Trump Card: the Donald vs. the Undead

Preface: This timeline was posted on alternatehistory.com between the dates of September 26th and November 6th at the behest of AnachronistRocketeer and Prometheus_2300.

Melania Trump could see the sirens on the urgent news report, flashing reds and blues that almost blinded her, even when tampered by the nature of recording it with the news cameras. The helicopters whirred over Washington, where the chaos was unbelievable. These almost human monsters were consuming all, sheer numbers overpowering tanks. They were nimble enough to jump onto aircraft from high enough buildings, she thought, but it was fortunate that Washington had so few skyscrapers.

Her own skyscraper in New York, owned by her husband, had a clear view of the city. It was one of the cities that had not been affected by the undead menace; she wished that she could say the same for most of the South. Richmond was gone, Charlotte was gone, Virginia Beach was gone, even Atlanta was gone. It was quite distressing.

"Donald," she said to her husband, "do you think we ought to do something to defend ourselves in case they make their way here?"

He turned around in his swivel chair, belly clearly the result of a life of lavish eating, and laughed. "That's the beautiful thing about me, honey," he said with bravado, "I'm rich. We don't need to do much to protect ourselves. The government'll do it."

It was quiet for a long time. She didn't know what to say.

"As we can see, the area immediately surrounding the Capitol Building has been overrun, and the US Army is in full retreat." Tanks were being crippled by the sheer mass of undead attacking them, ripping apart the treads to consume the pilot and gunner inside.

The film helicopter hovered over a rather tall building not far from the Capitol. "The new Trump International Hotel is now being used as a holdout, but the soldiers inside can only expect to last a few days," said the newscaster.

Donald's eyebrows shot up. "What? Are you telling me that these creatures are overrunning my hotel?" He spat, barking right at the television. He seethed.

"Melania, I can't let this go on anymore." He got off the chair, opened a cupboard in a desk, and pulled out a submachine gun. "I put a lot of money into that hotel and I am not letting my investment go to waste."

He hoisted the gun. "What is that?" asked Melania. "You've never shown me it before."

"It's my Donnie Gun," he responded, determined. "I'm going to show these zombies who's the rich man here."

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Donald Trump looked contentedly at the limousine that he had specially modified for this business venture. He was not going to bother with a chauffeur; this was his business and he was taking this personally.

He inspected the weapons; axe, chainsaw, machine gun, flamethrower, machete. Many of his advisors had recommended more 'practical' accoutrements, but he had paid them no heed. He was rich. He didn't need to care about practicality.

Yes, the limo was armored to prevent it being ripped up by tanks, and even then that was doubtful, but the idea was to not let the zombies get up close to the car. If there needed to be some kind of close combat, it would be man to dead man, not in a vehicle.

He opened the door, stepped inside, and turned on the ignition. He didn't bother with the seatbelt; he could afford the medical care if needed.

He rolled it out of the garage, towards the streets of New York. He was ready.

"Donald!" cried out his wife, running to meet him. "Are you sure you want to do this? Are you sure?"

He rolled down the window. "Yes, I'm sure, honey. I'm not letting all that money go to waste."

She nodded, holding tears back. "Stay safe," she said after a long pause.

"I will," he responded. He rolled up the window and put his foot on the pedal.

He made his way through crowded streets to the Holland Tunnel, which would take him to New Jersey. It was awfully blocked up, the road; there were several policemen around the exit, trying to get people away.

He peered out of the windshield, and could see why they were there.

The tunnel was flooded with zombies.

He grabbed his Donnie Gun and kicked open the door. He approached the police line and prepared to fire.

"Sir," said one of the policemen, "I don't think that you have the ability to fight like we can. You don't have the training."

"I can do whatever the hell I want to do," responded Trump. "I'm rich."

He aimed the gun and began firing. A good deal of zombies fell, but they just kept on coming. He stayed there a while.

The ammo ran out. "Fuck it," he muttered to himself. As he said this, there was an absolute mob of zombies. Too many.

They began overwhelming the police blockade. It seemed like the horde would overrun all New York.

He knew exactly what to do, however.

He ran to the limousine. He opened the sunroof and hoisted the flamethrower out of it. He brought the trigger to the driver's seat; it was designed as a long range weapon.

