Donald Trump returns to his hotel room, exhausted but thrilled. He was on point tonight. He went into the debate, he challenged Hillary Clinton, and brought down her and her lapdog moderators. Tonight was a good night.
Melania had elected to room elsewhere. But that was fine. She'd come around. They all would. They would see that The Donald respects all women, of all colors and breast sizes. They are equally beautiful in the eyes of Trump. Except the fat ones. But no one cares about them.
He lays back on his bed and closes his eyes. A job well done, Donald, he thinks to himself. The polls will go up ten points, and Crooked Hillary will be done. And then they will all see that when Donald Trump decides he wants to be president, Donald Trump becomes President of the United States.
A soft noise stirs him from his musings. It sounded like a footstep. He opens his eyes back up, and looks around the room. Is it Melania, returned for a night of tussling? No. He frowns.
"CNN's Anderson Cooper?"
Anderson Cooper gazes down at him through his signature glasses, silver hair shining under the moonlight. He looks every bit the stern, taciturn father of America he is. In his hands is a small, white pillow.
"Mr. Trump."
"Anderson, Anderson Cooper. In my hotel room." Trump blinks up at him. "Why?"
"I told you we were moving on, Mr. Trump."
"I don't understand."
"You are done talking, Mr. Trump."
Donald tries to sit up, but Anderson Cooper is too fast. The pillow comes up, over Trump's face, and forces him back down against the sheets. His face expressionless, Anderson Cooper forces the pillow down around Trump's mouth and nose, holding it there as Donald's fists uselessly pummel him. His grip is like a vice, like his CNN timeslot. The last son of Vanderbilt maintains his hold on the Donald as his resistance lessens. And soon, the struggling stops.
"When Anderson Cooper says your time is up," he whispers to the Donald, "Anderson Cooper means your time is up."