SCENE: Mar-a-Lago. President Donald Trump says goodnight to his last paying guest and begins his journey through the heavily-protected facility toward his suite. An agent in the hall says, Goodnight Mr. President

Trump stops, turns toward the man, and sucks air through his teeth. 

James. It’s James, isn’t it? 

The agent nods and smiles. 

James, when you’re sitting at the top of the world, every night’s a good night. 

Agent James laughs. Yes sir, Mr. President. 

But it’s a tough job, James. A tough job. 

Trump pats the man on the shoulder. Goodnight. 

Donald Trump reaches his room where two agents open the double doors, then close them behind him. 

Trump stands a few feet inside the door and reaches around behind his neck with a grimace. He then loosens his tie and yanks it downward as his entire suit falls away—leaving him in the red-walled foyer of the giant suite standing in his underwear, socks, and shoes. 

He makes his way through the hall. He tosses his suit over a couch and kicks off his shoes and socks as he heads toward the bath, which has already been drawn. There are bubbles. He places his phone on the side of the tub, removes his boxers, then claps his hands and says, Play BJ Thomas. A moment later the opening notes of Hooked on a Feeling begin playing. Trump slides into the water and closes his eyes. 

And sleeps. 

For twenty minutes. 

His phone wakes him. It was a Red Alert. 

Trump wipes the drool from his chin, rubs his eyes, and focuses on the phone’s screen. 


What is this, some kind of joke? Trump says aloud in the empty room.

NO the screen read.

Trump puts the phone down and grabs a towel. LAMAR! he shouts. LAMAR! he shouts louder. 

He dons a gold boxer’s robe with POTUS embroidered across the back, shuffles into gold velvet slippers, and bursts into his bedroom LAMAR!! 

He moves through the bedroom tightening the robe’s belt, opens the door to the living room and gasps. 

Through the doorway is the edge of a cliff. The literal edge of a fucking cliff where pebbles, falling from the front of his slippers, tumble into a churning ocean marked with jagged rocks far below. Stretched out in front of him for 180 degrees is an open expanse of sky. Directly across from him a man sits cross-legged on an oval stone. Just floating there. The man is faced away from Trump. 

I gave Lamar the night off, the stranger says as Trump stands in the doorway of his bedroom. Jaw agape. Eyes bulging. 

The man on the stone turns. It’s Eric Stoltz as Lance in Pulp Fiction. Stoltz smiles. 

Trump shakes his head and starts to close the door. 

Yeah, no. Stoltz says raising his hand. That won’t work. We need to talk, Donald. 

The door won’t close. 

Who are you? What is this? … What do you want? 

Stoltz smiles again. I am God, Donald. This is a meeting. I just want your attention. But only for a few minutes. You’ll be back to your world soon enough.

Stoltz reaches behind him and throws six stones—Trump flinches—each stopping two feet from the other until they reached the President. 

Just relax and come on over, Donald. I assure you, it’s safe. 

I’m not going out there, Trump demands. You’re not God. You’re that actor. And this is some kind of prank. 

Stoltz grows frustrated. I don’t have all night, Donald. This is real. And this is happening. But I need you to come over here. 

Trump stands in stunned disbelief. I am … the President! 

AND I AM a voice booms as the skies darken and crackle with lightning. Stoltz smiles and cocks his head. Take that first step, Donald, he says. Have a little faith. 

Trump grabs both sides of the doorway and stretches his velvet-clad left foot out toward the first floating stone. It’s firm. He shifts his entire weight onto it and steps toward the second stone. 

Then he looks down. Jesus, he says. 

Stoltz lets out a little laugh. Then he snaps his fingers, Chop-chop, Donald. 

Trump makes it over to the larger stone which, surprisingly, has ample room for both men. 

Stoltz smiles contentedly, So here we are. 

Trump, still in a state of shock, says nothing. 