"Zombies," he yelled to whoever could hear, "you're fired!"

He let the flames engulf the tunnel, gradually advancing.

Soon enough, the tunnel was clear.

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New Jersey looked like a wasteland, he thought. He was rich. He shouldn't have to go through a wasteland.

But nevertheless that is what happened. He had put too much money into the Washington hotel to allow it to go to the zombies unheeded. He would do something distinctly un-rich to preserve his richness.

If he lost this hotel he would lose one hell of a fortune. He clearly did not want that.

His weapons were ready. The limousine he drove had its machine guns deployed and ready to fire.

More zombies, he saw in the distance behind a convenience store that had been abandoned in the chaos that had wrecked the state. He swiveled the machine guns to aim at the undead, and pressed the button. A hail of bullets erupted from the barrels. They were mauled.

The noise attracted more zombies to rush at the limousine. More and more bullets were expended, turning the road into a reddened mush.

"I didn't know it was going to be this severe," he muttered to himself.

He unleashed the flamethrower upon them. They too were fired.

Eventually, they were vanquished, and he was on his way.

He kept the windows down to allow him to hear whether the zombies were coming to attack him or not.

"Is that somebody?" he heard a voice whisper.

"I think it is. And he has a car."

Trump readied his weapons again. "I just killed a bunch of zombies. And I'm rich," he said tactlessly.

"Well then, mind sharing the wealth?" proclaimed a deep, angry voice from outside the right window.

He was surrounded by a mob of people, all starving.

All wearing T-shirts with the Hillary Clinton campaign's "H" with an arrow through it.

"What the hell makes you think that I'm going to do that?"

"Well, you claim to be a bastion of charity, so help some poor countrymen out," said the woman who appeared to be their ringleader.

"Why are you here? Why are you isolated?"

"We were part of the New Jersey branch of Hillary Clinton's campaign," said the leader woman. "However, we lost contact with the campaign when somebody lost our private server."

"I'm telling you, Hannah," said a high-pitched male voice, "there were no messages from the campaign on that server."

"Yes, there were! We are finding bits of it, remnants of it, and we are finding messages that you lost. I'm surprised I still keep you alive," responded Hannah.

"I'm telling you, it was a mistake!"

"Anyways," spat Hannah, clutching her weapon, "I don't know who you are, rich man, but we need your stuff to survive. As I said, you can share the wealth now, or you can die trying."

"Wait a minute," said Trump, "You're a bunch of Clinton campaigners. You don't want me to win the presidency." He stared Hannah right in her eyes.

She realized who he was. "Trump, you irredeemable piece of shit," she rasped. She raised her gun. "Kill this fucker now."

They began firing. So did he.

He rammed his foot on the pedal, sending the limousine blasting forward.

Some of them died, he was certain.

But he didn't have to care.

He was rich.

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New Jersey was even more of a wasteland than it had been before the zombies, thought the real estate mogul as he cruised down the remnants of I-95. The signs, dirty and unkempt, said that he was somewhere around Hamilton Township. That was about halfway through New Jersey, he thought, and it would be high time to leave that godawful state.

The roadway would alternate between bombed out houses and countryside, with the occasional unused smokestack in the distance. It was oddly serene, he thought. It reminded him of his hotel in Scotland. The view was beautiful there, but those pesky windmills threatened to obstruct said view.

He made a few resupply stops at abandoned gas stations. It was odd; he was used to there being minimum wage workers doing it for him in this state. With the majority of the people of the state having retreated westward, there were no such workers.

He took occasional shots at zombies. They were mostly in small groups; nothing the flamethrower could not take out. Their charred corpses smelled crisp in the musty air.

In one of the smaller towns along the highway, there was a building about two or three stories high, surrounded by a horde of the undead. He could hear the audial pockmarks of bullets echoing from the windows.

There were people in there, and they were being besieged.

He parked the limousine behind a convenience store, and slung rungs of ammunition around his chest. He took his Donnie Gun in one hand and an axe in the other hand. He was ready for combat, he thought. He was rich enough to afford that.

He began advancing on foot. He raised the Donnie Gun and pulled the trigger, unleashing a stream of bullets onto the undead.

