Donald Trump did not like to play games. Or so he said to those third-rate mouth breathers at Fox News. As far as he was concerned, they were all a bunch of ISISes. How could he make America great again if that Megyn Kelly asked him questions he could literally not care less about? Doesn’t she watch his face? Foreign policy is boring. That’s why he suggested a wall in the first place. No one listens. They play their games and they don’t get it, they just don’t get it.
But the thing is, Donald Trump did like to play games. He was good at them too. He even had a t-shirt that said, “Life’s a Game.” He was a fun guy like that. Of course, it had taken Donald a while to figure out what his favorite game was. He knew he couldn’t like too many at the same time—his brand was singular, polarizing commitment. He tried out a few along the way. There was the stock market, a fun game for sure. He was good at it for a while, but then sometimes it was confusing and required a lot of hard thinking, and who has the time? Then he played the real estate game. That was fun for a time too. Buying things. Getting to own things. And the more things he owned, the more he felt he owned the people in and around those things. Now that was fun. Huge fun.
But he found it not much fun to own people with big mouths. And even less fun when those mouths had vaginas. Take Megyn Kelly, for example. All Donald saw when he looked at her was a big flappin’ vajay, which was distracting and not very fair. She was real estate in which he could not invest, and Fox News knew that, those knuckle-draggers. But he was done with their games. Donald had a new game. And that game was trains.
It all started on his 67th birthday, when Melania, his wife, gifted him a vintage train set. It had belonged to Rockefeller and was in mint condition, not a lick of oil on any a boxcar. In many ways, it was a very nice gift for a young man-boy. At first Donald was very thankful, he knew Melania must have worked very hard to get it for him. But then he thought a little more on it. Didn’t she know he owned a tower? He looked at his wife, called her a dumb-dumb, and got on the phone with his best engineers. Together they worked on the plans for America’s—no—the world’s biggest train set. Donald was giddy with excitement; he hardly noticed Melania’s crying. I thought I told her to stay in her room during menstruation, he said to his number one engineer, Carl. Carl asked if that might be a bit sexist, that maybe Donald had a problem with women, to which Donald said, “no you are,” and fired Carl by saying “Carl, you’re fired.” Carl went on to marry a woman named Sheila who would build the first high-speed public transit to the moon, but that’s another story.
It took a lot of time to finish Donald’s train set, and a lot of death, but in the end it was probably worth it. It ran through the whole basement of Trump Castle, swirling and spiraling and honking—just like Donald. He loved the train set more than anything else he thought he owned. He hardly cared if he could hear Melania crying anymore. He just made those trains vroom vroom vroom.
But these days Donald spent a lot of time away from his trains. At first his campaign for president had seemed like a fun new game since the train set was beginning to bore him. But now, several months and mouthy women into the thing, he felt different. The campaign had taken too much of his time away from his trains. He had to take a stand. He had to have his fun.
Which is what led Donald to back out of the debate and return to his trains. They were just as he’d left them: great. He cranked up the battery-powered engines and giggled with glee as trains raced around him. He even did this little toe-tapping dance, which was sort of a mix of when Melania was taking too long to bring him a glass of water and when he had to pee really bad. The trains had put him in such good spirits that he had a servant roll in a TV to watch the debate on. Because if there was something Donald loved more than anything else, it was watching people say his name.
But to his terror, Donald did not hear his name. They didn’t even say it once. It was as if he weren’t even there! This was unacceptable. He was the front-runner, just look at the numbers. And numbers, he knew, didn’t lie. Women lie! (Somewhere far off, probably in Florida, Sheila snorted as she put the finishing touches on her moon-train).
Donald fell into a rage. He picked up a train, a coal-mover, and launched it into the television. Then he body-slammed a section of track that contained a ghost town he’d spent weeks developing a backstory for. The ghosts he’d installed and named after poor investments booed. The one for his hair booed loudest. Sort of like, “BOOOOOOOOOO!”
It didn’t take long for Donald to totally decimate his train set. He was a large man with a lot of anger, so honestly this was probably very releasing for him. As soon as she heard the final train track drop, Melania brought her husband a glass of water. He took it in his hand with force, still reeling from the lack of attention. She put her hand on his cheek, smoothing his rough pigskin. People often asked her why she stayed with him. Most assumed it was for the money. And that wasn’t all wrong. But she knew he couldn’t survive without her. She took care of him. It was a big job, but someone had to do it. Also she really liked the idea of picking out silverware for the White House and had fielded several offers to become a Russian spy. But all of that was looking less than likely now as she held Donald’s head to her chest. He wept for several hours. When he finished, Melania handed him a tissue and told him they’d have someone clean this all up for him. He nodded.
“And Donald?” Melania said, her husband retreating up the stairs.
“Maybe you should stay in your room during menstruation.”
And then Donald Trump, conqueror of trains and no worlds, had a stroke.