The lunatic has risen from his disturbed sleep, plagued with reoccurring nightmares of indictment: mime golfing in a concrete prison ground, skin sallow, hair glue dissolving, prison food, (a single scoop at best), phone confiscated, they even took his loooong red tie… why?
He wipes the crusty sleep from his swollen eyes, prying them open with his stubby fingers, as he feels around for his glasses and hair, inadvertently knocking his 2 liter bottle of adderall to the floor… “WHO PUT THAT THERE?!”
Although he is incapable of articulating his thoughts, he sits back against the mound of pillows, encased in 1,000,000 thread Saudi cotton, and asks himself why he did it.
He is unable to pushback against feelings of despair rising in his soul, with the understanding his criminal endeavors would never have been scrutinized to this extent had he not run for precedent, (president). A threatening letter sent by his attorney, (the rat), would have made any threat disappear in the… good old days.
Moisture on his cheeks! Is he bleeding? No, it’s some strange salty clear liquid.
His thoughts resume: stupid, stupid, stupid. But Putin would never have allowed him to lose.
Now he awaits his daily instructions. They come through back channels set up by his disappointing son in-law.
His mind wanders to Ivanka, and his sadness intensifies.
He turns on “Fox and Friends” as he presses the call button next to his bed, shouting: “bring me my phone and a hamberder.”
A lot from Lydia 