It’s past midnight. The go-fers, minders and advisors -- including Henry Kissinger -- have left the suite at the Waldorf, and Bill and Hillary Clinton are alone.
Suddenly, Hillary begins to weep uncontrollably. She grabs a crystal vase from an end table and makes like she’s going to heave it through the window.
“Whoa now, baby,” Bill says, though he backs up a couple of steps in case Hillary decides to chuck the vase at him. “Hil, let’s talk this out. What’s the matter, honey?”
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? Are you serious? We’re dead even in the polls, that’s what’s the matter. I’m dead even with DONALD-FUCKING-TRUMP, the biggest buffoon in the history of American politics.”
“Look, these are early polls, Hil, very early, and for the most part meaningless.”
Hillary walks to the window and stares down at the street below. A siren wails in the distance. “I should be leading by 20 points. How can I be dead even with that meathead? It makes no sense whatsoever. He’s an idiot. He makes shit up as he goes along. He lies.”
“Hil, you know as well as I do that polls aren’t always accurate. Election day is what, nine weeks from now?”
Hillary says nothing.
“You don’t think Trump’s still going to be standing by Election day, do you? He’s going to implode, honey, split wide open like ol’ Humpty Dumpty.”
“The electorate is full of morons,” Hillary spits. “Fucking morons! I’m Hillary Rodham Clinton! This can’t be happening.”
“Don’t worry about the voters,” says Bill, glad that the window Hillary is standing next to doesn’t open. “When this is all said and done you’re going to be President of the United States. Our friends over on Wall Street love you, the Saudis love you, the generals and defense industry CEO’s can’t throw enough money at you…”
“But the PEOPLE hate me!” Hillary screams, throwing herself on the sofa; her body convulses. Bill hasn’t seen his wife this distraught since the Lewinsky scandal; the memory makes him shudder. He knows he’s lucky that his testicles are still attached.
Hillary pounds the sofa with her fists. “I want to be loved by the people,” she croaks between sobs. “I...want...to...be...loved. Is that too much to ask? After all I’ve given to this country, is it too much to ask?”
Before Bill can answer Hillary stands up and wipes the tears from her face. “I beat that old Jew fair and square, didn’t I? I won the nomination because I’m the best candidate and I’m going to make history as the first female president of this great country. The people will learn to love me, won’t they?”
“Yes,” Bill says, “I’m positive they will. C’mon, baby, why don’t you get some sleep.”
Bill drapes his arm across Hillary’s shoulders and leads her to the bedroom, helps her undress and get into bed. He pulls the covers up to her chin and kisses her on the forehead. “Good night, Madam President.”
Bill sits in the chair beside the bed until his wife is asleep, then goes into the other room and stands by the window. He takes his phone from his pocket and taps in a number. “Hey, baby, how ya’ doing? Do me a favor and unwrap that cigar I gave you last week.”
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