Election 2016

An adult fairy tale

The Date: September 26, 2016

The Scene: Backstage after the first 2016 presidential debate

Donald is furious. The whole thing was a goddamn setup. That bitch is going down.

He watched that woman shimmy and smile and exude confidence (not that he would naturally use the word "exude," but artistic liberties must be taken, or this would be a very dull story indeed). She was not presidental, he thought. She was a horrible, nasty woman who lied through her teeth and murdered people with impunity, and that email server! He had to figure out what that was all about, since he could tell it was some kind of a big deal, but no one ever explained what the actual issue was. Not his problem, he thought.

"Donald," comes the stern voice up the hallway. He is standing in the greenroom hall, his hand on the doorknob of his dressing room behind the glitzy, well-lit stage. Fluorescent lights overhead flicker and hum, the exact opposite of the carefully crafted presentation facing the cameras on the other side of the wall. He looks at her, flicking a glance furtively in the other direction before advancing.

"What do you want," he says. It's a statement, not a question. He is in no mood for small-talk.

"Well done back there." She smirks. He feels an urge to punch, his little hand balling up into a fist without being strictly aware of it. That's been happening a lot lately. Abruptly self-conscious lest his hands should appear to be smaller than they actually are, he relaxes the fist.

"Thanks," he says. "You too." He pauses, then says, "It looked like you were having fun out there." He sidles closer. Their dressing rooms are right next to each other. There's still no one in the hallway.

There was no actual conscious decision made, but he's switched from angry to dominating. He is The Donald. That woman can't possibly intimidate him. He looms taller, making the most of his height and bulk. Does she shrink back? He thinks she does. He smiles a little smile, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

"You might want to lay off the Mucinex," she says. Still smirking, he notes, a flicker of annoyance playing across his face. He looms closer. He has to play it cool, or she'll use it. She always does, the withered old witch. He briefly considers asking one of his staff to Photoshop a picture of Hillary with a pointy black hat that he can tweet later, but pushes the thought aside. He realizes that she actually laughed after saying that. He had been distracted, trying to think what Mucinex was, but he can hear the laugh echoing down the hallway.

There is the clatter of footsteps from the far end of the hall, and Donald realizes this is his chance if he wants to take some decisive action. Torn between anger, humiliation and the desire to lash out, he looms even closer.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he says, sniffing unconsciously. His hand, guided by an ancient instinct in the most dominant portion of his brain, reaches out and tries to grasp her left breast as he starts to say, "Nice pantsuit," with a sneer on his face.

Unfortunately for him, the second word becomes a shocked huff of breath as the world spins around his head and something that feels like a Mac truck slams into his back, knocking the wind from his chest. It takes a few seconds for his head to clear and realize where he is: flat on his back in the hall, Hillary towering above him, clad in glowing red wool from head to toe, one hand on her hip, the other patting her hair back into place. She glares down at him.

"You don't get to do that," she says, the words angry. "This," she says, running her hand down her side like Vanna White displaying a new letter, "is not for you." He can't respond, his breath still shocked out of him, not enough air left to speak with. She just stands there, her stance daring him to try something.

At this point, something very surprising happens. Donald feels a stirring in his withered loins. He hasn't felt that for a long, long time. Suddenly self-conscious, he struggles to his feet. Angry. No one is allowed to assault The Donald. He raises his hand to slap her face, but time shifts again, his breath is knocked away again, and his arm is screaming in pain. He emits a surprised "Meep!"

Hillary's voice comes from behind him, and he realizes that she's got him pressed against the wall, his right arm folded up behind his back. It feels like it's about to break at the elbow. A wash of humiliation rushes from his face down to his feet, lingering curiously at his crotch. He can't believe how strong she is, and she twitches his arm a little higher as if to prove the point. He emits another eeping sound.

"Donald, see, here's the thing," she says. He can just see her out of the corner of his eye. The wall is cool against his cheek. He finds himself rising on his toes trying to relieve the pressure, but she keeps it steady. "You're a horrible waste of a human being. You are a bully, and a scammer, and you're just about the worst possible choice to be president of this country." He takes in a breath to respond, but she increases the pressure slightly and it turns into a gasp. "You don't deserve to be on that stage with me. Anyone is more qualified than you. Ted Cruz is more qualified than you, and that's saying something. My cat has a better grasp of the duties of a president than you do." Her tone is nearly conversational, though there's an edge to it that puts Donald back into third grade, cowering at the wrath of Ms. Blankenship, his tutor, her arm raised after cuffing him so hard he fell out of his chair. Just as in third grade, his free hand moves down to rub his crotch for comfort.

As suddenly as it started, it's over. The pressure is gone, and Hillary is standing a few feet away, the door to her dressing room half open, her hand on the knob. She's smiling genuinely, though Donald sees the expression as terribly smug. Without knowing quite what he's doing, he crowds toward her, his face suffused with anger, trying again to intimidate her with his bulk in the doorway.

