Reporting From The Inside:
A Collection Of Covert Operations
by Urs Trulee, CBE MA 1/2 a PHD
THE RED ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM.
Date: 9th November 2016
Assignment: Infiltrate Trump’s “War Room” On The Eve Of The Election Result
Trump: “Pass me another of those great small meats? What are they again”…
Kelly Ann Conway: ”Cocktail sausages Mr Trump”…
Trump: ”Terrific. Believe me.”
That’s right. It’s 9pm on Election night and Urs Trulee, covert investigative journalist for Therealnews.com, TruthInYourEars.org and Classic FM, is standing behind Mr Trump and his commie cronies as the first polls in the 2016 US Presidential Election begin to close. The smog of expensive perfume on cheap women fills the air; air which has been turned blue – not from a literal chemical attack by the Democrat Party but metaphorically by a racist uncle who insists the mini-quiches have been made by “negro hands“. Vast TVs the size of elephants faces adorn gold plated walls and on them play Fox News and The Apprentice Best Bits – the former a Republican Comedy News Channel, the latter a compilation of some of the funniest things Trump has ever said on his hit reality show. At one point he refers to grabbing a woman by the pussy. This journalist expects a big laugh in the room of familiar Alt-right faces but instead all just stand and applaud; slowly at first and then louder and louder, occasionally stamping their feet and grunting like wild beasts or “Native Americans” as they’re now known. In the corner, a small a television set from 1978 is banged by a strategist trying to get CNN in colour. “I see the Clinton network is still stuck in the dark ages“, quips Trump. All snigger knowingly, except for the uncle who laughs hysterically and slaps his thigh. Perhaps misunderstanding what Trump meant by “dark”.*1 Suddenly, BREAKING NEWS, Trump takes Kentucky. He dances around rubbing his belly and licking his lips like an orange Barney the Dinosaur and, predictably, the next fifteen minutes are spent clearing up Trumps confusion: he had in fact won the State, not, as he believed, a bucket of fried chicken. This confusion sets the tone for a truly terrifying evening.
Back in time (not literally) and I’m standing in a very long press queue hoping to bag a ticket into the war room via the Trump Lottery being held. Much like the hit show Hamilton, Trump allows admission to his life, what he calls “The Show”, via allocated tickets. And what tickets! Made from Peacock feathers dyed white, the tickets feel like pure silk when slid through the fingers, their gentle tickle perhaps a reminder that while Trump can always provide something expensive and luxurious, it comes at the cost of a dead bird. Tickets come at a hefty price, some selling for as much as fifteen dollars, but for those of us hit harder by the recession (Thanks Macedonia btw!) there’s the elusive Trump Lottery. Submit your name at 5pm, 6pm they draw the ticket and just like that five days later you’re allowed access to ‘The Donald’ – subject to checks (security), cheques (alternative form of money) and cheques (traditional Scottish dress)… Donald absolutely insists on patterned clothing as it helps accentuate the boldness (see blandness) of his black suit, black shoes, white shirt, red power tie, socks and boxer short.
As the burley ticket puller steps forward, the crowd come to a hush and shush. I cross my fingers and hope my name is to be pulled in the lottery. It’s either that or run hard at the security armed with nothing but a look of determination and a semi automatic assault rifle; and believe me that doesn’t always work out.*2
“Urs Trulee!” says the large woman.
“BINGO BANGO!“, I shout, dancing erratically, trying not to draw attention to myself. I’m in. As I stride past the others I smile at them in a very smug way indeed. A teenage girl shouts out, calling me a “dick“. Diffusing the situation I point at the sourpuss and decry her, instructing the baying crowd to “Trump that bitch“. The episode is brought to a swift end as seventeen fat white men bundle on her slapping and pinching her face, torso and legs and head. Situation diffused.
