(lay-out is horrible with lack of indents and everything. Will fix this next week.)
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed across the grand hall of the Flying Golden Palace. Barely audible whispers spread through the corridors: ‘have you heard? He is ill.’ ‘What, like a flu?’
‘Maybe, but maybe not…’
‘Well he is quite old.’
‘Last week he was healthy as a 20 year-old!’
‘I heard his face has turned green.’
Young Barron tried to ignore the whispers as he trudged through the hallways. Yet he knew that he wasn’t called to his father’s chamber without reason. His father had looked a little pale last time Barron came over for dinner, but he hadn’t seemed too bad. Some cold, he guessed. But the request to visit his father had a tone of urgency to it that didn’t sit right with Barron. He opened the majestically gold-plated doors to the Trump residency.
Immediately he saw something was wrong. A team of what he assumed were doctors surrounded his father’s bed. His mother was sitting at the head, cleaning his father’s forehead with a washcloth. Everyone except for his father was wearing body-covering gear you’d normally see in operating rooms, covering all mouths and hair. A nurse at the door handed him similar garments. ‘The doctors don’t want to take any risks’ she said. ‘He is weak enough as is.’ Without a word Barron put on the mask and rushed to the bed. He gasped when he saw his father. Emperor-Elect Donald Trump’s eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily, and pearls of sweat were dripping down his head. This wasn’t just some cold, his father’s life was in danger!
At the sound of his son’s voice Donald’s eyes opened. ‘Hello son. Not feeling so great as you can see. Don’t worry, these doctors will fix me up soon. We have the best doctors!’ He tried to give a doctor next to him a firm pat on the back, but he could only muster the strength for a gentle touch.
‘Dad,’ Barron said, ‘you wanted to see me?’
‘I always want to see you’ Trump answered, but barely had he spoken the words when he groaned in pain and groped his stomach. A doctor turned to Barron: ‘your father is in a great deal of pain; it is best to let him rest. Come, I’ll show you the medical reports.’
Barron followed the man to an adjacent room where even more doctors and nurses were huddled around big monitors on the wall with displays of his dad’s vital signs and what seemed to be an extensive medical history. He caught bits of conversation between the doctors:
‘…. Gastro-intestinal infection…’
‘… Progressive illness…’
‘… Possible Russian involvement…’
Barron figured this would be where he would be instructed on the medical reports, but the doctor kept on walking, exiting the room on the other side. Barron followed. They went through a deserted corridor and just as Barron started to wonder why the doctor’s physique seemed familiar to him, the doctor opened a door to the right and went into what appeared to be a broom closet. He beckoned Barron to follow. Barron hesitated. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you’, answered the doctor, ‘but first come in and close the door. Please.’ Something in the man’s eyes told Barron he could trust him. He closed the door behind him. The doctor ripped of his mask and Barron gasped as he recognized the face beneath. ‘Mr. Bannon! What are you doing here! My dad fired you!’ Stephen Bannon grinned.
‘Sometimes people need protection whether they want it or not. It seems your dad is in dire need of some protection.’
– ‘Will he die?’
‘On the current course: yes. I’m afraid your dad has been poisoned.’
Barron’s eyes grew. ‘Poisoned? By whom??’
‘The New World Order. The people actually in charge of this country. Jews, globalists, democrats, you name it.’ Bannon’s eyes flashed around nervously. ‘Already they are applying pressure to blame it on the Russians. The weaker Trump becomes, the less he will be able to resist the war they want to plunge America into.’
– ‘The doctors have to save my dad!’
‘These so-called medical experts can not determine the nature of the poison and even if they could, I’m not sure our American medicine can save him. We need a very special type of medication. We need… The Orb of Covfefe.’
– ‘The… Orb of cowfayfay?’ Barron looked puzzled.
‘The Orb of Covfefe. It is a mysterious Arabic artefact, rumored to have brought Jesus Christ back from the dead. It can cure any ailment, but only of those with a pure heart.’
– ‘You must be kidding!’
Bannon grabbed Barron by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘No Barron, I am not kidding. The Orb is real and we need it to save your dad. I can not trust anyone. Barron, you must go and retrieve the Orb! You must! For America! For your father!’
Barron was silent for a moment.
‘This… Orb of Covfefe… Are you sure it can cure my dad?’
‘Yes Barron, I am 100% sure.’
– ‘Where is it?’
‘In the possession of the Saud family, in Saudi Arabia.’ Bannon pursed his lips. ‘I would’ve arranged for them to bring the Orb directly to us, but our relation is… Complicated. They don’t trust me. No Barron, it must be you. You must personally go to the Saud palace and convince them to give you the Orb.’
Barron breathed deeply. ‘Okay, I’ll go.’
Bannon smiled. ‘Great. You’ll fly in a private jet with as little stops as possible. I’ll have a guy I trust pick you up at 5 in the morning. Tell no one about this, not even your mother.’
When Barron stepped out of the closet, he thought he saw a shadow of a figure disappearing at the end of the corridor. He turned around to tell Bannon. But Bannon had disappeared. The broom closet was empty.