There can be only one.

Donald Trump sat back in his overstuffed recliner in his penthouse apartment in Trump Tower. He was taking a day of rest. The campaign had been grueling. He was victorious in the first lap. But he was very tired. Later he would preside over a happy and boisterous family gathering as the Trump clan got together to celebrate Mother’s Day. His loving wife Melania would be at the head of the table with little Baron. His beloved Daughter Ivanka would be there with her new son. His other sons would be there with their spouses and children. They were devout family men much like himself. Even his ex-wife Ivana would be there to celebrate with her children. Thankfully they got along and could be civil with each. More civil than he could be with the conservative Republicans who hate him so. No matter. Today was a day to celebrate Mothers.

Trump pushed back on the chair to raise his feet on the foot rest that appeared at the bottom of the recliner. His thoughts were all over the place. The campaign. The coming battle. But most of all his own mother.  Mary Ann MacLeod.  Of the Clan MacLeod.

She had been born in Scotland on the Isle of Tong in the Year of Our Lord 1912. Her parents were simple fisher folk but they were of all things immigrants to that far off isle. You see they had been born in Highlands of Scotland. Or at least her father Calum had been born in the bosom of the Clan MacLeod. He was forced to flee as had many of his kind. The diaspora had led some to Canada, to America, to Paris and to a small fishing village. Calum did not have the wanderlust that was typical of his clan. But his daughter inherited it. That is why she went to New York where she met a young virile German real estate developer. They fell in love and married. She happily bore him five children. Each in turn were apprised of the legacy of the Clan MacLeod.

Donald remembered that fatal trip to Vancouver where his beloved mother had introduced him to her kinsman Duncan and his own true love Tessa.  Duncan took the young brothers Fred and Donald under his wing. They left the antique shop each day to have adventures that his staid father would never countenance. They rode horses. Practiced sword fighting. Even tasted wine for the time. Which was a fateful mistake for his brother Fred. His fondness for the grape came to consume him and made it anathema to Donald.

Donald treasured his memories of those carefree days. So he was horrified when his mother told him what had happened to Duncan and Tessa. That they had to flee Vancouver to move to Paris when they were betrayed by the officious son of a feckless Cuban immigrant named Ted Cruz. That was the unspoken cause of their enmity that so many could not understand. Along with the attacks of such people as Charles Krauthammer who was one of the wheelchair bound Watchers who were tasked with following his clan and who had subsequently become their bitter enemies. It was part of the secret world unknown to the press and the public. It was the subtext of this bitter election. Under the surface like a predator waiting to snap and devour the unwary.

There was one thing he always remembered. The last words of his cousin Duncan as they left Vancouver never to return. “Remember Donald. You will never know where the attacks may come from. They might pose as your friends. Your employees. Wheelchair bound pundits. Flashy female news readers. They will come and attack you from unexpected quarters. You must fight with every inch of your being. Never give up. You have the Legacy of the Clan MacLeod to shelter you. Remember this Young Donald. There can be only one.”

That was good advice. At the end. There can be only one.