Sunday, 6 November 2016

Turnaround Tuesday by Naomi Elana Zener

“Ahhhh” Hillary yawned. With outstretched arms reaching for the sky, the taxing toll of the ardors of the 18-month presidential campaign had spread to every joint in her body. Threadbare, yet still maintaining her feisty resolve, Hillary willed her post-middle aged self out of bed. Moving slower than usual, worried her immune system was depressed, to steady her resolve, she began to chant: “when they go low, we go high! When they go low, we go high!” Dragging her feet along the route to her master ensuite, her thoughts were focused on the tasks of the day: Election Day 2016.

Voters headed out to the polls to determine the fate of the nation. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, Hillary found herself standing in front of the toilet, failing to realize that she remained upright as she began to relieve herself. Reaching against the wall to steady herself, her sluggish eyes stared down into the depths of the porcelain bowl, her gaze affixed on a foreign object in her hand. With the last bit of flow dripping into the water, Hillary realized that while one hand was supporting her balance against the wall, she wondered why she was holding penis in her hand.

“WHY THE FUCK AM I HOLDING A PENIS IN MY HAND?”

Relinquishing the flaccid foreign object and simultaneously jumping back, Hillary fell to the floor aghast at the sight of the small appendage protruding from beneath her nightclothes.

“What is going on here?” Hillary grabbed hold of the vanity and stood up. “I must be dreaming. I’ll splash some water on my face and I’ll wake up.”

Reaching for the faucets to let the water run, she shook her head in dismay, wondering if the side effects from the antibiotics from her recent bout of pneumonia had caused delayed hallucinations. Looking up, Hillary was unprepared for the sight that befell her. Staring back at her from her reflection in the mirror was the face of Donald Trump.

“Donald, get the hell out of my bathroom!” she shouted. Except, the reflection in the mirror simply mouthed her words back to her. Hillary wasn’t having an outer body experience—she was having an in-Donald Trump’s body one. And, Scanning the room, the sleep from her eyes wiped away, Hillary saw that she wasn’t in her bathroom.  Instead she was in The Donald’s gilded one. “I must be having a breakdown. What the hell is going on here?”

Fully awake, Hillary trudged back to the bedroom, scampering around haphazardly. Realizing with each clunky step that the girth of her new, nearing obese physique was not as fast as her spry former feminine form, Hillary worried that there was no way she could pretend to walk even five steps in Donald’s shoes.

“Donald? Are you up?” Melania called out from the vestibule entry to the master bedroom.

“Oh shit,” Hillary whispered. She heard the clacking sound of Melania’s Manolos on approach. She quickly locked the bedroom’s bathroom door.

Panicked, Hillary tried to gain her composure. Looking at her newly masculinized self in the mirror, she mentally ran through her daily affirmations. “You’ve got this,” she told herself. Hillary shook her head. How can I have this when I’m him? Looking back at her reflection, she felt a surge swell from deep inside—“YOU’VE. GOT. THIS!” she bellowed.

“Donald, what is going on in there?” Melania queried. Her question was met with silence. “Donald, answer me. Is something wrong?”

“Uh, everything is amazing!”

“Then why don’t you let me in? Are you nervous about today?”

“Why would I be nervous? Hillary looked at herself—rather himself—in the mirror. There was no way she wanted to win the presidency disguised by the Cheeto-hued paunchy mass that was Donald Trump’s physique. “Don’t be a moron, Melania. I’m a winner. Today is going to be huge, like tremendous.”

“Okay, Donald. Do you need me to grab you a different toupee for today?”

“I knew it!” Hillary gasped.

“Knew what?”

“Nothing. Everything. Listen, just go get dressed, and wear something classy. Like that Gucci “Pussy Bow” blouse.”  Melania stalked off, slamming the golden bedroom doors behind her. Clearly, her husband was still smarting from her sartorial choice for the second debate.

Hillary emerged from the bathroom and quickly locked the front doors to the bedroom, so her new wife could not gain re-entry. Lying on the bed, she found a freshly pressed Saville Row custom suit, accompanied by a crisp white button down shirt, and a red and white striped silk tie laying on the bed. Next to it laid a note from his campaign manager. This is what you’ll wear when you’re declared Mr. President, it read.  Before she could don the Don’s attire, a buzzing sound came from the night table. Donald’s mobile phone had an incoming text. Realizing it wasn’t her phone, she was happy that Donald had at least invested in a smartphone that displayed text messages even when locked.

Don’t panic. We know what’s happened to you. Act normal. Meet your Secret Service detail downstairs in 10 min. You’ll be taken to a secure location to fix this.

