A Tale of Changing Passions

Typical of lechers who have outgrown their corporal lusts, Donald Trump remembers only dimly what he did during his Jeffrey Epstein days. And yet the idea of releasing what the country was calling the Epstein files made him deeply uneasy. 

Donald and Jeff had been fellow bon vivants. They hadn’t known each other well, but when together, they grokked, rocked, and broke wind like you wouldn’t believe. When it came to bouncing off walls, loving life, and soaking up expensive good times there was no better sidekick. Because Jeff was a sidekick. He wasn’t as good looking, rich, or smart as Donald nor did he seem to mind. Donald pretended to play the rival game with him, but he knew who the real big shot was and who was just glitz. 

One thing Donald had to hand him. Jeff always had girls. Real nice ones. Young. Fresh. Polite. Obedient. And comely. Very comely. Altogether high-class, good-looking chicks. Why they were all over Jeff, Donald couldn’t figure out. After all, Donald was taller, bawdier, bolder, a better performer, altogether more impressive. But Jeff was generous and a good host. He always made sure you had a girl if you wanted one and had the girl you wanted. He was amazing that way. Pretty big-hearted. 

How that pipsqueak ended up with the biggest private residence in Manhattan Donald didn’t know. Nice islands in the Caribbean, too. Little Saint James for Peewee Epstein, Great Saint James Trump associated with himself. The islands depicted perfectly the relationship between them, of unequals pretending to be equals, a major and a minor island that happened to be floating in the same sea sort of close to each other. Trump could’ve snarfed those islands from Jeff at any time, he just didn’t want them. He could have scarfed anything off Jeff except those girls. For that, Trump had to go to Jeff. And he did. He just didn’t remember how often.

Hadn’t Jeff whispered to him names of men of prominence, snickering that they did not make for pretty viewing?

Now it turns out this Jeff guy left 300 gigabytes — Trump didn’t know what a gigabyte was, but he knew it was big¹ — 300 gigabytes of material related to the investigation into this deceased pedophile’s² activities and network.

Now, Trump couldn’t care less about Jeff’s emails. Trump didn’t email people. But the wimp had recordings? voice recordings? videos? That wouldn’t be too great. Yes, he and Jeff had grokked in a way, which is exactly why learning about the recordings made Trump feel pretty uneasy. Hadn’t Jeff whispered to him names of men of prominence, snickering that they did not make for pretty viewing? Donald had thought that hilarious and whispered back that he could give Jeffrey a prime time show. Jeffrey had doubled up in laughter over that, which had puzzled Donald at the time. It hadn’t been that funny. It was definitely not funny now. Certainly not since news had emerged that fuzzy chest had had cameras mounted in his Manhattan townhouse, too. Not quite so funny now.

He had never done anything wrong, Trump knew that. He didn’t remember quite what he had done or how many gestures of Jeff’s hospitality he had accepted, but he had definitely never done anything anyone else wouldn’t have done. But he also definitely did not know how old any of those girls had been, which is what everyone seemed to be upset about. It’s not something you ask when a girl is offered to you. It would be impolite, acting suspicious of merchandise that looks perfectly good. And it had always looked perfectly good. Besides, the girls were willing, polite, flattered. Heck, being alone with him for 10 minutes was the chance of her lifetime. They fought each other to be the one he picked, just the way Melania had duked it out with that other very pretty candidate at the time. That had been fun to watch. Mud wrestling without the mud. But Jeff’s girls, that was different. No hint of commitment had ever been squeaked. There were no worries there. It’s just that . . . how old had they been? Young, Trump knew. Pretty young. And people seemed mad about that now.

Particularly tricky was that his own fans wanted him to release that stuff. Well, of course they did. He had been ginning them up for years about the Epstein files. Except now it was time to quit. It had been a great campaign ploy. And he had won. Which meant he now had possession and jurisdiction over the material. Unfortunately, after a sweaty, tedious, frantic copulation — no no no —compilation of the files, his adoring attorney general had informed him that he was in there multiple times. Multiple times. 

