He awoke with a sharp grunt. Like someone had kicked him in the balls.

Come to think of it, it hurt down there, too. And he had to pee. Again.

“Driver,” he called to the front of the black town car. “Pull over. I have to piss again.”

“Can you hold it for about 10 minutes, Mr. Trump? This is a pretty bad place to pull over.”

“President. I told you to refer to me as President Trump. I don’t want to say it again.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I thought you Secret Service guys were taught better at the academy or wherever you learned how to protect me. So, what’s so bad about here? I mean, Jesus, it’s nothing but trees. I’ve never seen so many trees. Ugly trees. So ugly. Can’t they keep the leaves on the trees here?”

“It’s Winter, sir,” said a second voice from the front. “It comes fast and early around here.”

“That’s another thing. Winter. Why does Vladie want me to lie low at the Summer house, instead of in Moscow? I feel like we kinda got a fast brush-off at the airport. Some hugs, some flowers, and kiss on the cheeks, and this medal. And then it’s ‘Off to your dacha, Donnie. I’ll be in touch.’

“I mean, not even a press conference. What’s with that?”

“Sir, it was all explained to you before the election. Declaring yourself a politically persecuted citizen and going into exile all takes some time to sort out the paperwork. President Putin said he will keep you in the loop and let you know when the time is right.”

“Like I have a choice. Has it been 10 minutes for Christ’s sake?”

“Here’s a good spot, Mr. President,” said the driver. “Let us get out first and take a quick look around.”

“Jesus, hurry it up. It’s not like these Depends aren’t soaked already.

The two agents stepped out of the car and scanned the surroundings. Their training heightened their senses but the fact that the Russians didn’t allow them to carry firearms added tension. Lots of tension.

“Did we do the right thing?” asked the driver. “I mean, we didn’t even have time to put in our notices.”

“What do you think?” shot back the other. “When the shitshow that was Pennsylvania blows up – and it will – where do you want to be? Handing in your notice? Or living in a Russian mansion with diplomatic immunity from extrication?”

“Nobody was supposed to die …”

“Think I don’t know that? The fucking teleprompter was supposed to take the hit and Trump was supposed to grab his ear and squeeze. Whose idea was it to send in that kid with a rifle?”

“Damned if I know. Oh, shit. All clear … Mr. President.”

Ten minutes later, Trump settles back into the dark recesses of the town car. 

“I swear to god, if you’d told me Russian winters would shrivel up my dick to the size of a mushroom, I might have considered that Saudi offer more seriously. I hope this house is heated.” 

“I’m told it is quite luxurious, sir. No golden toilets but all the comforts of a Trump Tower penthouse.”

The two agents chuckled. Trump was silent, already deep into his thoughts.

“Where, where, did it all go wrong?” he wondered.

But he knew. He knew very well.

It’s not like any of this was his fault. He’d been listening to the wrong people for far too long.

The papers. If it hadn’t been for the papers, he might not have run for president again.  Of course, they found only a fraction of them. They’d never trace the ones that went to the partners. They got copies, mostly. As for the rest of them? No Florida judge is going to issue a writ of exhumation. He made sure of that.

And there were so many other deals. So much money flowing in. Write a book, collect $100 million. Open a condo tower, collect $1 billion. And the bibles, the sneakers, the NFTs and trading cards, the pieces of his suit, the MAGA merchandise – all of it.

Excuses to print money. Nobody had to launder a cent. It was all legit. I sell. You buy. I collect.

Even after taxes, it was a billion-dollar bonanza.

The catch was, this was like juggling flaming hot circus balls. 

It only held together as long as Trump was running for office. As long as his ginned-up polls suggested he had a chance of winning. It was the threat of winning that kept the jackals at bay.

It was becoming too much. Trump didn’t really want to win. He never wanted to win. Not in 2016. And not now.

He was happy to put on a show, collect the money from the rubes, and worry about the rest later. 

All that court stuff? They hadn’t touched him yet and they never will. So many judges. He had so many judges. Right up to the top. He could afford to keep the justice system away for the rest of his life. How many fucking years could that be? Maybe 20 at best and the joke is, in 10 years he could start claiming some debilitating illness that would make a fair trial impossible.

