Monday, the Twentieth of January of Two-Thousand Twenty-Five—the boys had long awaited the day. The time had finally come for America to be made great again, in the image of the original vision of our founding fathers, restored to its kickass, world-raping glory from before the woke mind virus pandemic following Harambe’s assassination by the Bush administration. Donald—or Don, as Elon called him on tender nights—was preparing his voluptuousness for the big day to come. For it was a big day, a day as big as that mound in his pants that somehow only seemed to grow with age, perhaps as a result of his youthful vitality increasing in tandem with his boundless wisdom. It hadn’t been since Grover Cleveland that a President had won another term after having lost one, and he was feeling quite invigorated that wintry morn. He patted his finely tailored suit, brushing his fingers across the sharpest peak lapel of obsidian satin that money could buy, then applied the luscious paint-like blush of perfectly pumpkin hue across his delicate epidermis.
“Don…” a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist walked into the dressing room, his masculine musk filling the air.
“Oh, hello Mr. Musk, how’s it been?” replied Don.
A certain glance flashed his way, an inexplicable expression of that je ne sais quoi quality—the X factor, if you will. He stepped closer.
Don cleared his throat.
Don spoke, “I’m sorry, baby, this is not the time. The people are waiting for me out there… I can hear them, they need me. It is my duty to once again serve this country, I can’t let us come between that.”
“Don, it’s– it’s something else. I can’t go on without telling you… and with how long we’ve waited. I– I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve done it.”
Don seemed to turn pink, the result of both a ghastly whitening of surprise and the rush of blood-red excitement, pent up over so many decades.
“You can’t mean…”
“Yes, my love. Let it be this once that the nation waits for you, instead of you for it. Let us love, and let the fruits of our love come unto us. Let us rejoice in the gifts man has created for himself, between man and machine… between man and man.”
“Oh, Elon, you know how I feel about your science-talk,” Donny smirked politely, glancing at his Armani shoes then up again.
“Even my passion for the Promised Lord can never exceed mine for you. Follow me; it’s time,” he ushered out the eggshell-painted oaken doorway and down a brief hall to the tip-top of a great, lavish stairwell.
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