Camera One

“Am I going to have to go to every town where a black guy dies?” Donald wondered aloud in the back of his armored Presidential pimpmobile.

“Only if a white guy kills him,” the hair said, strong and proud on Donald’s wearied brow.

“So a white guy killed this guy?” Donald asked.

“A white police officer,” the hair said.

“OK, so white cop/black death means Presidential visit, got it.”

“And you’re here to support Kyle,” the hat said, muffled, from Donald’s suit jacket.

“Who did Kyle shoot?” Donald asked.

“Two white guys,” the hair said.

“And this is a black guy named ‘Kyle?’” Donald asked.

“No, Kyle is white. And he said very nice things about you on Facebook,” the hair said.

“A fan? I love a fan.”

“We do too,” the hat said.

“Wait, white Kyle the Trump fan shot two white guys?” Donald asked. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, one was a rapist and the other one beat up his girlfriend repeatedly, so blmantifacommies are mad at Kyle,” the hat said. “And can I get out of here?” shaking the walls of his pocket.

“No,” the hair said sniggering. “He’s keeping you close to his heart.”

“I can’t breathe,” the hat said.

“Don’t start that shit up again,” the hair hissed.

“OK, I swear I’m going to get this straight,” Donald said. “White cop kills black guy, bad.”

“Well, he’s not dead,” the hair said, “Just paralyzed.”

“Not dead?” Donald asked. “So he gets a fancy wheelchair, boo-hoo. I’d love to have a wheelchair. No more walking! Genius! Walking sucks. It’s the least classy way to get anywhere.”

“Donald, we’ve talked about this: no wheelchair!” the hat said.

“White cop kills black guy: bad. White cop paralyzes black guy: bad. White guy kills white criminals: bad.”

“No, we like Kyle. We’re here to support him,” the hair said.

“White guy kills white criminals…”

“Who were attacking him,” the hat said.

“White guy kills white criminals who were attacking him: good?”

“Now you’ve got it,” the hair said, giving Donald’s scalp a congratulatory massage.

“And that’s why I’m in Wisconsin?” Donald asked.

“Yes, and more importantly, Biden isn’t here,” the hair said.

“It makes you look brave,” the hat said.

“I am brave,” Donald said. “And very Presidential.” Donald reached into the McDonald’s bag and stuffed a handful of fries in his face. “So Presidential,” he said, spraying bits of potato, “Right guys?”

The two Secret Service agents across from him nodded and one tried to smile.

“Wait,” Donald said, swallowing, “What happens when a black guy kills a black guy? Do I have to go there?”

“Nah,” the hat said. “Those are freebies.”

 


 

Camera Two

“Am I going to have to go to every town where a black guy dies?” the President asked.

The agents sitting across from him looked at each other. The lead agent caught the raised eyebrows of the agent next to him, a trainee recently transferred to guard Soaring Eagle Number One Best–the code name Donald has chosen for himself–and shook his head from side to side slightly.

“So a white guy killed this guy?” Donald asked. “OK, so white cop/black death means Presidential visit, got it.”

The junior agent squirmed in his seat.

“Who did Kyle shoot?” Donald asked. “And this is a black guy named ‘Kyle?’

Unconsciously, the lead agent’s hand felt for his gun, its comforting weight, its dream of release.

“A fan? I love a fan.” Donald said. “Wait, white Kyle the Trump fan shot two white guys? What’s the problem?”

The junior agent’s leg began to bounce. The lead put his hand on his knee to stop his restless leg. The hand lingered.

“OK, I swear I’m going to get this straight,” Donald said. “White cop kills black guy, bad. Not dead?!?”

Both agents pulled back.

“So he gets a fancy wheelchair, boo-hoo. I’d love to have a wheelchair. No more walking! Genius! Walking sucks. It’s the least classy way to get anywhere.”

The agents nodded in unison and the lead realized he was still holding his trainee’s knee. He jerked it away and buried it in the seat between them

“White cop kills black guy: bad. White cop paralyzes black guy: bad. White guy kills white criminals: bad. White guy kills white criminals… White guy kills white criminals who were attacking him: good?”

The junior agent’s hand joined his boss’ between the seats and caressed it tenderly.

“And that’s why I’m in Wisconsin?” Donald asked. “I am brave! And very Presidential.”

The agents watched him shovel cold French fries into his face, and they took each other’s hand.

“So Presidential,” the President said to them. “Right guys?”

The agents nodded and the lead tried to smile. Their earpieces crackled as the car glided to a stop.

“Wait,” Donald said, swallowing, “What happens when a black guy kills a black guy? Do I have to go there?”

“We’re here, Mr. President,” the lead agent said, his smile curdling to a grimace. As he stepped out of the car, his trainee pressed a hand against his lower back, let it fall to trace a buttock and then trailed down his leg.

“Not on assignment,” he hissed as they both reached in to lever the President out of the vehicle.

“Gay!’ the hat said.

“Like owning a moped together gay,” the hair agreed and giggled.