses on stage and, as it does, turns into a giant plume of dust that blows out, wafts over, and is inhaled by the now-muted crowd of supporters.

The hundreds of millions of television viewers now sit in absolute silence, as if they were in a perfect vacuum. Tens of thousands of beers simultaneously, across the world, fall to the ground, fizzing and foaming, while the owners stare dumbfounded at what they had just witnessed.

And they all watch as the time traveler falls to his knees crying tears of joy, screaming, “I’ve done it! I’ve done it!”

Now, with history altered, the man is gone again in a flash. His reason for being was to create a history where he no longer existed, his destiny at once fulfilled and made obsolete. Hundreds of millions had witnessed an event that took place in less than thirty seconds and when it was over, all wondered, “What else is on TV?”

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