The gaudy clock on the wall struck eleven. Kellyanne Conway sat at her desk, tired, her head in her hands. An open bottle of whiskey, half gone, sat to her left. On her right was an ashtray, with a single, snuffed cigarette butt. She tried to watch Trump, whose campaign she technically “managed”, answer questions to the press about his latest scandal on television. She could barely remember which group he’d offended this time. Maybe it was better that way.
“Listen,” Trump began. “I have the most control, absolutely, and we’re going to make America great again – because the ISIS, you know, they’re the worst, they come over here, they destroy our – our – and the president refuses to say ‘Radical Islamic Terror’, he can’t call it what it is, and…”
Kellyanne tuned out again, picking up the bottle and taking a long swig. They had gone over talking points for as long as she could get him to pay attention, but as soon as he stepped in front of the camera, he forgot everything – if he even remembered in the first place. She wished she expected better. Anymore, as long as Trump didn’t literally shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue, she was happy.
The press asked more questions, and he stumbled through them all – blaming Obama, Bill Clinton, anyone he could but himself. He would be back within the hour for a late-night meeting before going to bed and probably tweeting about “the blacks” or women or something. Kellyanne wondered if she could steal his phone. Probably not – he used it as an alarm, and it was in her contract that he had to be able to tweet anyway. She let her head fall to the desk. She wasn’t sure if she was too drunk or too sober for this, so she guessed she was in about the right spot and screwed the cap onto the bottle.
Finally, at 11:56 p.m, the elevator across the office dinged. Out walked a clearly exhausted Trump, looking down at his shoes. Kellyanne let the elevator close behind him before she went off.
“You blew it again, Donald!” she said. “You blew it!”
“I know,” he muttered. “It was so bad, just the worst. Nobody blows it better than me.”
“Damn right,” she said. “And in the morning, I’m the one who has to get up and turn whatever the hell word vomit you said into something coherent. You think that’s an easy job, Don?”
“Don’t call me Don.”
“Don’t call Mexicans rapists!” she yelled, standing from her chair. “You can’t get elected if only white man-children vote for you!”
Trump leaned down slightly. “Wrong,” he said into an imaginary microphone.
“I’ve worked in polling, Donald. I know the demographi-”
“Wrong.” he interrupted.
Kellyanne balled her fists, squeezing as tight as she could. She let out a deep, long sigh. “You really don’t get it, do you? You honestly think you can still be president at this rate. Your numbers are through the floor, and they’re not ‘rigged’,” she said, seeing Trump open his mouth. “All the polls that mean anything have you behind and getting worse. All of them. People like you less than Hillary! Do you know how hard that is to manage? We’ve been slamming her for like 30 years now!” The room lay quiet for a moment, interrupted only by the occasional sniff. “Now, you don’t pay me enough to do this, but I’m going to anyway. You’re going to sit down, and I am going to explain to you why you are losing, starting from the very beginning, and then maybe, MAYBE, we can come up with a strategy to at least not destroy the Republican Party.”
The gaudy clock on the wall struck midnight. Instantly, Trump’s eyes shot open. “I have to go,” he said.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Kellyanne, honey, you don’t understand-”
“You don’t understand!” she yelled. “You know nothing about the election process-”
“Please!” he said, running to the elevator and mashing the buttons.
Kellyanne grabbed her bottle, wielding it as a club. “I swear to Reagan, I will get this through your thick skull if it’s the last thing I do!”
Trump fell to all fours, sniffing louder and faster, a clearly pained expression dominating his face. “It… may… be,” he managed.
The first thing Kellyanne noticed was his hands. For a second, they seemed remarkably normal-sized. But they continued to grow, and with them his lower, then upper arms. Their muscular tone was quickly covered by gross, yellow-orange hair. His shoulders broadened, making his shirt rip from the top down. It slid off, revealing a set of abs where a potbelly used to be. Finally, his legs completed the transformation, bursting his pants at the seams. He turned toward her with the head of a coyote, drooling and huffing, his eyes wild.
By the time Kellyanne convinced herself this was really happening, the orange monster was already sprinting towards her. She ducked under her desk, but the monster leapt over it effortlessly. He peered down towards her, baring his sharp fangs. With all the strength she could muster, Kellyanne smashed the whiskey bottle across his muzzle, stunning him just long enough that she could get out from under the desk and beyond his reach. Enraged, the monster grabbed the desk and threw it out of the floor-to-ceiling window, shattering the glass.
Kellyanne had an idea. She ran to another, similar window across the room and stood in front of it, daring to stare the monster in his eyes. She stood low, watching him as he charged toward her. Then, with near-perfect timing, she juked to the left, leaving nothing between him and a 30-story fall but a pane of glass. The monster tried to correct his course, sliding across the office floor, but his momentum sent him crashing through the window. However, he slowed down enough to catch himself, leaving him hanging by his claws from the side of Trump Tower. He made desperate swipes at Kellyanne, one of which connected with her leg as she ran away. She collapsed just outside his range, bleeding badly.
Suddenly, two Secret Service officers busted down the fire escape door, guns drawn. Kellyanne, in hysterics, pointed toward the monster pulling himself back into the office. They opened fire as he rushed towards them. Each shot visibly hurt the monster, slowing him, until finally, he collapsed at the officers’ feet. The taller officer ran towards Kellyanne, tending to her as best he could, while the shorter one stared at the lifeless monster, mouth agape. He watched as, gradually, the corpse’s muscles and hair faded away, leaving only the body of Donald J. Trump lying in a pool of blood.
Kellyanne was hustled to the nearest hospital, where she was successfully treated. The news of the attack, including testimony from the officers, spread like wildfire, leaving the country dazed and divided. Those on the far right were eager to blame Hillary, somehow, while others claimed that even Trump being a literal bloodthirsty monster didn’t surprise them, given his treatment of women, minorities, and veterans. Within the hour, the Clinton campaign released an official press statement, having prepared for such an event months prior.
On November 8th, Clinton won 458 electoral votes, Johnson 74, and McMullin took Utah’s 6. Republican speaker Paul Ryan announced that Clinton’s failure to unanimously sweep the Electoral College amounted to a mandate to check Clinton’s power, and that he and the House would work to oppose her at every possible opportunity.