Mum & Dad, Pay A Surprise Visit To The Oval Office ....

 

THE PRESIDENT GETS 

A PROPER BOLLOCKING !!!

Or 

Even Death Couldn't Keep 

His Parents Quiet.

A Savage Supernatural Political Satire 

In Three Acts...

An, Entirely Fictional Encounter?

The Dialogue, Supernatural Events & Opinions of the Deceased are not Historical Testimony.

ACT ONE: THE UNINVITED GUESTS

The White House, Washington, D.C.

11:59 p.m.

There are certain advantages to being President of the United States.

You can summon generals.

You can command armies.

You can telephone kings, prime ministers and billionaires.

You can have the finest chefs in America prepare a hamburger.

You can even have someone carry your umbrella.

But there is one thing that no president, emperor, dictator, billionaire or self-appointed Saviour of civilization has ever managed to achieve.

You cannot choose your parents.

And, more importantly, you cannot always prevent them from turning up when you least expect them.

Especially when they're dead.

Donald Trump was sitting behind the Resolute Desk, surrounded by enough gold to make an Egyptian pharaoh feel inadequately furnished.

On the desk lay a collection of documents awaiting his signature.

He had not read them.

There were photographs of himself.

He had examined those.

There was also a large mirror.

That had received considerably more attention than the documents.

He was contemplating the extraordinary burdens of being Donald Trump when the grandfather clock began to strike midnight.

One.

Two.

Three.

At the sixth stroke, the lights flickered.

At the ninth, the room became bitterly cold.

At the twelfth, the clock stopped.

Donald looked up.

"What the hell? Who's responsible for this? I want somebody fired!"

The enormous double doors swung open.

No security alarm sounded.

No footsteps approached.

Two figures simply appeared.

A tall, stern-looking gentleman in a beautifully tailored dark suit.

Beside him, a woman with carefully arranged hair, a modest but elegant dress, sensible shoes a handbag that looked capable of surviving a nuclear explosion.

Donald froze.

His mouth opened.

For once, nothing came out.

The gentleman spoke first.

"Good evening, Donald."

Donald gripped the desk.

"Dad?"

"Yes."

"Mom?"

"Aye, Donald."

"But you're both dead!"

Mary Anne MacLeod Trump looked at her husband.

"Well, Fred, there's a promising start. 

The boy's finally got something right."

Fred approached the desk.

"Stand up when your mother enters the room."

Donald remained seated.

"I'm the President of the United States!"

Fred leaned forward.

"I'm your father. Get off your backside."

Donald stood.

Mary surveyed the room.

She looked at the curtains.

The Carpets.

The Ornaments.

The Gilded Decorations.

Then she turned to Fred.

"Good Lord, Almighty". 

Has he bought a Palace? 

Or swallowed a Jewellery shop?"

Fred frowned.

"It's the White House, Mary."

" Well, somebody ought to tell him. 

It looks as though Liberace's furniture has had an unfortunate encounter with a gold mine."

Donald recovered sufficiently to speak.

"Everybody loves it. It's beautiful. 

The most beautiful Oval Office ever."

Mary stared at him.

"Donald, if I wanted a guided tour of your ego, 

I'd have brought sandwiches... "

We'd be here for a fortnight."

Fred pulled up a chair.

Mary remained standing.

Donald looked towards the door.

"SECURITY!"

Nothing.

"SECRET SERVICE!"

Silence.

Mary opened her handbag.

"Don't bother, Son. 

We've arranged a little privacy."

"How?"

"Connections."

"Who?"

She looked upwards.

"Someone considerably higher 

up the chain of command than you."

Donald sat down.

Fred crossed his legs.

Mary placed her handbag on the desk.

The sound was surprisingly thunderous.

"Right," she announced.

"We need to talk."

Donald smiled nervously.

"About what?"

Mary leaned forward.

"About what you've done with your life. 

What you've done with the opportunities you were given. 

What you've done with the responsibilities entrusted to you."

She paused.

"What in God's name you think you're doing with the family name."

Donald attempted to interrupt.

Mary raised one finger.

"Not, One, Word!!!"

Fred smiled faintly.

He remembered that finger.

It had silenced dinner parties, unruly children and occasionally himself.

Mary continued.

"We've come to give you,

 what they call in Yorkshire a proper Bollocking."

Donald blinked.

"A what?"

"A BOLLOCKING!"

Fred cleared his throat.

"Mary, we're Scottish and German-American. Why Yorkshire?"

"Because, Fred, the Yorkshire folk have a magnificent talent for telling someone. 

They're behaving like a bloody fool without wasting three hours finding 

a polite way to say it."

She turned back to Donald.

"So tonight, dear, 

we're borrowing the expression."

ACT TWO: THE FAMILY RECKONING

Fred looked directly at his son.

"Donald, what is the purpose of power?"

Donald answered immediately.

"Winning."

Fred shook his head.

"Try again."

"Being successful."

"Again."

"Being respected."

Mary interrupted.

"Now we're getting somewhere. But tell me, Donald, is respect something you demand, purchase, threaten people into giving you, or earn?"

Donald shifted in his chair.

"I've got tremendous respect. Millions of people respect me."

"That wasn't the question."

"Everybody knows..."

"STOP SAYING EVERYBODY!"

The Crystal Chandelier trembled.

Mary continued.

"Every time somebody asks you a question you don't like, you produce an imaginary crowd of people who apparently agree with everything you say."

Donald folded his arms.

