The helicopter tilted forward slightly as it touched down on the green disc of closely-clipped grass.
“Careful, careful,” the portly man said, watching from the clubhouse at the Trump National Golf Club in Virginia. “That’s my lunch you’ve got in there.”
“Where’s Marine One?” he asked, turning to the aide standing just behind him.
“It’s in the shop, Mr. President. Something about the rotor rattling. This one’s a rental. M-1 will be back in service soon.”
Donald J. Trump Sr. squinted. “Huey, Dewey and Louie Delivery Services,” he said, reading the multi-colored logo painted on the side of the little chopper. “Never heard of it.”
He sighed as he looked out across the coiffed expanse reaching all the way to the banks of the Potomac River. His Sterling golf resort was luxurious, but it wasn’t the White House. His security guys were always close by, but they weren’t the Secret Service. And the food was good, but it wasn’t the fare he got when he had an entire culinary staff at his beck and call.
So he ordered a lot of takeout.
“Make sure you tell ‘em who I am,” he’d say to his staff. “Make sure you tell ‘em I’m still the president,” he’d warn. “And tell ‘em that this place, right here, this is the real White House, for now, and I’m in charge.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide always said. “We remind them every time.
“Now, would you like to review your afternoon schedule, sir?”
“Yeah, what’s up,” Trump said.
“Well, that Mr. Biden fellow called again and asked if he could talk to you, around 1:30 perhaps, about where you might have left the key for the Oval Office desk.”
“Fat chance,” Trump replied.
“He’d also like to know where the phone list is for the Pentagon, the CIA and the NSA.”
“Wouldn’t everybody?” Trump snickered.
“And Fox News would like an interview about your plans to have your own parade down Pennsylvania Avenue on Jan. 19.”
“Those traitors aren’t gettin’ nothin’,” Trump growled. “I’d sooner talk to Blitzer.”
“That’s about it, then, sir. You wanted the rest of the day for golf.”
“How about Mr. Giuliani?” Trump asked. “He’s supposed to be here, isn’t he?”
“Mr. Giuliani was here, sir, for his appointment at 10 but you weren’t available. You were still in the salon, for your hair weave. But he left a report on the election fraud lawsuits.”
“Oh, poop, I forgot. What does the report say?”
“It says the suit in Pennsylvania isn’t going well because the Punxsutawney Township magistrate says he doesn’t have any authority in Philadelphia.”
“How about the case in Michigan?” Trump asked.
“The justice of the peace in Cheboygan recused himself because his wife, nephew, cousin and sister-in-law were the poll workers. He suggested you try the county Drug Court instead, but he denies that the vote count was messed up.”
“Well, what’s going on in Georgia?”
“The Family Court there says it’s overloaded with Republican squabbles and doesn’t have the time.”
“So what about the Supremes?” Trump said angrily. “They owe me one, big time.”
“The report says they’re not answering the phone,” the aide answered. “But Mr. Giuliani told me he did have one piece of good news. He said the bankruptcy court in New York will take your case.”
“I figured that. They know me, I know them,” Trump said. ”But they want documents, documents, documents.”
He yawned. “OK, that’s enough for today. Have ‘em get my clubs. You want to drive the cart?”