Michael Cohen Secretly Taped Trump Discussing Payment to Playboy Model

 

“Secret listeners!’ Donald wailed as he pulled the drawers from his desk one by one and emptied them onto the floor. Pie was cowering behind the couch while fumbling to open a package of Ding-Dongs.

“Donald! Calm down!” the hair said again.

Donald seized the iPod sitting on his desk and dashed it to pieces against the wall.

“Hey!” the hat screeched. “That was mine! All my Mariah Carey albums were on there!”

“Bugs! Taps! Microphones!” Donald screamed as he kicked apart the piles of junk dumped out of his desk; yo-yos, Matchbox cars, butt plugs, bioluminescent Jesus statues, empty Diet Coke cans and bottles, a melted Fleshlight, cans of Play-Doh, Air Force One barf bags, Legos, pieces of a pirate costume, packets of ketchup and bottle of steak sauce, a box set of the second season of Dallas and a running tape recorder went flying in all directions.

“No one is recording you, Donald,” the hat said, eyeing the tape recorder as it went past him.

“I never say anything that can be recorded,” Donald wheezed. He tried to pull down the heavy drapes of his office window and failed, swinging from the briefly and landing hard against bulletproof glass and wire mesh.

“Donald! Are you OK?” the hair asked. He moved across the littered desk to peer over at Donald on the floor.

Pie popped up from behind the couch, her teeth black with snack cake, “Sir?” she asked, spraying crumbs and filling.

“Oh my fucking GERD!” the hat yelled. “Have some fucking dignity, you fat sow!”

Pie ducked down and peered from around the side of the couch. She threw a piece of Ding-Dong toward where Donald lay and bolted from the room.

“The tape is out, Donald,” the hair said. “There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“It’s not me on the tape,” Donald whined.

The hat gave a disgusted snort.

“It’s not Michael Cohen on the tape,” Donald wheedled.

The hair sighed heavily.

“I haven’t even met her?” Donald warbled in a pained falsetto.

“Don’t eat that!” the hair snapped as he saw Donald’s hand reaching for the clump of wadded cake Pie had thrown.

“OK,” Donald said, sulking.

“Sit up, Donald,” the hat said.

Donald rolled onto his side and sat up among the scattered trash on the floor.

“You’re bleeding, Donald,” the hair said. Donald’s hands rubbed his head, smearing the blood from tiny wounds where he had pulled the hair off his head in a rage.

“Go into the bathroom, Donald,” the hair ordered.

“Where?” Donald asked, his voice like a lost child.

“The Presidential Shitter. Go in there and get cleaned up,” the hair said gently. Like the last mastodon in a tar pit, Donald struggled and stood and started to walk away.

“Donald,” the hat said. “Work on it. What I told you to say. Work on it in the Shitter. In the mirror. Say it until you can say it, you know?”

Donald nodded absently and lumbered away.

The light came on in the Presidential Shitter as he closed the door behind him. He filled in the Presidential Sink and splashed a little cool Presidential Water on his face. He took a few deep breaths and then faced himself in the Presidential Mirror.

“I… I…,” he began and then swallowed forcefully. “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”