As some of them erupted into reddish mist, they realized his presence and began charging towards him. He dropped the Donnie Gun to the ground and grasped the axe with both hands. The first one to get near him found its head whacked off; the next few found their chests impaled with the blade.

After about ten minutes of combat they had all fallen. He began to approach the building.

The guns he saw previously pointing out of the windows had withdrawn into the structure. He opened the door, which creaked eerily.

There were several haggard, impoverished people in the room, all staring at him angrily. They all head weapons.

"Who are you?" rasped one of them, seemingly the leader.

"I'm Donald Trump, and I'm rich," he said confidently.

There was confounded, startled whispering among the crowd of people.

"Donald Trump?" asked the leader, a fairly young man. "Have you apologized for all the bullshit you've said yet?"

"I can't apologize for the truth," he retorted.

The leader's eyes flared.

"Well then, Mr. Trump," said the leader as he cocked his rifle. The crowd did the same. He was surrounded.

"It's time you feel the Bern."

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"Burn? What burn?" asked the Donald, somewhat unnerved at the current situation.

"No, not the burn," said the leader, seething in dogmatic furor. "The Bern!"

From the back, one of the lower ranks of this cult brought forth a poster. On it was an old man with glasses and white hair, with an American flag on one side and the flag of some state on the other. So many states were seals on bedsheets, so he could not tell which one exactly. Around it were candles, illuminated the image in the room that had lost electricity.

"Bernie Sanders?" asked Trump. "What's so great about him?"

The crowd gasped, still clutching their weapons. "Bernie Sanders is the man who will bring real liberty to this country," spat the leader. "He will break the power of the oligarchs and the one percent. He will redistribute wealth to all the people, like us."

He breathed heavily, savoring the nigh-orgiastic mood of the impromptu ceremony. "Bernie Sanders is the Messiah!" he proclaimed. "And he is coming to Washington! He is coming here! He is coming here!!!"

"He is coming here!" shouted the mass of acolytes.

Trump was worried. He was too rich to die in this way.

He scanned the room. The cultists, for lack of a better term, were now frothing in acclaim of their Messiah. But, for all the energy, they were still pointing the guns at him.

The candles.

He noticed the candles around their relic. If he could knock them down, he could set the building ablaze.

Lunging out suddenly, he did that very thing. He took the axe in his hands and shoved it forwards, knocking down the picture and scattering the candles to the ground.

The fire used the poster as kindling, then ignited the wooden floors.

"The relic!" shouted the leader. "Brothers, sisters, put out the flame!"

The crowd rushed frantically to put out the fires, stamping on the spreading inferno. One of them leapt onto the burning poster, letting herself be consumed in the process.

Trump jumped out a window, grabbed the Donnie Gun that he had left on the ground in the fight with the zombies, got into the driver's seat of the limousine, and slammed the gas pedal.

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The road once more seemed to be clear. The Donald had gotten out of reach of those cultists as soon as he could. It was disconcertingly quiet. He could only hear limousine's motor as it cruised along the highway.

He eventually came to a bridge, which he intended to use. Unfortunately, it seemed to be blocked by zombies, who had coalesced into a mob.

He parked the limousine and picked up his Donnie Gun. He considered taking out the axe, but he had used that before. Instead he took the machete in its place.

He walked out, aimed the Donnie Gun, and opened fire. The zombies came rushing at him. Many of them fell, their heads reduced to reddish mist.

As they came closer and closer, the Donald slung the Donnie Gun back over his back and took out the machete, in the first movement gouging the eye out of one of the undead. Another slash he decapitated three at once.

He kicked one to the ground, sending it toppling over, reducing many of the zombies to trip and stumble over it. Seeing the advantage, he put his finger back on the Donnie Gun's trigger and unleashed a hail of bullets into the morass of zombies.

Eventually blood and guts were all that was left.

He approached the bridge, expecting it to be clear. It was not. Instead there were several cars parked there as if it was a traffic jam.

There were people, living people, inside these cars.

He approached one of them on foot. "Could you fellows possibly unblock this bridge?"

One of the cars in front's driver rolled down the window and yelled "Sorry, pal, can't do that. The Governor told us to block this bridge to get back at the zombies."

"What do you mean, get back?" asked Trump.

