The Coup began when the President said it began, at 3:13 in the morning, Eastern Daylight Time. And though Ivanka had been awake only minutes before the President’s Secret Service knocked on the door, her mind was marvelously clear.
“Lucky, is that you?”
“Yes, Madame Secretary,” Lucky pleaded, leaning desperately against the handle, his dark sunglasses slipping down the sweat of his nose, “Are you decent?”
“I am. A moment.”
Ivanka paused before the mirror and tried to imagine the future of her day, the best practices for manifesting intention—willing herself into existence.
“I am cognizant. I am prepared,” she told herself at last. Then “with great power comes responsibility”, without ever thinking of Voltaire or Spiderman. She was confident. She was secure. She was the Secretary of Deals. And, according to Father, doing “a tremendous job, a wonderful job—one of the best—the best job…” running the former departments of State, Defense, Treasury and Homeland Security. That’s what he said yesterday anyway.
She improvised a line, “The only person who can stop you—is you,” then wrote it down.
“Perfection,” she cooed.
“You don’t have to whisper, ‘vanka,” Jared’s voice cut meekly through the dark, “I’m awake.” Her husband was lying at the foot of the bed, fully clothed. He looked like a dead eel in a tuxedo. He hadn’t slept in days. He reeked of sweat. Ever since the Panama Fiasco, her husband always walked a step behind, whispering in her ear like a schoolgirl. She had tried to re-instate his confidence.
“Deals go bad all the time,” she had assured him, “So Father went overboard. Nukes were exchanged…”
“It was a one-way exchange…”
“We got the ask, Jared. The canal did get wider…”
“Don’t think of yourself as the last Secretary of State,” she reasoned, “Try just thinking about … Jared now.”
“Think about Jared…”
“Just Jared. My Jared…”
“I tried, ‘vanka,” he said glumly but she did not hear.
The Secretary of Deals had slipped out the door, out of the dark and into the darkness.
The President had been trying to fix the toilet for four and a half hours. Most of the plumbing lay in golden pieces on the floor as gallons of water poured out the pipes, leaked through the floor of the presidential residence, and broke into a rusty green river along the hall to the State Dining Room where a presidential tour for the Japanese delegation was taking place.
The President refused to come out.
“It’s Old Faithful in here! Remember Old Faithful? It’s a mess!”
He was determined to fix everything himself.
When reminded gently that the White House had a fleet of plumbers, and none of them making the president’s salary, the president flew into a rage.
“Call Joe the Plumber then!” he yelled then rolled up his sleeves and dove headfirst into the shit-water geysering out of the golden pot— “What do you need me for?”
The Secretary Of Deals was briefed on the issues of the day in the situation room. Reince dictated while Lucky scrolled through the Twitter feed on his ugly, grey, government phone:
“The coop”, tweeted the President, would “not be televised…” even though “…the ratings would be biggest since M.A.S.H. + 9/11 WHICH…” he added, “WAS THE MOST SAVAGE CATASTROPHY UNTIL NOW.”
“…but then,” Reince cleared his throat, “he sent this…”
“Watching @FOX! Watching @MSNBC! Watching @CNN! WHERE’S THE COOP ANDERSON???? #WARONTRUMP”
“THE PRESS DECLARE WAR ON TRUMP. MAKE THEM PAY?”
“PEOPLE NEVER ASK. WHY NOT? #CIVILWAR”
“IF NO COOP ON TV BY 6AM YOU KNOW WHO TO BLAME.”
“…and then came the names…” Reince quivered.
@arianahuffington and @megynkelly
@rachelmaddow and @chrismatthews
“Dozens and dozens—of names… What does it mean?” Ivanka asked.
“The implication is clear…” came a dark, familiar voice.
The Secretary of Facts emerged from the curtain, as he was fond of doing, his tie tucked down the front of his pants, mystically beckoning at his fellow cabinet officers with witch fingers made of bugle chips.
“Secretary Bannon,” Ivanka said, turning to greet him.
“Would you like an opinion?” he replied in turn.
“It was Sulla,” he said, with the faint smell of hamburger, “who first published names of his enemies—the 5000 most famous busts in Rome—senators, governors, writers and scientists; merchants and lawyers; generals and philosophers. Masters and slaves—Gladiator slaves…!”
“Get on with it!” they cried.
“…with the expectation that those not on the list turn over those on the list…”
“It’s a hit list!” squeaked Reince, “We’ve been getting calls all morning. People want assurances!”
“That they won’t be on the list? Which list? This list? Or the next list?” Bannon wagged an eyebrow, “A very interesting strategy…”
“Father has a developed sense of humor,” Ivanka said at last.
Then Reince showed her:
“THIS IS NOT A JOKE. REAL COOP.”
“LYING MEDIA = UNCONSTITUTIONAL”
“FOR NEXT 24 HRS LYING MEDIA = ILLEGAL.”
“MAKE AMERICA SAFE = LEGAL.”
“EAT THE PRESS.”
The Secretary of Deals asked that everyone hand over their phones, which they did promptly. Then, removing a high heel, she smashed them to pieces atop a giant map of Asia at the center of the table.
“Permission to speak freely,” she said, running one hand through her thick blonde mane and tossing it aside.
“Spectacular…” Bannon chuckled to himself, a smile upon his lips, beginning a slow clap beneath the table. These were theatrics typical of the President, not of his daughter. But they played even better through Ivanka. He was beginning to see her potential. And wondering how he’d never seen it before…
The Secretary of Deals did not mince words: “We’re declaring martial law. Detain everyone in the White House below clearance level Diamond. Secretary Bannon, get on the phone with the generals. I want you to gauge loyalty.”
“So there… is a coup?” Reince spoke up.
But the Secretary of Deals had, once again, slipped out the door down the long, long hall.
Written by Pancho Morris with artwork by Nicole Monk and JJ Yingling and voiced by Matt Soson.
Inspired by: http://www.independent.ie/world-news/north-america/president-trump/ivanka-trump-leads-meeting-at-white-house-in-fathers-absence-35736176.html