Hillary dismissed the zooty suggestion of Kellyanne Conway. Not one to miss an opportunity, she rummaged through Donald’s closet to find a different tie to wear. Rubbing the white silk between her thumb and forefinger, she thought to herself “white silk for white power—how fitting.”

“Sir, we’re on the move in 8,” a booming voice rang out from outside of the bedroom. Clearly, the Secret Service received the same text.

Hillary slipped into the power suit. She took one last look in the mirror to take stock of her appearance. She unlocked the bedroom door. Met by two Secret Servicemen, they each gave her an approving once over. “See you later!” Melania sang. She gave her husband a kiss on the cheek, not sensing that something made the day unlike any other in the Trump family manse in the sky. The masculine triumvirate left the penthouse. They rode down the empty service elevator in order to sneak out the back of the building. In the alley behind Trump Tower, a sleek black limousine met Hillary and Donald’s Secret Service detail.   One of the servicemen opened the door to the car. “Ma’am, after you.” He nodded knowingly to Hillary. Hillary knew that for once in her life, someone knew more than she did. She was ready to unlock the secret of the mysterious body swap.

*****

In an apartment across town, Chelsea heard a loud thump. Inside of Hillary Rodham Clinton’s walk-in closet, a naked Donald Trump lay passed out on the floor.

“Mom, are you ok?”

Worried that her mother was succumbing to the pressure, and having fainted before, Chelsea jogged down the hall to her mother’s locked bedroom door. She banged forcefully on the door.

“Mom! Mom, open the door!”

Donald roused to the sound of his opponent’s daughter’s voice. Donald reached down to scratch his genitals—his morning routine—only to discover that he was grabbing a pussy, his own.

“WHO’S VAGINA IS THIS?” Donald shrieked.

“Mom, let me in. You’re scaring me.”

“Mom, who’s mom?” Donald asked himself, still firmly grabbing his own vagina.

“I’m getting help!”

With his free hand, he ran his fingers through a thick head of hair. Accustomed to a smooth rug-free cranium in the morning, he knew he wasn’t in Trump Tower anymore. He stood up and hustled to the bedroom, ignoring Chelsea’s pleas. Surrounded by a pattern mix of florals and chintz, Donald caught sight of his naked body in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. In the mirror, he was confronted by a post-menopausal, naked, petite woman—Hillary Rodham Clinton—and, in her body, there the Donald stood.

Another loud set of hands pounded at the door.

“Ma’am, are you ok in there? Miss Clinton said you need our help.”

“I’m fine. Chelsea is wrong! Uh, I was doing my yoga.”

“Ok, ma’am. And, ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“If you haven’t checked your phone, we have to leave in ten minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Check your phone.”

Donald scanned the room. Where would my phone be?

“Shit, it’s at my place. Now, where would that nasty woman keep her phone?”

Donald surveyed the room for Hillary’s purse, figuring that’s where she must keep it. Not finding what he was looking for, he turned his attention to getting dressed. If the message is that important, the Secret Service can tell me what I need to know.

Hanging in the closet on a hook where Hillary’s pressed presidential plum pantsuit flocked with gold buttons—fit for a queen—was waiting for her, Donald was relieved not to have to wear a dress. At least she’s got enough sense to wear trousers. Who wants a female presidential candidate in a dress?

Aware that he never put his own outfits together, he put on the suit and slipped his feet into the black patent low-heeled pumps that had been left out to complete the ensemble.  Unsure how to apply lipstick—only knowing how to take it off with unwelcome kisses—Donald forewent any maquillage and left the bedroom.

Waiting outside of the room, the Secret Servicemen’s mouths hung agape.

“What’s wrong?” Donald asked. “I mean, it’s great. I’m going to be President today, and I’m a winner.”

“Ma’am, you may want to fix your hair,” one Secret Serviceman whispered.

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“You may want to brush it.”

Used to the wash and wear wigs waiting for him daily, Donald had forgotten that people with natural, marvelous manes had to brush their hair. Donald walked back to the bedroom and grabbed the brush off the dresser. Giving his crowning glory a few brushstrokes in each direction, Donald was satisfied that he looked good.

“And, maybe put on a dash of lipstick. Hillary always wears lipstick.”

“Ok.” Donald quickly realized that the Secret Servicemen knew he wasn’t who he physically appeared to be. “But, I don’t know how to put it on.”