"Fuckers killed too many people up in Bergen County," responded the driver, a woman. "We can't allow them to get any farther."

"Well, I need to get down to Washington, and soon. The hotel I own down there is under attack and I need to rescue it," urged the Donald.

The woman looked at him, perplexedly. "You're Donald Trump, aren't you?" she asked.

"That I am. I'm Donald Trump, and I'm rich."

"Well then, you aren't getting across," said the driver. The cars remained there, resolutely.

He went back to the limousine and drove it upwards to the line of cars. He propped up the flamethrower over the sunroof. He was not in the mood for playing games.

"You people had better get the hell out of the way, or I will torch this fucking bridge."

"You still wouldn't be able to get across!"

She was right. It could destabilize the whole structure, and the cars would still be there.

He shifted the limousine into reverse, and backed away from the bridge. Once there was enough distance, he shifted it into forward drive and slammed on the gas pedal.

He became a battering ram through the line of cars, pushing some of them into the river below. He could hear the screams.

The limousine was damaged; some of the windows were cracked, but he had this thing reinforced beforehand.

He began driving along the highway once more, down to Washington. There was a slight whirr from above.

There was a lone plane flying above him, seemingly watching him.

After a minute or so it few away.

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Driving the limousine, the Donald was able to make his way across New Jersey in record time, he felt. The interstate was, miraculously, not crowded with cars.

There was a mob of zombies up in the distance. He considered stopping to engage them, but considering how he had gotten through the barricade on the bridge previously, he had other ideas.

He rammed the gas pedal and aimed straight for the mob. Having reinforced the limousine before leaving New York, he was prepared to take some damage.

Like a gigantic bullet, the limousine rammed right into the zombies, splattering the vehicle with blood, guts, and mutilated skin. Trump turned on the windshield wipers to clear it, and sure enough there was a corpse on the hood.

"Fuck it, I'm too rich for this," he muttered. He swerved the limousine some, and in doing so forced the zombie off of the car.

The limousine still retained structural integrity and functionality; there were some cracks in the window that he patched with duct tape, but otherwise it was working just fine.

There was smoke in the distance. If there were anyone who could help him, he thought, it would be there.

He pulled into a small camp, with a sign that surprised him:

"TRUMP 2016: MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN."

Now, he felt, he was in friendly territory.

He parked in an empty lot, grabbed his machete and Donnie Gun just in case, and entered the camp. There were people around a campfire, socializing and eating. It did not seem like the cult that those Sanders supporters had been.

They all stopped and stared at him. "Are you Donald Trump?" asked one of them?

"Yes, yes I am. I'm Donald Trump, and I'm rich."

Excitement filled the air, and they all clamored around him. Many of them touched his hair as if it were something sacred. "Is it real?" asked many of them.

"Yes," he said. "I'm rich enough to have my hair done that way."

They were in utter awe of him, as if royalty had visited peasants. It felt good to know that there were still supporters in this wasteland.

As the euphoria continued, he could hear, beneath the clamors of the crowd, a whir.

It another plane, watching him.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK! he heard from above. Gazing upwards, he realized that, to his horrified surprise, he was being strafed.

"Run!" he screamed to his onlookers. He ducked beneath a log that was toppled to use as a bench.

Beneath the log he could hear the screams.

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It was musty and dirty under that log, thought Trump. He was too rich, far beyond too rich, to be under such conditions. He should have servants doing such things for him. But, since he wanted that hotel, he was willing to put himself through such indignity.

He ought to have brought along his servants as backup. That didn't occur to him.

Well, at least it would give off that 'man of the people' feeling that the people need to vote for somebody.

The things he did for the presidency, he thought.

He could hear the gunship pounding away at his supporters. He could hear the screams and the sound of human bodies being ripped apart by metal plunging into them, fired from above.

He was popular, he reassured himself. There were other supporters out there.

He heard footsteps pounding the ground, as if there was a crowd entering the area, heading to the slaughter. In addition, there was a barbaric wheeze, a phlegm-filled roar that accompanied the havoc.

Zombies.

He still had his Donnie Gun, thankfully. He lifted the log (it was hollowed, perhaps to allow exactly what he was doing right now) and pointed the Donnie gun out of it. Just has he had suspected, he saw zombies flooding the area, making mincemeat out of his followers.

