The Trump Chronicles

The Donald stepped out of the doorway of his golden elevator into the corridor that lead to his palatial penthouse apartment. At the door were four of his man-servants, Lucky he called them, they were called Lucky he explained because they were “lucky to work for the most successful man in America”.

Which was a great honour for the Luckys but was also highly confusing, given that the Donald called all 53 of his staff Lucky and never bothered to differentiate between them partly because he didn’t have time and partly because they were all hispanic and he genuinely struggled to differentiate between them.

The Donald walked past a large gold statute of himself in a buddha pose into the main lobby of Trump-Saille, as he called his apartment. Named after the French palace Versaille, though “Way less gay” as he would tell guests.

Several more Luckys approached offering The Donald various beverages, but he ignored them, or in the case of one unfortunate Lucky who happened to present a goblet of pomegranate juice, the glass and the tray was slapped to the ground.

“You idiot” Trump yelled, "Look what you did." And kicked the Lucky as he bent down to retrieve the goblet. “Where the fuck do I have to go to get some decent help? China? Do I have to go to China?”

Stalking through, Donald walked into his bedroom. There was a large portrait of himself on each wall, above the bed Donald as Alexander the Great, on the Western Wall above a 10 meter by 10 meter television, was a portrait of Donald as all four of the heads Mount Rushmore. Trump briefly glanced around, ensuring none of the Luckys was cleaning his bedroom and approached a bust of himself as Roman emperor Nero. Trump had chosen emperor Nero because “He got things done” and “he liked classical music too”.

But now was no time for history lessons, he was about to leave for the Republican debate and he needed some relief. There was now talk that the debate could dislodge as the Republic front runner but the Donald knew deep in his heart that no one could replace him. He was unique. Original.

The one and the only Trump.

Donald reached behind the bust and pushed a small button, immediately a panel behind the bust opened and Donald stepped through. He walked through a narrow corridor into his “Trump relaxation room”.

The room was large as most New York apartments, the room had padding on the ground, and benches on the side. And there it was, standing in the center.

The Donald stood still for a moment admiring it. Ivana had hated it and in revenge for him having it created it she had pressured him to have what one newspaper headline had described as “very painful and ultimately unsuccessful scalp surgery” when he began losing his hair. That’s totally true. But Donald didn’t regret a thing. Some men have blow up dolls but such a tacky, common thing was never going to be enough for a man like the Donald.

Before him stood a custom made pleasure robot that he’d secretly constructed in Germany. And Donald Trump's robot was a perfect replica of Donald Trump.

“You handsome bastard...” said Trump as he approached the pleasure bot and kissed it roughly on the lips and the Trumpinator as he called it, kissed him just a roughly back.

“Yeah, you like it rough don’t you.” both Trump and the Trumpinator said in perfect sync with one another. Their tongues locked and engaged in a titantic battle over the fallow ground of the two Trumps lips. The Trumpinator’s lips were primarily silicon, and after years of plastic surgery the Donald’s weren’t that different.

Pulling away the Donald said to the Trumpinator “Initiate process four”. The supercomputer inside the Trumpinator whirred into action, while the Donald’s personality had been imprinted onto the super computer that had been developed in Silicon Valley. When blended with the cyborg components of the pleasure robot it was surprisingly adaptable and had a number of unique features. It could of course, give blow jobs, and given it was modelled on Donald Trump, it could blow hard, harder than virtually anyone else. It also had a variety of other useful functions, such as hair dryer, radio, bar fridge, and drink holder. It did not do anal, of course, the Donald would never inflict something that demeaning on the Trumpinator. But process four was something special. It had taken the Germans months to program and build the feature in, but the Donald had been insistent.

The Trumpinator bent it’s knees and bowed before the Donald, and the Donald began undoing his fly. As his pants fell around his knees the full glory of process four began.

The beautifully, full, hair, on top of the Trumpinator began moving and shifting, rotating, like the blade of a softened electronic razor. The Donald began thrusting hard into the mass of chemically softened folicles, they had been carefully designed based on Donald bouffant has it had been in the 1970s, the hair wrapped itself around his hardened phallus, it was like an octopus consuming a shrimp. Donald came extremely quickly as he almost always did.

Ivanka had once likened Donald’s love making to a wall street transaction, virtually instantaneuous. The Donald said, “Initiate cleaning and donation” and a small plastic jar emerged from the side the Trumpinator’s head and the hair was drained directly into the jar. The sample would be sent directly to a sperm bank in India, as a form of charitable donation. The Donald knew it was generous, but his accountant assured him that it was a great deductible.

Trump zipped up his fly, “See you later, beautiful, I gotta run”.

“Wait one moment”. The Donald looked at the Trumpinator strangely, it was the first time the pleasure bot had responded without being prompted.

“Stop being weird, or I’ll have you sent back to the lab, and you know what those Germans are like!” the Donald yelled.

The Trumpinator stepped forward, opened it’s eyes wide and said “I love you” the Donald’s face softened, “Get in line!” and he laughed loudly.

The Trumpinator stepped forward and punched the Donald hard in the face. The Donald flew back into one of the back walls of the pleasure room and crumpled into a heap on the ground.

Walking over to the prone Donald, the pleasure bot leaned down and said “You’re fired”

... As it walked from the room the Trumpinator checked his hair in the mirror, sure someone had just ejaculated into it, but strangely it looked a little better than usual. As the Trumpinator sat in the helicopter on the way to the Republican debate, it looked over New York and muttered to itself… “Soon, you will all be fired.”...