So what might be in there about him? He and Jeff hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Although Trump had his Mar-a-Lago paradise, he had gone to great lengths to undercut Jeff’s chance to buy property not so far away. Jeff had really wanted that property, and Donald had managed to sneak it away from him. At the time, beating Jeff out had felt really good. But what would old Jeff have to say about him after that seeing as he apparently kept files on people? He had seemed friendly afterwards, as if unaware he had been quashed once again by his superior in all sports — except girls. But why had he been friendly after that? Was he that dumb? No. It had been to get Donald into some sort of something or other that might make the prime time viewing Donald had boasted about. Trump couldn’t recall if maybe Jeff had succeeded in that endeavor, but certainly didn’t want anyone poking around to find out. 

And while Donald was sure he had done nothing wrong — although he really didn’t know how old any of those girls had been — what would keep Jeff from making stuff up? Add a few fake underage girls in there with him in files filled otherwise with true nasty stuff about, say, Bill Clinton? The predicament floored Trump. All accusations against him up until now had been spot on, and he knew how to fight those. Never before had he been required to defend himself against false accusations. How was he supposed to do that? He had already said something about Bill Clinton being to Jeff’s little island 28 times, but how would Donald know that . . . unless he had been there at least 28 times? Yikes. 

Donald couldn’t have made it clearer that he knew exactly what Jeff had all those girls for and that he approved. If anything nailed his coffin tight shut that would.

Then there was that really stupid birthday card he had sent Jeff’s girlfriend for that imbecilic book idea she had been peddling for Jeff’s 50th. Whatever innocuous birthday greetings she received she surely threw out, because that had not been the purpose of her sneaky project. What she had been fishing for was exactly what he had sent her. And sure enough, it had gotten unearthed and, once published, sounded pretty bad. In his birthday message, Donald couldn’t have made it clearer that he knew exactly what Jeff had all those girls for and that he approved. If anything nailed his coffin tight shut that would. But a little fancy footwork of his own had caused his snide message to evaporate. Most cleverly, he had “allowed” Jeff’s sidekick girlfriend to testify in secret³ to one of Trump’s sidekicks, which had caused a welcome uproar. Then he had her sent to a B&B in Texas for telling so much truth. No one had talked about birthday cards after that. Good work on his part. 

So how to settle down his fond fanatics, who were demanding he release all files on Jeffrey Epstein? He had promised to if elected, but once elected he had explained to them very nicely that there was nothing in there. That had made them go wild. He hadn’t been expecting that. He still didn’t know what vile Jeff had put in those files about him, because he had forbidden his people to do anything more than locate his name. What was pretty clear, though, was that the guy had resented being number two after all and just maybe hated his guts for tricking him out of that property. And now something had to be thought up pretty quick before anyone found out whatever was in there about him. But Donald knew what to do. He was going to treat all Epstein’s lies about him the same way he handled the thousands of accurate accusations simmering against him: carpet-bomb. As president, his reach for lobbing incendiaries had been vastly extended, and he had so many targets. Ever fast on his feet, Donald’s opening gambit included:

• Invade Los Angeles.
• Redistrict Texas.
• Invade Washington D.C.
• Arrest and handcuff James Comey on live TV for election hoax.⁴
• Arrest and handcuff John Brennan on live TV for election hoax.
• Charge James Clapper with election hoax (no arrest on live TV necessary).
• Invade Chicago.
• Televise a three-hour cabinet meeting — transparency like never before!
• Order a military flyover to coincide with a press conference of Epstein survivors.
• Wipe out a boat of 11 Argentinian drug devils in the Caribbean.
• Change the name Department of Defense to Department of Lethality.⁵

The country flared red-hot under his attack, and Donald was only just warming up. No one would be thinking of Epstein anymore. An additional incidental question he wanted to make sure no one had the leisure to ask about was all that gold in the Oval Office. It was accumulating rather conspicuously. He liked it, found he wanted more and more and more, and found he couldn’t stop himself from getting more, although he was increasingly aware that someone might ask where it was coming from and who was paying for it. He was also quite aware that some upstart socialist might start wondering how much of it was finding its way to Mar-a-Lago. 

One thing Trump would not abide and had full power to prevent was any interference with lusts he had not yet outgrown.

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1. Stormy Daniels, he seemed to remember, had a couple of gigabytes. ↩︎
2. Trump figured he could call him a pedophile now that he was dead. It made it sound like he had never liked him. ↩︎
3. Not that secret since the whole country had known about it, and was supposed to. ↩︎
4. These and the two following apprehensions have yet to be realized. Drat! ↩︎
5. For some reason, this got nixed. The new name ended up being stodgy old Department of War. ↩︎