He loaded in some more bullets (he kept them in his coat pocket) and fired at them through the small hole he had poked through.

They were falling; apparently the gunship was not particularly discriminating in who the bullets hit.

He kept firing. He heard the gunship engines quietly fade away; he imagined whoever was piloting it was willing to let his supporters meet their maker in that way.

He observed his surroundings. The logs were arranged around a campfire that was still blazing. There were cabins and a flagpole, with flags of both the United States and the state of New Jersey on it.

It occurred to him that zombies may well be flammable; human skin certainly was.

He darted out of the log and grabbed one of the large sticks that fueled the fire. Some sparks fell on his coat; they left dark ash marks.

He saw several zombies rushing at him, and he responded by impaling them with the burning stick.

Soon the entire campground was ablaze; he wanted to be thorough. When the zombies fell as charred corpses, he went back to the limousine and hit the highway.

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The road was eerily quiet; only the sound of the engine was audible in the disturbing silence.

He was determined to get to Washington. He would not let anyone, be it zombies or Bernie Sanders cultists, prevent him from reaching that city, and his hard earned investment.

He still had to wonder, however, who those planes belonged to. He was being followed, but by who he could not know.

There were ominous shadows being cast on the ground; it worried him greatly. He looked up, and surely enough there was a single plane, of the same apparent model of the ship that had attacked the camp of his supporters.

He knew he could die. The cold shudder, so common to such anxiety-inducing things, began to permeate his spine and his back.

He slammed on the pedal; he saw no reason to wait. There was no reason he ought to sit there and die.

He was simply too rich for such things. Dying like that was for poor people, he thought, for Mexicans or Muslims. Not for Americans.

The limousine began to accelerate, the speed limits on signs becoming nothing more than a quaint relic of a civilized time, or so civilized that New Jersey had ever been.

He had a dim view of New Jersey civilization; he was from New York.

And a land that produced Chris Christie could not be all that wonderful, now could it?

The gunship began firing at him from its lofty standpoint. Some of the bullets landed too close, uncomfortably close.

He saw a sign. It was the border with Delaware, across a bridge.

The bullets continued. The back windshield shattered.

On this bridge was a line of people, all holding weapons.

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"Halt, in the name of the Messiah!" yelled out a woman's voice, decidedly not caring about whatever predicament the Donald had gotten himself into.

"Why would I do that?" he asked. "I'm too rich to stop for welfare leeches like you!" He stopped the car, and kept his foot on the brakes.

Their usage of the word "Messiah" interested him. Were they radical Christians? Jews, maybe?

No. They couldn't be.

It was those Bernie Sanders cultists he had met in the northern part of the state.

"Because you are an oligarch. You are the cancer that is taking the work of the poor and lining your pockets with it. You are the oppressor!" she seethed.

"I'm guessing the folks some time back told you about me?"

"That they did, slime," she writhed, clearly appalled at being near him.

Another one of the cultists, a man, stepped up. "Should we tell him?" he asked the woman, clearly the leader.

"I don't see why not, Charles," she responded.

"Those planes were ours. We have our own airstrips in certain locations, and we've known you've been coming for a good long time."

The Donald laughed. "I should have expected you, of all people."

The leader woman groaned. She pointed at him.

Bullets came crashing into the windshield. He ducked.

Under fire, he felt he had to fight fire with fire. He didn't like burning human, but he did what he had to do. He was rich enough to afford that luxury.

He lifted the nozzle of the flamethrower out the sunroof, reinforced windows preventing the window from shattering. Out of it spewed fire, fire that seemed like it came from hell.

Like Bernie Sanders, he thought to himself.

He rammed the gas pedal once more. He didn't want to have to think about what he just did.

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The Donald continued cruising through Delaware, not too long crossing into Maryland. He heard there were a lot of bad drivers in this state, but that was hearsay.

He had taken down zombies several times in Maryland and in Delaware; they were starting to be less and less relevant to him. What was important, now, were the increasingly frequent flyovers by planes he could only suspect were in the service of the Sanders cultists. They didn't shoot at him this time around, at least, and for that he was grateful.

