Donald Trump sat back in his overstuffed recliner in his penthouse apartment in Trump Tower. He was taking a day of rest after meeting with the jackal press. The campaign had been grueling. He was victorious as he knew would be. President of these United States. But he was tired. Very tired.
Soon he would preside over a happy and boisterous family gathering as the Trump clan got together to celebrate Thanksgiving. His loving wife Melania would be opposite him at the other end of the table with little Baron. His beloved Daughter Ivanka would be there with her new son and her other children. His sons would be there with their spouses and children. They were devout family men much like himself. Her oddball daughter Tiffany would be there as well. 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.
Thanksgiving was a day to celebrate and give thanks for all his blessings. Most of all the blessing that he could serve his country that had given so much to him and his family.
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 transition. 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.
You see they were immortal. They lived on and on in the eternal battle. Taking heads of other immortals. Because in the end there could be only one.
It was his guiding principle in this grueling campaign. He is dispatched his rivals one by one. The weaselly Walker. The somnolent Carson. The jolly but deadly fat pussy toad Christie. The effete bubble boy Rubio. Even the dead eyed zombie Cruz. All had fallen. Not to his blade. Only to his political acumen.
Then he had to face the Gorgon. The Medusa. She who must not be named. It was a battle for the ages. They grappled and spit and bit and fought on and on until ultimately he was victorious. He was soon to move to the White House to implement his plans to make America great again.
He had left the window to the penthouse open to let in a little air. Suddenly the curtains billowed into the room and a cold chill wind blew in. A figure was standing there. That was impossible! He was in the Penthouse! No one could scale the building to climb in through the terrace. Unless it was another immortal.
He stood up and reached for the Claymore hanging on his wall. He held it before him in the guard position. But the figure in the doorway did not seem to be armed. His head was down and hidden under his pulled up collar.
“Who are you? Why are you here? Do you challenge me?”
The figure looked up. He seemed familiar. But this was impossible. It was Richard Nixon.
“I am not here to challenge you MacLeod. I could not because I do not exist in your temporal world. I have been sent to bring you a message. From Masters of the other side.”
“I don’t believe this. You are a special effect. What Hollywood douche ginned up this nonsense?”
“I have simply come to warn you MacLeod. You have emerged victorious. For the nonce. But it will not last. Your enemies are legion and they will not submit. They will tear at you and yours. Try to destroy you. Your business. Your Presidency. You Legacy. Your family. You must defeat them again and again. But remember one thing. Do not hate them. Because if you hate them you will destroy yourself. Remember my example. You have a chance to put things right.”
“Very funny. Who sent you? Seriously? Zucker? Lorne Michaels? Spielberg? Thank you for the advice. But I know what I have to do. I also know one thing. There can be only one!”
Donald Trump took the Claymore and swung it at the ghostly apparition to cut off his head. But nothing happened. Nixon just stood there and shook his still attached noggin with the severe five o'clock shadow.
“It will be as you wish. I have done what the Powers have requested of me. I was where you are now. Fame is fleeting. Power goes away. The only thing you have is the record of your deeds. It has been so since the time of the great Achilles. Remember that MacLeod. That is all you will have.”
Another gust of rushed in from off Fifth Avenue and the Donald covered his eyes from the sting of the wind. When he moved his arm Nixon was gone. Or the hologram of Nixon was gone.
Donald Trump was pensive. Could it have actually been a spirit? Whatever it was it was clear that his security was lacking. He hung the Claymore back behind his desk. He would not have to go into combat tonight. He needed to get back to reality.
He would gather his family and take them out to dinner. At his favorite restaurant the 21 Club. They will ditch the press and just have the family. He would be soothed by the presence of Melania and Ivanka. He could stare at their breasts. That always soothed him.
For there were always two.