Trump and Putin descended the Grand Staircase, preceded by a phalanx of flag-bearing Marines.  The crowd, including Bernwood [our hero; a hapless presidential ghostwriter], clapped enthusiastically at the president’s arrival as “The President’s Own” U.S. Marine Band segued from “America the Beautiful” into a brass rendition of Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”

Bernwood skipped the receiving line and went straight to the State Dining Room to get a good seat. Someplace close to the buffet.

Not only wasn’t there a buffet, but it turned out he hadn’t needed to rush: The seating was assigned, and Emma [The Apprentice, a position formerly known as “Chief of Staff”] had put Bernwood at the head of state table right next to Trump.

After a half hour, Trump finally arrived and took the seat next to Bernwood. “If you’re going to puke tonight, do it on the press.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bernwood said.

The empty chair on the other side of Trump was reserved for Putin, who was hanging out at the cash bar. Bernwood had been back and forth to the bar a couple of times already himself. He had a decent buzz going.

“Have you been to one of these things before?” Trump asked Bernwood.

“Politics isn’t my usual beat,” he said. “But I’ve had dinner before.”

“You’re going to love it. You’re going to have an amazing, amazing time. Do you know Vlad?”

Bernwood shook his head. Was it wrong that when Trump called him “Vlad,” all he could do was think of Vlad the Impaler?

“He’s a riot,” Trump said. “We were out hunting today. What a great time that was.”

Bernwood had seen the president’s schedule, and hadn’t seen any time blocked out for hunting today. Trump’s schedule with the visiting Russian president looked a lot like your average tourist’s day in town. A bunch of the usual sites—the Lincoln Memorial, the National Zoo, a Washington Nationals baseball game. But when you’re the president, you can deviate from your schedule when the whim strikes you. Head out of town and shoot some deer? Why not! Bernwood was sure it had made a great photo op nonetheless. Trump, a big proponent of the Second Amendment, and Putin, an avid outdoorsman, marching through the Virginia woods.

“Will the First Lady be joining us tonight?” Bernwood asked.

Trump snorted. “She hates Vlad. Thinks he’s a bad influence on me. Every time we get together, I end up stumbling home at four in the morning smelling like Strawberry and Cinnamon. And I’m not talking about scents. I’m talking about dancers. Those are their names: Strawberry and Cinnamon.”

“I get it,” Bernwood said.

“Good. You’re a good guy. You got a weak stomach, but you’re a good guy.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Please—call me Trump. There’ve been how many presidents? Forty? Fifty? There’s only one Trump.”

Unless you counted his wives, or his parents, or his children. But Bernwood had a feeling Trump didn’t count them.

“We have to schedule a time to talk,” Trump continued. “You’ve got to see the Oval Office. You know that it’s really an oval?”

“I didn’t know that,” Bernwood said, scanning the dining room. Over a hundred guests were seated and chatting, waiting on the arrival of the Russian president. He was already starting to sweat under the opulent chandeliers, which cast so much light that it felt like Bernwood was in a tanning bed. Perhaps that was how Trump kept his luxurious glow intact. Did the Donald tan? Up close, Bernwood couldn’t see any goggle spots around the man’s bronzed eyes. Another, more distressing, possibility was that Trump’s orange skin tone was a form of jaundice, caused by malnutrition or some rare disease. Bernwood tried not to stare, but, as Yoda said, There is no try. Only do.

“Where are you staying?” Trump asked.

“Hmmmm?” Bernwood said, absentmindedly.

“Which one of my hotels did Emma put you up in?”

“I found a place on my own. You know the Crown Royal Plaza?”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Trump said. “I’ll talk to Emma. We’ll set you up in one of my properties.”

Bernwood chose his words carefully. “If there happens to be an advertised vacancy at a Trump building, or course, I’ll jump on it. I don’t want any special treatment.”

“A vacant unit in a Trump building is about as a rare Kate Winslet movie where we don’t see her honkers,” Trump said. “But I see your point. You’re a man who likes to do things on his own. You don’t like to be dependent on others. I can respect that. Can I give you some advice, though?”

Bernwood nodded.

“Until you can move out of the shithole where you’re living, stay away from Clinton Plaza. It’s a dangerous place. A dangerous, dangerous place. All sorts of degenerates there. I’m not just talking about the homeless or the marijuana addicts, either. There are dangerous people, with dangerous ideas.”

Bernwood sipped his water. Suddenly, his throat had gone very dry.

Trump leaned closer. “You understand what I’m saying?”

Before Bernwood could respond to what sounded an awful lot like a veiled threat, Vladimir Putin slapped Trump hard on the back.

Trump swung around, fists at the ready to defend himself. When he saw who it was, though, he jumped up to greet his buddy.

Putin put Trump in a playful headlock, and the American president threw up his arms in mock protest. The Secret Service agent with the shaved head—the one Bernwood had met the day before under very different circumstances—stood back a few feet, watching the public display of affection. Step aside, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan—there was a new bromance in town.