At the gate, two men who can only be described as “security staff” halt my smug walk. “I’ve a ticket my good man“, I probably say. “First answer this entry question…” grumbles the wannabe wrestler, “name the leader of Mexico.” I’m stumped. As my conscience goes back and forth I consider saying Pablo or Juan and just mumbling with a lisp for the surname but instead I bite the bullet and admit my ignorance. “I don’t know“. Once again… I’m in! It turned out that an overall ignorance in other world matters was precisely the sort of fresh thinking, antiestablishment shiz Trump was looking for. This was confirmed later when I got intel from a former assistant who claimed Trump tried to actively forget foreign affairs facts, or as he called them – FAF’s, in order to maintain a sense of antiestablishment. “There’s too much FAFFing” was a common proclamation the Donald would make as he strode down the halls of Trump Tower to get his Sunday morning paper, dressed only in a pair of red power pants and one sock.
It’s just after nine. I’m whisked through a series of doors which I pass through with ease until we come to the “war room” where I’m handed a glass of Moët, a “Make America Great Again” baseball cap, a nasty woman t-shirt and a small bible still in is cellophane wrapping. Trump sits in the corner nervously unshelling monkey nuts and placing the fresh peanuts into a large pint glass. Political intuition tells me he’s going to down it as some sort of dare but my hypothesis is utterly scrumbled when Ted Cruz walks in, kneels down and has it poured onto his head.*3 It’s not long before the States (divided for one night only) start to be called and everyone is on the tenderest of hooks – I wonder if you can imagine hooks but made of lightly cooked dark meat (literally a minute on each side – no more or I won’t touch it John!) or hooks made of a child’s youth.
After a few pleasantries with a group of lovely Russian “tourists”, I crouch down next to the rope separating the Press from Trump and rather than tying my shoelace, as my clever posture suggests, I roly poly across the divide and jump to my feet. “Now I’m really in” I say to myself, and I smile inwardly as I think of my dads words all those years ago – “roly poly son… I can’t tell you when you’ll need to but when you do, you’ll know and when you know, for fucks sake, roly poly“. A single tear cascades down my face like water running down a fleshy cliff. I compose myself and make for the buffet.
Between cucumber fingers and pickled eggs, States come in thick and fast, (incidentally an apt description of how I consume the eggs) and all goes to plan for the first few hours. “This is terrific. Truly.” says Trump, as the Nuts cascade down onto Cruz for the sixth time this evening. Another aide then reminds Trump of the current State tally and he’s happier than ever. He begins to blush and his eyes glow red like a demon from that horror with all those demons in it. He hurriedly bundles small handfuls*4 of Monster Munch into his racist gob box, and an aide rushes over pleading with him to slow down, insisting he’ll “ruin his dinner”. Unmoved by the skimpily dressed 13 year old assistant’s protestations The Donald continues, occasionally over filling the mouth cavity just to get at the girls already shakey self-esteem. At first though she seems unfazed until he starts to growl and curl one of his hands, raising it towards her. I tense and reach for my gun only to realise i’ve left it in the store on the shelf having decided the day before not to buy it because, fundamentally, I don’t agree with them. “But what if Donald was about to go for the girl?” I think. In that moment, I have something of an epiphany and realise how right the NRA*5 is and has always been. I vow to go out and buy as many as twenty six guns as soon as I’m done at Trump’s gaff – including at least one which is overqualified to be simply a “device for defending my family and inanimate house”. Suddenly, the CNN television set is banged into full colour and the shaky audio proclaims:
“We are calling Wisconsin… wow, we are calling Wisconsin for Mr. Donald Trump”
The room erupts into a frenzy. Bankers laugh and nearly choke on their aperitifs – oyster sushi wrapped in hundred dollar bills. Kelly Ann Conway blows up three more balloons but can’t fathom why they won’t float when let go; an aide tries valiantly to explain the differences between carbon dioxide and helium but falls on deaf ears (not literally). Trump, armed with a new kind of strength, orders all the Mexican born waiters out into the yard for what he calls, “Laugh Time”.*6 I run to the bathroom, or toilet as we know it in the 51st US state – THE UK (oh by the way – Thanks Thatcher!). Sweat pours down my face and back and I can’t work out if it’s because of the seeming inevitability of a Trump victory ,should he continue to take the Rust Belt, or if it’s my girlfriend Narinda’s home made mushroom curry we had last night – she’s heavy on the spice and though I like my food hot, like my women (you should see Narinda mate), sometimes I think the consumption of her native cuisine is incinerating me from the inside out.