Something, it had to be small and insignificant, bounced off the right door of the limousine. He did not see what it was, but over the next few miles he heard the same clicking on the sides of the car.

When one of these small objects hit the left door, he glanced over and saw a gun barrel perched out of a branch.

They knew where he was, they knew what he was doing, and most importantly, they wanted him dead.

Something occurred to him; he had never checked the radio during his sojourn to the south. He turned on the radio and began scanning for anyone who may be using the airwaves.

It was the occasional music channel; all new stuff, popular stuff, annoying stuff that he did not like. The occasional call for help.

It continued scanning, he continued driving.

"We've found Trump," he heard a voice from the radio. He listened intently.

"We know where he is, we are tracking him, and we believe that he is heading towards Washington. Why? We can't say, but knowing this fool he'd want to be charging right into the battle."

The voice paused, the speaker's rasping voice clear and unpleased.

"The Messiah is coming down, and he wants Trump dead. If he is gone, the nation can be brought to equality and liberty without interruption."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Donald stepped out of the limousine. He was here.

Washington.

A city he hoped he would live in not too far from now.

He could see the capitol building in the background, the dome damaged by fire and explosions. By what, he could not say.

In front of him was the Trump Tower. It was said to be a haven for the government, fighting off the zombies. He admitted to himself that he had not paid attention enough to the news as he would have liked. It all had a liberal bias, he reasoned, so it was no great loss.

There was nothing. Washington seemed dead. It was likely that the government made an evacuation west of the Mississippi, or Hawaii. Maybe Puerto Rico.

He strapped his flamethrower to his back, as he did with his machete and axe. On his belt was a pistol, and in his hand was the Donnie Gun.

He wasn't going to take any chances. He entered the lobby. The silence was disconcerting.

"Anyone in here?" he asked.

Nothing.

"I'm Donald Trump. The future president. I own this place."

Nothing.

He brandished his gun.

"I heard that the government had taken over this place. Is it true?"

Still nothing. Looking around he realized this place was in many ways bombed out; shattered windows, charred walls, some walls and doors kicked down.

Footsteps. They were walking, then running, then charging towards him. He readied his gun.

He knew exactly what they were.

Zombies came from both hallways, the left and the right. He opened fire.

Many fell, but they were getting closer and closer. He didn't want to use the flamethrower; he had simply put too much money into this investment.

He dropped the Donnie gun and took out the machete. He would fight hand to hand with these things.

He was way too rich for this.

But that didn't matter. He would fight for this.

It was hours, or at least it seemed like hours. His suit was covered with blood and guts from the slaughter.

It seemed like it was done.

"So? Are there any more of these things? Can I have my hotel back?" he barked.

"Not them," said a cold, rasping voice, "but us."


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Donald turned around, dreading what he may see. Would there be an army? An armed mob (not that he thought that there was much of a difference between the two)? Cultists?

There they were. A good twenty-some people, all with guns, were there, pointing their weapons straight at them.

Up front was one man, a very old man with glasses and white hair; he looked like the epitome of a Washington politician.

The very kind of politicians that he disliked.

He recognized this man. He had seen this man before, on the news, in magazines, and in many other places.

"Sanders," he uttered.

"I'm surprised you were able to get down here without being eaten, killed, whatever by these things," said Sanders derisively. "You seem so sheltered, so isolated in your bubble of wealth. I am impressed."

"I'm impressed a socialist like you could get enough armed men and women behind you," responded Trump.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"And yet I'm the one advocating for gun rights," Trump retorted. "I'm surprised a Socialist like you would be able to look at a gun without breaking down in tears."

"That doesn't matter. You are one of the billionaires dictating the political process. This hotel of yours is a testament to that."

"Well, then, I guess there really is no more to argue with you. I met your cultists, and I know they want to kill me."

"I don't want to kill you," goaded Sanders. "I want to persuade you to stop this façade."

Trump drew his machete. If it was going to be a fight, it would be hand to hand.

"Go ahead, prove me right, oligarch," spat Sanders.

Trump lunged at Sanders, impaling him with the machete, his momentum pushing the socialist to the floor, and himself with him.

They looked each other in the eyes. In Trump's was anger. In Sanders' was resignation.

Trump looked up, and saw the gun barrels pointed at him.