Off the Record: Scenes From Trump Headquarters

The morning of July 19th, 2015

The Donald, in sullen isolation in the west wing of Trump Headquarters. His two closest confidants approach, poll numbers in hand.  Let's call them Barnaby and Miller. 

Barnaby clears his throat gingerly.  "Good to see you up, sir." 

Trump, "I went too far this time, Barnaby. John McCain? What the hell was I thinking?" 

Barnaby shares a look with Miller, "Actually..."

Trump tilts his head curiously. Barnaby hands over a packet of poll numbers.  

Miller, all stern seriousness, "It turns out they don't care, sir." 

Trump looks at the packets with deep suspicion.  "What do you mean they don't care?" 

Barnaby, "I mean they really, really don't care."

Trump, "Like when I say that I don't care when you make fun of my hair but I think about it for the next 20 minutes? You mean like that?"

Barnaby, "I mean that as long as you don't call Jesus Christ a spawn of Satan or start speaking in Arabic, you can pretty much just say whatever the hell you want." 

Trump blinks. 

Miller, "The numbers show that you won't even really have to turn down the misogynism."

Trump, "Really?" 

He takes it in, sips from a half-drunk bottle of Trump Vodka.  He continues tentatively.  "Can I...can I keep making fun of Lindsey Graham?"

Barnaby, "Fuck yes you can make fun of Lindsey Graham.  You can make fun of Lindsey Graham on Twitter until he cries on national TV if you're up for it."

Trump cracks a smile, disbelieving.  

Miller, "That would actually be pretty good for your poll numbers." 

Barnaby continues, "Just never, ever, and I mean ever apologize for anything under any circumstances.  That's rule number one.  Are we clear on rule number one?"

Trump takes it in, turns to his seasoned and veteran poll guy, Miller.  "You agree?" 

Miller takes a step forward, grim and serious.  "Sir, you could call a crippled kid an asshole and you shouldn't apologize for it.  That would totally kill your campaign."

Barnaby, "Don't do that, though.  Or if you do, make sure you say disabled." 

Miller shakes his head.  "No, stick with 'crippled' or they'll rip you for being politically correct."  

Barnaby concedes with a nod.  

Trump takes a breath, sets the bottle of vodka down on the floor, stands up gingerly.  "But...how in the hell could I get away with that?"

Miller, "Well, sir, our polls suggest that most of your base would just take your word that the crippled kid was being an asshole."

Trump nods, incredulous.  He slowly approaches, looks sternly into Barnaby's eyes.  He lowers his voice, "Are you telling me to go 100% Trump?"

Barnaby controls a grin.  "I believe I am, sir." 

Trump turns to Miller.  "And you?"

Miller, "The people might just be ready." 

Trump nods solemnly, stands up straight, returning to form.  

"I need a big cup of coffee, black, and two new untraceable Twitter accounts.  And someone get me an '80s playlist, possibly the soundtrack to Mannequin." 

Barnaby, "Mannequin 1 or the sequel, sir?"

Trump shoots Barnaby a disappointed glare.  "Don't be thick, Barnaby."

"Right away, sir."