“This can’t be happening”, I whisper and whimper. “A win in Wisconsin surely means he’s heading for wins in Michigan and Transylvannia”. “It’s Pensylvania”, says a straining voice from the cubicle next to me. I’d been whispering out loud again, a terrible affliction i’ve had since a small child when my grandad mistaught me the popular game ‘Chinese Whispers’. “Yes, of course, only joking mate”, I say, hoping to put the mistake to bed and to maintain a modicum of decency while on the bog. “Joking with who? with me? That’s a bit weird… you don’t even know me, sir” he strains. I’m taken aback. Both by his effrontery and the fact he’s timed the ejection and impact of his turd with the water perfectly on the word “Me”. As the darn stink makes it’s way into my nostri (plural for nostril) I gag and make a quick exit, stopping only to dispense soap from the soap dispenser but not long enough to rinse. There’s no time for personal hygiene, Michigan is to be called any minute, my cover’s going to be blown and judging by the stink and the sheer size of that last thunder turd, made more explicit by the sound it made as it dived into the piss water, this man is about three seconds from unleashing the sort of shit Narinda causes me to have every saturday morning. It’s nothing anybody should have to experience.
“They’ve just called Pennsylvania… Clinton is going to call”
“There’s no time for social calls surely” I think. In all the drama of the political cut and thrust I was doing that thing I do all the time. My mother always used to say to me “think before you speak” and for some time I believed her but then i realised she was just a fucking bitch hellbent on ruining my life (i realised this around age 14) and what I was actually doing was far more advanced for my age. If anything i was thinking before i was thinking. Confused? You don’t need to be. I was confused before you were confused and that was before I was confused. This sort of maverick style was how I got my calling to become a covert journo but it often landed me in trouble and right now I was confusing a Clinton social call with what was actually to be a concession call.
Trump picks up the phone tentatively before asking Kelly Ann Conway what this “futuristic thing” is. Kelly Ann Conway examines it and hands it back with a shrug. As a tinny “hello” comes from the ear end, Trump and Kelly smile and it takes the hispanic born footstool to get up from under Trump’s feet to put it to his ear. “Kelly you gotta hear this, it sounds like Hillary. Tremendous. Truly” “That’s because it is sir” says Chito, to which Trumps eyes light up like the child who found out Santa was real. Sure enough, Clinton was phoning to concede to Trump. Talk amongst the journos in the room was that Clinton was using a phone double to concede the election because she was too busy planning a war with a small country, while at the same time giving a speech to one fat old white man for five hundred million dollars, and pounds, but this wasn’t verified and I have it on good authority (my own) that it’s bullshit like all the other things ever said about Clinton. First she’s a liar, then she’s hawkish, next thing they’ll be saying her husband is an adulterer. Republican smear people – DO NOT be taken in by this right wing communist propaganda.
As Trump finishes the call he misunderstands the nature of the cellphone and promptly throws it out of the window. Bemused, but ecstatic, the cast of Trumps campaign fall silent and Trump rises from the two young girls backs he’s been sitting on and walks to the television wall. Standing at the back of the room I watch the silhouetted shape of Mr Donald Trump. His figure cuts a crisp outline as the bright lights of the televisions flicker and flutter around his omnishadow. As he takes a large breath in, the televisions begin to shout the same thing, but in all the different colours and voices of the various presenters.
“Donald Trump is the President Elect.”
Cut to the Empire State building where Clintons face is removed from the right of Trumps and his grows three times the size and centres itself. The icey building glows a deep southern red and the once general chants and noise from awaiting crowds turns to cheers and sobs. Red neck, tree cutting, beer drinking bums raise the roof while god fearing, leftie luvvies fall to the floor reciting an apt Shakespeare quote or sing a relevant Nirvana lyric. And I sit next to the buffet once more. I had expected to see an outcome tonight but i had hoped to capture the crying and anguish from a campaign which deserved to lose. Instead, I catch an exclusive glimpse of what it must have been like to see any of the big fascists succeed in a time and place where they never actually expected to. I go for a final egg before leaving and in a weird turn of events they have all been finished. Every single pickled one of them. When I came in there were 152 pickled eggs (I counted them). Had we really got through them all in just 4 hours? “My, my” I think, “Look what we’ve come to mum… i mean dad” (She was still a bitch). And egg bound, I remove my groucho marx glasses and moustache and leave the war room sobbing (inwardly).