“That’s ok, we’ll help you.” One of the Secret Servicemen walked over to the dresser and picked up a soft pink lipstick. Crouching down and leaning over, the Secret Serviceman tenderly applied the lipstick to Donald’s puckered lips.

“Disgusting. Like putting lipstick on a pig,” Donald muttered. The Secret Serviceman was affronted. He fully stood up, his six foot seven inch, two percent body fat muscular frame hovered over Donald. The other Secret Serviceman lurked behind him. 

“Listen, sir, we work for and respect Madam Clinton. While we are obliged to stand guard for you today, we won’t have you disparage her.”

Donald nodded. He knew he was outnumbered.

“Time to go.” Donald followed behind the Secret Servicemen out of the bedroom.

Relieved to see her mother was ok, albeit a bit disheveled—she made a mental note to have a hairdresser and makeup artist with her when she met up with her mother at campaign headquarters later—Chelsea eagerly waved goodbye. 

“See you later, Madam President!”

Donald snorted. When I’m back to my old self, I’m gonna make sure Ivanka ends that friendship. Without looking back, he let the apartment door slam shut in Chelsea’s face. 
*****


Each of Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton’s limousines pulled up in front of a non-descript Brooklyn warehouse. Each candidate emerged from their vehicles, allowed a few moments to come face-to-face with their formers selves. Each shook their head in dismay, bewildered as to how they each found themselves in the other’s body.

“Come this way,” one of the Secret Servicemen instructed. Clinton and Trump followed the instructions. They marched into the building with Secret Servicemen separating the two of them. Down a dimly lit narrow hallway, Clinton and Trump were led to two separate rooms on opposite sides of the corridor. In each room was a single club chair, a table with a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and pineapple awaiting them, and a washroom. Each room was wired with closed-circuit cameras for the Cabal to watch their captives and communicate with them, and for the candidates to hear what the other had to say.

“You want us to go in there?” Trump asked. The Secret Servicemen nodded. “No way!”

“For once I’m going to agree with Trump. Will someone please tell us what’s going on? Why am I him and he’s me?”

“All will be revealed in short order. Now, go into the rooms,” a modulated voice, emanating from a loudspeaker, ordered.

“No!” Hillary shouted. “I demand to know who’s behind this. Tell me now, or I won’t go in the room.”

“The Secret Service are stronger than you, don’t fight this,” Trump offered.

“Actually, she’s a lot stronger than she looks. We’ve been told she takes Krav Maga lessons,” a Secret Serviceman whispered in Trump’s ear.

“Do what they say, Hillary,” a familiar male voice instructed.

“Bibi? Is that you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Who’s Bibi?” Donald asked.

“Benjamin Netanyahu, you fool. Maybe if you weren’t your own foreign policy advisor, you’d know who the world leaders are. I thought you loved Israel!” Hillary chortled. “Bibi, who else is with you? I demand to know!”

“I’m here with a group of concerned world leaders.”

“Who?”

“Vladimir Putin, François Hollande, Theresa May, Enrique Pēna Nieto, Matteo Renzi, UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon and Pope Francis.”

“Et tu, Putin?” Trump whimpered.

“You guys are in a world of pain when I get out of here.” Hillary stormed into the room and slammed the door.

“We know,” the leaders chimed in unison.

Polling in the weeks and days leading up to the election demonstrated that Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump were neck-in-neck, standing mere points away from each other in their race for the White House. Things had gotten so bad that there was even a conspiracy theory floating in the ether that the Republicans were planning to take out Trump and Pence, should Trump win the presidency, so that Speaker of the House Paul Ryan would become President, restoring order and helping to rebuild the GOP.  The dirtiest, ugliest, and most un-presidential campaign in American history, a country fractured and a GOP having spontaneously combusted, the Cabal of white hat politicos backed by mysterious leaders, decided it was time to take matters into their own hands to save the fate of the American nation.  Clinton and Trump sat alone in their respective rooms. The Secret Service stood guard outside to make sure no one went in or out without the Cabal’s approval.

“You know, Tim Kaine is going to wonder why I’m not at campaign headquarters,” Hillary called out. “I bet the same will be true for Pence.”

“Both Tim Kaine and Mike Pence have been told that serious threats have been made to the security of each of you, and that you’ve both been taken to a secure location to wait out the vote. This message has been shared with all media outlets across the country and throughout the world,” the modulated voice advised.

“No one will believe you,” Trump cried out in his room.

Televisions in each room were suddenly revealed from behind retractable screens. CNN flickered on, with Anderson Cooper delivering the message to the world that was just delivered to Hillary and Donald.