“If anyone could fake crazy,” he thought with a chuckle, “it would be me.”

Sure, if he won, it all went away. All of it.

But he was tired.

He was tired of the big-titted, blonde, evangelicals and their red-scar lips, too-tight faces, and empty heads. He was tired of the suckers in red MAGA hats always wanting selfies. Jesus, why did they always stink so bad? He was tired of the perk-hungry sycophants who only wanted to climb over his back to White House jobs. He was tired of nursemaiding that fucking amateur-hour hillbilly Vance. He was tired of the think tanks and religious nutjobs who thought they all spoke for him.

That was it, he decided. That 2025 thing. Nobody asked me. 

Donald Trump writes his own scripts. They should all know that by now. Well, that’s one fucking horror movie that won’t get made now.

Trump looks out the window and wonders if that dark roiling mass in the distance is the Black Sea. He thinks that’s where the dacha is located. He isn’t sure.

He tells himself that he needs to find out why Melania didn’t have to come here, too. And why his sons and their families and his support team are all being sequestered in the city.

Like they have Covid or something.

When does he get them out to the country house so he can set up the presidency in absentia?

Sure, there was a lot of money moved before he abdicated – is that the right word when you lose? – but this show needs to get up and running. Presidents-in-exile don’t come cheap.

Trump’s mind drifts back to those final few months.

It was Pennsylvania. That’s where everything went to shit. Nobody was supposed to die. Shoot the teleprompter, grab the ear and squeeze the packet, the two bozos up front pull me down then lift me up and, boom, we’re off and running.

The kid knew he’d get a pardon and he’d be set for life. If only he could shoot straight.

In fact, they all knew they’d get pardons. Blanket pardons from Democrat persecutors. In fact, it was supposed to be just one big pardon, no names, a fresh slate in the name of American unity. What did Vance say? “I want to look to the future.” Yeah. Smartest thing that dumb fuck ever said. His timing was terrible.

It was after Pennsylvania that Trump began to rethink this whole game.

What did he want most of all? Attention. Fame. Adoration. Money. Power. Women. Unlimited tee times.

What did he want least of all?  Responsibility.

He could get all the good stuff if elected. But that also means responsibility. For the economy. For the weather. For the wars. For the people. For the military. For the poor. 

Fuck that.

Now, if he lost. Trump knew there was only one alternative. 

Sure, the court cases would move ahead. Probably the location of the papers. The shit show in Pennsylvania. The Russian connections. The Saudi connections. The others, who could keep them all straight? Who knew so many countries felt Trump was their guy?

The decision to lose wasn’t so hard.

Not once the whole financial thing was worked out. At last, a real art of the deal.

Trump began systematically insulting every potential constituency – women, there’s 52 percent of the vote – blacks and Latinos, another 15 percent. Labor unions. Military. Disaster victims. The insults came easy. Getting them to turn against him was hard.

Cops and union leaders. Amazing how many kept coming back.

Laying the groundwork for a contested election was crucial. Storming the Capitol again and tearing up state capitals and city streets was the perfect cover to make a getaway.

Crying foul, claiming a stolen election, and maybe one more assassination attempt for good measure. That laid out the perfect argument for political exile.

The car turned into an unplowed driveway. Well, it wasn’t deep. But the fact that no one had been up the driveway for some time made Trump nervous.

Then he saw it. The house. What a dump. Old. Very very old. And much smaller than Mir A Lago. Maybe smaller than his Trump Tower penthouse. 

“This won’t do!” Trump yelled to his two bodyguards. “Get Putin on the phone. Now!”

“Sir,” said the man in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield, “there is no phone service here. And from the looks of it, no telephone or electrical wires to the house.”

Trump went ballistic. He slammed his tiny fists into the backs of their seats. He tried to break the window but it was shatterproof. He couldn’t even open the door. The child locks were activated.

“I want you bastards to turn this car around and take me back to Moscow. Now!”

There was an awkward silence. The two bodyguards looked blankly at each other.

“I’m sorry. … Mr. President.” Was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice?

“We have our orders.”