Covering Trump wasn’t a dream job. It wasn’t even technically a job. I was not being paid for any of my time and neither was my assistant Tom, although he will only know that now upon reading this. Tom for your time i thank you but you know as well as i do that whilst a verbal contract is a lovely idea, thats all it really is. Much like the idea that no baby can ever be ugly, or the idea that we are friends Tom, if i were called upon in court to defend the idea I would have to deny it absolutely and with the full force of the law, which to be honest Tom, on your current earnings (you forget I helped you with your tax return) we both know you cannot afford. To the sometime amateur wrestlers who served as Trump’s bouncers i congratulate you on your tackling of the heckling protestor from the war room. She really was distracting everybody from the results coming in and i agreed with you every second of the way that regardless of her old age and frail demeanour she deserved the full force of the law and your fists. Boy did she take a pounding! I still laugh about it now. It was one of the lighter moments of an otherwise sad evening – for that, I thank you. To Clinton I say “Keep at it kid, you may not be the President but who knows one day high office maybe on the cards. Senator, Leader of the house, who knows? Maybe even Secretary of State”. Incidentally, I left a message on Clinton’s whatsapp asking her if she ever considered asking her husband to run for office. On the campaign trail i’ve come to notice how much he has a great way with people, and I’ve often thought whilst daydreaming in the bath that he’d actually make a great Politican and dare i say it, President. Food for thought. Alas, this positive peter got nothing back. Which is churlish of Clinton as she left her read receipts on and I clearly saw that she had read the text at 2.05 after me having sent it at 2.03. Come on Hillary – this is text book stuff.
To Trump I say “Good Luck”. And I suppose in a whacky sort of way I mean it. Here was me thinking he was just another whining bitch, destined to fade into obscurity like past Presidential losers (or lovers of mine). Actually no, it was I was the bitch, and wow mum… i mean dad… look who just got Trumped.
*1 Thigh is what Uncle calls his Hispanic assistant. His actual name is nee.
*2 For legal reasons I’m not allowed to detail the incident at the WI, Bexley, all I will say is they could afford to have a bit of a sense of humour about things and a little spilt jam tart isn’t that end of the world. Also, I insist that when I shouted tart I absolutely was referring to the cake (tart).
*3″MonkeyNutting” is a GOP election night tradition. Upon concession of the nomination the main opponent is expected to take a full pint glass of nuts to the hair and cranium. The nuts must have been unshelled by the GOP nominee and sourced by the last republican president: dead or alive. The tradition dates back to the earliest of Americas times and is genuinely enjoyed by all… except the man or woman (always a white man) who takes the nuts. It is thought the term “nut job” is a reference to the tradition.
*4 Much has been written of Trumps small hands and as a journalist I consider that sort of tabloidism utterly deplorable. To report specifically on somebodies physical features when such scrutiny is unrelated to the job at hand is irresponsible and plain nasty. All i will say, is the hands really are very small and when approached seem not even to gain any sort of size. Much like the horizon, as you approach the hands they stay the same size. It’s quite disgusting to look at. Not since i dined with Corbett and his wife (seriously lovely people) have I been so outraged by the presence of an abnormally small physical feature. Incidentally, for the Corbetts (I mean it guys… fucking wonderfully generous folks) it turned out to be a misunderstanding and I duly accepted Corbetts apology and explanation that his trousers and pants had been pulled down under the dinner table by his cat who was “in heat” and that the erection was a medical condition he’d had since birth. RIP.
*5 Either the National Rifle Association or the Naughty Rifle Alt-right… I forget which it is.
*6 “Laugh Time” is part of Trumps daily schedule. It involves Trump picking who he considers to be the most disadvantaged person in his company at that moment; that person is then taken outside and ritualistically cackled at. Though it’s place in the 24 hour schedule fluctuates, It normally takes place before ‘bed time’ but after ‘bath time’.