I’m sitting on a bench, just off the rough of hole number 6, at Trump’s golf course. The secret service just hauled away the body. They told me to clean up the mess on the ground, but I don’t think I will. I don’t want to be infected with the same worm that consumed him. There’s probably eggs in that pile of poop. I’m still trying to process the events of the last hour. Actually, all the things that have happened, ever since I knew the Donald. He was one of the most arrogant bastards I have ever worked for. In a way, I loved him.
Donald was laying on his stomach, carefully picking away a few blades of grass which might make his stroke less predictable. As usual, I gave him the usual reminder, that it is technically illegal, according to the rules of golf, to do that. “Fuck you, Elmo,” he said. That’s what he always said, when I reminded him not to do it again. But he never really held it against me, when I told him what I really thought. He just seemed to enjoy it, that this was his golf course, and he could break the rules any time he wanted.
He was intently pruning the buffalo grass when it happened. I was thinking how it how gratifying it would be to pick up his five thousand dollar putter, and smash in the back of his head. I often had such thoughts, but it was just a way of coping with the man. I could never do anything like that. I’m incapable of real violence. Suddenly, there was a pinging sound, and a hole appeared in the back of his head, and a small amount of blood and gore came out of it. I ran to him, and turned him over, but I saw from what was left of his face that he was already dead. On the ground was a glowing metal object, probably a meteorite. My knees collapsed and I sat in the grass, unable to think. The contents of his bowels and intestines started oozing out of his pants, and shortly afterwards a lizard like creature just small enough to exit his body though his throat squeezed out, and looked at me. It had a strangely human expression, like a pit bull. It scampered off through the grass where it found a grated enclosure to an underground passage, and disappeared. The secret service guys with us looked at the body, and then they just loaded it into the golf cart, and left me there. I sat in the same spot, in a kind of waking dream, until I finally came to a realization that my work at Mar-A-Lago was finished.
I haven’t worked for Mr. Trump that long. It was about a year after he was impeached, that I was hired. I was looking for a more comfortable job. I had been barely getting by for several years, because of financial woes too numerous to mention. I drove to Miami, and decided to apply for a job at Mar-a-Lago. I paid for an invitation to a party there, and made friends with a few waiters at the party. I didn’t know anyone there, and I didn’t really think any of the other invitees would talk to me. I might get a job doing janitorial work , I thought, but the waiters said the pay would be better if I worked on the serving staff. I went home and created a convincing resume. I’m a writer. I’m also a good liar, it goes without saying. I went to the personnel office in Miami, and sat in the reception area next to a dignified gentleman who told me that at his last job, he was the most highly paid butler in the United States. I asked him how much he was paid. When I went in for my interview, I asked for twice that amount. Mr. Trump personally hired me. Most of my pay was tied up in stock options, but I was given a most agreeable apartment, in a basement area, near the wine cellar. I’m an alcoholic, but trying all the different kinds of French wine, a bottle every few days, didn’t kill me. I found a girlfriend at Mar-A-Lago, Brigitte. She’s French. She was also a member of the service staff, but her duties consisted of-- shopping. We only had to buy food for the family. She taught me a lot about how brave you could be with Mr. Trump. She would call him an asshole, a fat pig, a macaroon (I don’t know how she decided on that insult) and he would take it agreeably, and sometimes, as a way to engage in some verbal sparring. She said he would get frisky with anybody who didn’t insult him. It was completely odd, that he could tolerate such hostility from a maid in his household. He could have had a deep masochistic streak, that the public had never seen.
My personal agony had to do with playing golf with the Mr Trump. I’m a terrible golfer. When I start playing, I hit perfect drives, straight down the center. Long, straight shots, from the fairway, that often land on the green. Then, I putt four or five times, to put the ball in the goddamn hole. A few holes later, everything in my game starts to fall apart. I have something intrinsically wrong with my spine. I would have to invent an entirely new swing for each shot I take, as my back shifts from walking the links. Mr. Trump enjoyed playing with me so much that the two of us became a fixture on the golf course. It wasn’t that embarrassing to me. There aren’t very many people at the club now, since he privatized it.
I went back to the kitchen, and told Brigitte that the ex-president was dead. I told her that I wanted to go to Montreal, and asked her to go with me. She said she couldn’t decide right away. I felt devastated by her refusal. I didn’t think I will see her again, unless they let her go. I left the clubhouse on foot, and walked into town. The tides were slowly creeping over the street. A few seniors, wearing rubber boots and holding on to their walkers, sloshed through the waters. They told me it was a pain in the ass, just to have to get their groceries now. There should be another sea wall built soon. But it probably won’t help these people very much. I found a little restaurant, that I used to go to, when I first went to Miami, and bought a fish sandwich. I enjoyed my sandwich, which was infinitely plain compared to the food I had been eating for several years. It was also pleasant that nobody knew me at all there. I don’t have any reason to work anymore. My personal nest egg has been restored, thanks to Mr. Trump. Too bad for everybody else. This place used to have hangers on, people on fixed income, that would habitually occupy corners of the dining area. I think I might do that. Come into my office, any time.

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