Donald rides an elephant. He is the best rider. He has the best riding method with his gold stir-up boots astride the grey weathered armor of the old elephant. His yuge hands grip its ears, screaming into its cavernous eardrum that it’s fat, dumb, and ugly.
He has the best riding stance. Confident, regal like a king, like a winner. Million-dollar suit and a soviet red tie, the scalps of fallen Republicans stuffed in his breast pocket. He is charming. He is handsome. His hair is a perfect, wind-swept golden coif that flutters gracefully in the breeze, like a dead ferret on a flagpole.
Riding alongside on a donkey is Pedro the Kid, his most loyal friend (whose actually name is Miguel and he’s Ecuadorian, not Mexican as Donald insists, and he’s unsure how he ended up the riding companion of this orangutan con-man in an ill-fitted suit, but it’s a job and he doesn’t have much choice in the matter since Donald is holding onto his immigration papers for safe keeping until his 18th birthday).
Donald orders Pedro to whip the elephant into action. He feels a tremendous erotic power as the leather switch smacks its rump and excites the tired old beast into a stampede. The elephant is frantic, charging in no particular direction. Donald doesn’t even like riding the damn elephant. He rides for country. He rides for freedom. He rides to make America great again.
He tramples across the country from Ohio to Florida, gathering a pitchfork army of patriots with a folksy understanding of the world circa 1953. Leave It to Beaver and the Atom Bomb. You can tell how much they love America by their apparel. Hats, shirts, underwear in stars and stripes. Everything branded red, white, and blue.
He wraps his big mouth around the megaphone. The best mouth, the best tongue, the best words. He tells his followers that the country is bankrupt and corrupt. A dystopian hellscape of crime and poverty. It’s the fault of the liberals, the feminists, the illegals, the dangerous others. Build a wall and kick them all out.
There’s no room for freeloaders in his America, no room for any citizen who won’t pull themselves up from his bootstraps. He is proof of the American dream. He made his fortune the old fashioned way with a $10 million-dollar trust-fund from his father, carefully invested in casinos, cocaine, and gilded hotels emblazoned with his name.
Now he’s worth billions in debt. A shrewd (albeit braggadocious) businessman who makes deals and breaks deals and declares bankruptcy four times, leaving his stupid investors and his short-sighted contractors with a bill of empty promises. A self-made man. A true American.
I am what America needs, he tells Pedro. The logic is infallible. Only the most corrupt businessman in America can fight corruption in Washington. He’s like Bruce Wayne with better hair. He knows the game. Lobbyists and loopholes and corporate welfare for the rich and powerful. It’s a game he wins every time. He is the ultimate winner.
Except when he’s losing. Because he knows deep down that America is a casino and the voters are suckers pulling the slots, playing a rigged game. Once he’s declared king of these great United States, he will fix American Democracy for his faithful supporters, just like he fixed Atlantic City.
He commands Pedro to strike the elephant harder, faster, against its protests. And so Donald charges toward the windmill of Election Day. Dauntless, mendacious, and full of self-righteous pride.