“I demand to watch Bill O’Reilly!” Trump shouted.

“Sorry, the only feed we could get in this part of Brooklyn is CNN,” the modulated voice advised.

“Why are you doing this to us?” Hillary pleaded.

“Donald Trump can’t be president,” the voice advised.

“I know that! The world knows that. So, why have you done this to us?” Hillary cried.

“No matter what happens when the electoral college numbers are added up, we are committed to ensuring that you, Hillary, will be running the country even if we had to find a way to switch your body with Trump’s to make that happen.”

“Holy shit!” Trump shouted. “If she wins, I won’t accept the results.”

“We know. You made that threat already during the third debate. That’s why we’re here,” the voice advised. “Now, sit tight and watch your screens. We will provide you with food and each room has a bathroom. We are also texting with your families so they know you’re safe. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about? Are you crazy!?!” Trump shouted.

The voice didn’t respond. 

Trump and Clinton dutifully sat through the day’s election coverage. CNN’s talking heads and pundits debated as the day wore on, jumping back and forth between pontificating on what threats had been made against the candidates and hypothesizing what the electoral college numbers would be. Hours felt like days to Trump and Clinton. Without phones, they remained disconnected from their families and teams.  They watched TV. They ate. They paced. They wrung their hands. They whined to no response from the modulated voice. One poll after another closed throughout the day. The electoral college numbers streamed in with John King’s voter map showing that Hillary in fact held a bold lead over Trump. Tired and overwrought, Trump threw tantrums in his room, while with adrenaline coursing through Clinton’s veins, she danced around the room as her lead grew stronger and stronger. The results didn’t give Hillary a landslide win by any means, but it was enough for the Cabal to let their prisoners go.

“While the election results won’t be official until tomorrow morning, we believe that it’s  time for you to go to your respective campaign headquarters. Trump, we have your concession speech waiting for you in your limousine. You’ll have time to practice it before you arrive.”

The doors to the rooms were unlocked. Hillary and Donald stepped out into the hallway and waited with the Secret Service detail.

“Like hell I will!” Trump screamed.

“Listen up, Trump. You do as we say, or you’ll be the one who’ll be going to jail,” Enrique Peña Nieto advised. “In Culiacan!”

“You try and I’ll get you Peña. And, my wall will be the least of your worries.”

“Enough!” a familiar female voice shouted.

A door at the end of the corridor swung open with mythical force. Like floating specters, three black-robed visitors emerged from the room. Charging towards Trump and Clinton, the recognizable faces of Supreme Court Justices Sonia Sotomayor, Elena Kagan and the Notorious Ruth Bader Ginsburg came face-to-face with the candidates, with Ruth at the helm.

“Listen up, sonny. My mind isn’t shot, and my political statements about you are astute. The people have spoken—you’re fired!” Ruth stated evenly.

“Don’t mess with us,” Elena advised. “President Peña Nietos’s threat of a Mexican prison is the least of your worries if you don’t comply with our orders.”

“Oh yeah? Whatchya gonna do about it?” Trump asked. He was not wise to poke the bear.

“Accept defeat gracefully, or the next body swap you’ll have to endure is with Rosie O’Donnell. And, we know she’s happy to do what needs to be done to serve her country,” Sonia threatened.

Trump threw his hands up. He stumbled backwards. He now understood why Putin had betrayed him. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t put me in Rosie’s body!”

“Smart answer. Only one I’ve heard out of your mouth in this campaign,” Ruth stated. “Now, it’s time to go.”

“Um, Madam Justice, aren’t you forgetting one thing?” Hillary asked.

“What’s that?”

“Ahem.” Hillary cleared her throat and waved her hands at Donald’s body.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Ruth said. Justices Ginsburg, Sotomayor, and Kagan held hands and began to chant. The Cabal joined them over the loud speaker. The chant was not in English or any language either candidate recognized. The building shook. Hillary’s body, with Donald in it, shimmied, as Donald’s body paced the floor. Suddenly, each candidate’s body shook with fury and their respective heads flung backwards. Hillary and Donald were restored to their former selves. Hillary and Donald exchanged glances. Donald hung his head. His Secret Service detail marched toward the door with citizen Trump in tow. He left the building, got into his awaiting limousine to take him back to Trump Tower where he would go on to concede graciously and congratulate President Clinton on her win.

Flanked by her Secret Servicemen, Clinton nodded her head at Justice Ginsburg. Ginsburg reached for Clinton’s hand, and clasped them in her wizened ones.

“Madam President, go make America even greater.”



© 2016. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

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