The man who sat behind the largest desk on Earth kicked his feet up, surveyed his surroundings, and laughed.
The man had spent numerous years and countless dollars to achieve this position. He had bought, bullied, bartered, and bragged his way to this seat. Anyone who stood in his way had been crushed. Anyone who doubted him had been silenced. He had rejected the embrace of his fellow man, pushing aside nasty women and bad hombres. He had ridiculed all opposition, jeered at those he deemed unfit, and subdued all those who defied his divine mandate. This was his destiny, his life's work, and he'd be damned if he didn't make the most of it. Too much had been sacrificed to reach this point. He had to do great things.
The chair he sat in reeked of the previous occupant. It was the foulest of all stenches: truth, justice, and American ignorance. The man had always wondered how his predecessor had ever reached such a level of power. What ability did he possess? What did he ever achieve? Scores of mindless drones followed him doing his bidding, and for what? The hope for a better tomorrow? Eight years had passed, and the world he left was no better than the world he found. And yet, they still cheer his name? They still bask in the light of his warmth? If anything at all, his only power was to deceive millions into thinking he was their champion, that only he could rescue them from the frightening horrors of the proletarian abyss. The man chuckled at this thought the most, tossing aside any correlation between the plight of the common man and his sudden rise to political prominence. In his eyes, his accession had always been an inevitability.
The man had done many things. His family had never been poor, but they certainly weren't the richest. He received the finest business education that his family's clout could offer. He had built a financial empire out of not one thing. His name was known across the land, and it stood for strength and absolute authority. Those in search of direction could always count on his patriarchal guidance. Now here he was, standing before America, pointing towards the future with his hand held high, and smiling...for alone he knew what the future held. A time would come where the multitudes would either stand beside him, or be crushed by the weight of his boot. He was asking the mob to trust in him, to put their full faith behind his leadership. And if they didn't give their confidence to the man, he alone knew how to take it by force.
Long before these fateful first days behind the desk of supremacy, even before he realized his birthright to be the lord of all he surveyed, the man had tried many things. Things to make him even more powerful. He had money, he had influence, he had devilish good looks...but what he didn't have was the capacity to control what people do, think, or say. Nothing hurt the man more than bad word-of-mouth, no weapon could pierce his narrow skin further than the blade of verbal abuse or the sword defiant reaction. Sure he was a man of character flaws, of unflattering chauvinism, but his greatest weakness would always be his overly sensitive nature. He had to be loved, he must be cherished, he needed the adoration and admiration of all humankind. He journeyed to the far reaches of his ivory tower for the means to stamp out and conquer all remnants of critical thinking in the hearts and minds of his enemies, in order to form a more drudged union.
Then at last, he found his answer: the ancient Strands of Xanthous. Buried under rock, deep within a vast temple of a now forgotten northern Asian civilization, the man came across golden amber fibers wound into a periwig of certain stylistic prestige. There was a dim atmosphere inside the primitive sanctuary, but this jeweled mop of bristles shined a light that could be seen for meters, blinding all those unfit to gaze upon its radiance. As if he had been meant to live inside this very moment, the man knew instinctively to raise the thatch above his head and place the relic upon his distinctive dome. From that time on, from the very second that tuft reached his sanctimonious scalp, the power of the artifact took over, endowing the man with factual omnipotence. Never again would his words go unheard, or his thoughts be repelled. Never again would he be unable to break or bend a person's heart or mind to his will. He had the power to sway anyone, anyone he wished, save one...
Save one...
A knock on his door reverberated throughout his elliptical office. The man looked up startled as a face poked through a distant doorway.
"Mr. President?"
He had always mocked that moniker. He raised his paltry pointer into the air.
"Call me...The Donald"