That’s not like you, Donald—nothing to say. Here, sit. Stoltz sits. He pats the top of the smooth, gray stone. Sit, Donald. 

Trump sits. 

Good boy. Now I am sure you’re thinking this is some kind of dream or whatnot, right? That this can’t be real. Stoltz then reaches out and gently touches the side of Donald Trump’s face with the back of his fingers. Except, it is real. He smiles again with the kind eyes of a friend. And I know you’re wondering why I brought you here. Out onto this rock. Or why I showed up in the first place. 

But you’re … that actor, Trump manages to utter. 

No, I’m God. I just took on this form for you to see Me. I’m not actually 1994 Eric Stoltz.

But …

Oh for My sake, Donald, fine. God then turns into a dog. Is this better? 

Trump finches. Eyes bulging. 

Or maybe, the scruffy dog says as God morphs into Tupac, this?

Trump flinches again 

You see, Donald, 

Betty White

it doesn’t matter what form I take

Frank Sinatra

that’s not the point of this thing. 

Donald Trump

Trump jumps back along the stone. His mouth open. 


Don’t you dare even say it. Trump says to Trump. 

God turns back into Stoltz. 

Let’s just keep it at this. I have to assume some form, you see. Your brain can’t handle the totality of Me. But that’s ok, none of your brains can. Not even one so impressive as yours. Stoltz lets out a little laugh. 

What do you … 

What do I want from you. Right. Stoltz smiles and takes a deep breath. How to put it. Ok, it’s like this, I want you to change. And I don’t mean into another business onesie. I mean change your heart. I need you to start caring about people more. To care less about money and the art of the deal, as you call it. To give a damn about normal people who aren’t celebrities. Or millionaires. Or just white. 

Wha … why me? 

You’re in a powerful position. And that’s no coincidence—trust me. But you’ve done enough harm to the greatest democracy in the history of the planet that you’re actually the perfect person to change. To show them the power of Me. 

But … I don’t … 

It’s ok, you’ll know how. In fact, I’m going to ensure that you never ever forget about this meeting. And that if you do, well, let’s just say you don’t want to piss Me off. Ever read the old testament, Donald? 

I … 

Of course you haven’t—even though you say you have. I know everything, Donald. There’s no getting anything past me. You can’t lie your way out of this. And that’s another thing, you’re going to need to become honest. As honest as ol’ Abe—who I actually liked very much and who consoled with Me regularly. You, Donald, you not so much. 

Stoltz stands, But that’s all about to change. You’re going to come to know Me. To love Me. To convey the essence within Me—that is also within you. You’ve just buried it too deep. You are going to become good, Donald. A model human. A beacon of light for oppressed people everywhere. You will put aside your free will to do Mine. 

Trump, still sitting, looks up at Stoltz who is framed by a magnificent light. 

Now rise, Donald. 

President Trump stands. 

My son, you have another chance, Stoltz says gently holding the sides of Trump’s face and staring deep into the President’s eyes. Now go. 

Trump begins to walk back toward his bedroom along the floating rocks. He reaches the door, and with a bewildered look, turns back. 

Take your place in the world as a light in darkness for the weary, cold, and lost, Donald. Stoltz says. This is your destiny. 

Then the edge of the world disappears and is replaced by his gaudy living room where his business onesie is draped over the back of a red couch. 

Trump looks up, then around him. He closes the door and opens it again. Living room. 

He goes back into his bathroom, reaches his phone, and composes a tweet –  

The Democrats have hired Hollywood to do their dirty work for them! Sad they had to use washed up actor Eric Shultz! Also someone may have drugged my food. Lamar!! 

The moment the tweet is sent a massive fireball strikes Palm Beach, Florida, instantly incinerating 85,000 people—including everyone at Mar-a-Lago. 



Oscars 2019

Jim Mitchem

Writer. Father to daughters. Husband. Ad man. Raised by wolves. @jmitchem on twitter. First novel, Minor King, out now.