Volume 32, Number 4

Sting Like a Bee

Earl Javorsky

Donald Trump sat in the corner of the ring, naked except for a pair of diapers. He shook his head, groggy from the drug stupor he was just coming out of, then squinted across the ring at me sitting in the opposite corner. I was wearing boxing shorts and a Joe Biden mask, watching as he tried to focus, his expression changing from confusion to recognition to rage.

Lilah pranced into the ring, hot in a swimsuit, weird in a Hillary mask. A bell rang and she held up the card for the first round. I jumped up, shuffling and throwing punches into the air. Trump shook his head and stared in disbelief. Frankie, over in Trump’s corner wearing an Obama mask, yelled “Round one!” but the fat man stayed in his seat. Frankie bent over and hit him in the diaper with a stun baton.

Five million volts to the ass got Trump out of his seat in a hurry. He roared like a wounded yak and charged. I waited until he was two feet away, then sidestepped, catching him with an open-handed smack to the mouth as he stumbled by me. It made a wet sound like dropping a raw steak on a hardwood floor. Frankie followed us around with a camcorder.

The abduction had been relatively straightforward. The first time Trump saw Lilah—at the Mar-a-Lago resort—his head nearly swiveled like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist. He slipped his Secret Service guys and followed her to a room that belonged to her escort, some asshole real-estate developer who thought he was up for a wild ride but wound up comatose on Rohypnol and stashed in a closet. Another roofie put Trump into a stupor even more profound than his usual vacuity, and he was wheeled out of the premises stuffed in a laundry cart by Lilah, who was now wearing a maid’s uniform. We got it all on video.

We had taken him to an abandoned boxing gym in Riviera Beach, six miles and a demographic light-year north of Palm Beach. The place hadn’t been used in years; even the meth smokers had abandoned it. We went in with a generator and got the lights going, swept rat shit and used condoms off the ring’s floor, and rigged the place to burn when we were done with it.

The fat man nearly stumbled but kept his feet. He glared at me and said, “Are you out of your fucking mind? You’ll fry for this.” His lip was split and there was blood on his chin. I danced around him, making him turn, first left, then right. Float like a butterfly… Left, right, left. I bobbed and weaved and threw more air punches. He put his fists up and stepped in, but he was slow, and I was gone, and all he saw was a skinny guy in a Biden mask, hopping in place and out of reach. The bell rang.

Again, the bell. Lilah held up the card for round two. Dipshit launched out of his chair after another megavolt prompt. Frankie, his Barack face implacable, had ignored a barrage of screaming and now followed with the camcorder. The fat man, teeth bared, sad strands of orange hair pasted to his forehead, plodded toward me. I popped him in the eye with a left, but not hard. He moved in, growling, and fumbled for my mask, but I backed off and started circling again. He stayed with me, turning round and round, grabbing for my face every time I got close. After about ten spins he stopped, slack-jawed and disoriented. I slapped him twice, open-handed, and watched him keel over.

It was fine. We were done. I didn’t want to hurt the man. Frankie and I bundled him out to the van. Lilah drove. Frankie hit the remote on the incendiary device, and we saw the night sky flare orange. We dumped The Donald in an alley behind a dollar-a-shot biker bar in West Palm Beach.

This is gonna blow up on YouTube.