Once again, the world spins, there is a thud and a whuff and the door clicks closed. He opens his eyes to see the stained ceiling of a dressing room, lights glaring at him from around the mirror. He dully takes in the clothing rack with a few hangers on it, and the couch on the far side of the room, ratty with years of hard use by actors and inspirational speakers and their hangers-on. Suddenly, there's a weight on his belly, and Hillary swings into view. His tiny member, primed by the drubbing in the hallway, suddenly springs to attention -- it's been years since a woman straddled him in any capacity.

"What are you..." he manages to gasp, his breath still pained. He's pretty sure there's a cracked rib. Something mid-torso certainly hurts. The lust circuits in his brain, long dormant, slowly shudder to life like a dusty squeeze box making a few squonks and feeps for the first time in decades.

"Shut up, Donald." She looks serene, as if fulfilling a long-time dream. "You're a piece of shit. You're worse than shit, because at least shit can be used to fertilize the ground and make things grow. The only thing you grow..." she trails off at a knock on the door. "Yes?" she calls.

A muffled voice says through the door, "Everything OK, Mrs. Clinton? I thought I heard a noise."

"All good, Steve, thanks," she calls back, placing her hand carefully over Donald's mouth. She consciously moves her hand up to block his nostrils as he takes in a breath as if to scream, and he is nearly put into a panic by the pressure on his chest combined with the blocked airways. He can't move his arms, and realizes she's got him completely pinned.

"Ok," says Steve. He sounds big, and Donald, if he weren't fearing for his life, would have guessed Steve was one of the Secret Service agents assigned to Hillary. Donald is peripherally aware of steps walking away from the door as she moves her hand and he's allowed to take in a panicked breath.

"Now, as I was saying," she continues, serene smile still in place. "You are a piece of shit. If you think you can intimidate me with your little hands and your scrotal 'good' looks and your gold-plated ass-scratcher, you are sorely mistaken." He takes in another breath to respond, but suddenly he's looking at the door instead of the woman on top of him, and his left cheek blooms in pain and shock. His erection starts to throb. Hillary glances curiously at the orange stain on her right hand. "You," she says, looking up from her palm and back into his face, "will speak when I say you can. This may be the only time in your life this will be true, but this is my house, Donald, and my rules." Her stern face breaks into a smile again, and she says, "Now, what do you have to say to that."

He draws in another breath to speak, and now he's looking at the back wall, his right cheek flushing red under the smeared spray-tan, with a Hillary-size handprint on it. "Did I say you could speak?" He draws another breath, sees her hand raise and subsides, shaking his head no instead of saying anything. He's never been in this position before, and is confused by it, no longer sure of the rules in a world where he thought he was always in control.

"That's better," she says. She leans forward, picks up his toupee and smooths it back onto his head in a nearly maternal gesture. "See, here's the thing, Donald. I have been facing men who think they can scare me for decades now; literal, actual decades of time. You're a horrible person, and you can call me crooked all you want. I've seen far worse. Really, you're a penny-ante player in this game, though your heart," she taps him painfully on the chest, "is clearly in the same place as every other man scared of my power and my vagina. You can say whatever you want on Twitter because this is a free country, and we have certain, as they say, inalienable rights. I would not deny you those rights, although I think you would deny me my rights if you had the chance." He draws another breath, and she raises her hand in warning, her face hardening. He subsides again. The throbbing pressure in his pants is increasing by the second. "But it's so nice to be able to talk for thirty seconds straight without you interrupting.

"Now, I need to get going, as I have a busy schedule ahead of me. I couldn't conjecture what your schedule might be like, but I'm sure you want to get back to Twitter and your rabble of idiot followers. I hope, in the coming months, that you'll remember this:" she repeats the taps on his chest with each point, and he winces each time, "I am a better person than you, I will make a better president than you could dream of being, and when push literally comes to shove?" She smiles sweetly down at him, and Donald winces, fearing another slap, but it doesn't come. "I am actually both stronger and more skilled than you will ever be."

She stands up effortlessly, and Donald finds he can breathe properly again. His arms ache where she had squeezed them to his side, and there's definitely a broken rib or two as he shifts to get up.

Before he can do more than get to his elbows, a look of pain on his face, Hillary stops him with a glance. He looks up at her, hangdog, wondering what comes next. She simply stares at him impassively for what seems to be hours, though it can't have taken more than 15 seconds.

"Oh, and Donald," she says, suddenly smiling sweetly again as she swings her jacket over her shoulder. She nods toward his crotch, and says, "You might want to clean that up."

Donald Trump looks down over his belly to his now-flaccid manhood and sees that there is a small dark spot to mark his appreciation for a strong woman who won't back down.

Copyright © 2016 by Ian Johnston