"They do agree."

"Then perhaps you should invite them to this conversation, because your father and I would dearly like to meet them."

Fred stood and walked towards the window.

"Donald, I spent much of my life building a business. I understood ambition. I understood competition. I understood money."

Mary looked sharply at him.

"Yes, Fred. 

We shall be discussing some of your shortcomings shortly."

Fred stopped.

"Mine?"

"Don't look so surprised. 

You didn't come down here wearing a halo."

Donald almost smiled.

For the first time that evening, someone else was in trouble.

Mary noticed.

"You wipe that grin off your face, Donald. 

Your turn isn't over."

Fred returned to his chair.

"Your mother has a point."

"Several," replied Mary.

Fred sighed.

"Donald, I taught you to fight for what you wanted. Perhaps I should have spent more time teaching you what was worth fighting for."

Donald looked puzzled.

"What's the difference?"

Mary closed her eyes.

"Oh, Fred. We may need considerably longer than one night."

She opened her handbag and produced a small notebook.

On its cover were three words.

THE FAMILY ACCOUNT.

Donald frowned.

"What's that?"

"An account of the things money cannot buy."

"Like what?"

"Honour. 

Trust. 

Kindness. 

Humility. 

Compassion. 

A clear conscience."

Donald laughed.

"Mom, that's ridiculous."

Mary looked at Fred.

"Did you hear that?"

"I did."

"Well, at least we've established 

where the problem begins."

She opened the notebook.

"Let's discuss the presidency."

Donald sat straighter.

"Finally. I'm doing an incredible job."

Mary raised her hand.

"Donald, what do you believe 

the office exists for?"

"To make America great."

"Who decides what greatness means?"

"The people."

"All the people?"

"Of course."

"Even the ones who disagree with you?"

Donald hesitated.

Mary noticed.

"Even the ones who criticize you? 

The journalists who ask awkward questions? The judges who deliver decisions you dislike? The citizens who march in protest? 

The families who didn't vote for you?"

Donald leaned forward.

"They're very unfair to me."

Mary slammed her notebook shut.

"THERE IT IS!"

Fred jumped.

"What?"

"The great tragedy, of the Trump universe. 

A question about the welfare of millions of human beings somehow becomes a discussion about Donald's feelings."

Donald looked offended.

"I'm treated very badly."

Mary sat back.

"Donald, there are people who have lost their homes, their livelihoods, their children, their countries and their lives. 

There are people who will go to bed hungry tonight. 

There are parents who cannot afford medicine. There are frightened children in places where bombs are falling."

She leaned closer.

"You're sitting here telling your dead mother that the world has been unfair to YOU?"

For several seconds, the room was silent.

Then Fred spoke.

"Son, there is something I wish somebody had told me when I was young."

"What?"

"Success is not the same thing as significance."

Donald frowned.

"That's just words."

"Yes," replied Fred. "Most important things are, until somebody puts them into practice."

Mary reopened her notebook.

"Now, about the family name."

Donald smiled.

"One of the greatest brands in the world."

"BRAND?"

Mary stared at him.

"Fred, did we raise a son or a packet of washing powder?"

Fred looked towards the ceiling.

Mary continued.

"A family name is not a logo, Donald. 

It isn't a trademark.

It isn't something you stick above a doorway in enormous letters and declare valuable."

She tapped the desk.

"It's a responsibility."

Donald shrugged.

"People love the Trump name."

"Some do," replied Mary. 

"Others associate it with things they find deeply troubling. 

Your task is not to pretend those people don't exist. 

Your task is to understand why they feel that way."

"They're haters."

Mary stood.

"Donald, you cannot go through life calling everybody who questions you a hater."

"Why not?"

"Because disagreement is not hatred. 

Criticism is not persecution. 

Accountability is not an assassination attempt on your ego."

Fred nodded.

"Your mother is right."

"Thank you, Fred. 

Make a note of the occasion."

Donald looked from one parent to the other.

So what do you want me to do? 

Apologize to everybody?"

Mary considered the question.

"No, An apology means nothing unless you understand what you're apologizing for."

"Then what?"

"Listen."

Donald stared.

"Listen?"

"Aye. There's a revolutionary idea. 

You have two ears and one mouth. 

Perhaps the Almighty was trying to tell you something about the proper proportions."

Fred chuckled.

Mary pointed at him.

"You can stop laughing. 

You were hardly a champion 

of listening yourself."

Fred's smile disappeared.

ACT THREE: THE FATHER ON TRIAL

Donald suddenly stood.

"Hold on! You're both coming in here telling me what I've done wrong. 

What about you?"

Mary looked at Fred.

"Well, this could be interesting."

Donald pointed at his father.

"You taught me to win! 

You taught me to be tough! 

You told me never to back down!"

Fred remained silent.

"You taught me that the 

 respects strength!"

"Yes," Fred answered.

"So now you're telling me I've got it wrong?"

Fred studied his son for a long moment.

"Perhaps I taught you only half the lesson."

"What does that mean?"

"I taught you how to defeat an opponent. 

I did not teach you how to make peace 

with one."

Donald said nothing.

"I taught you to protect your interests. 

I did not teach you enough about protecting people who had no interests 

to offer you in return."

Mary quietly took her seat.

Fred continued.

"I taught you that losing was something to fear. Perhaps I should have taught you that admitting a mistake can require more courage than winning an argument."

Donald looked away.

"You never said that when I was young."

"No."

"Why?"

Fred took a breath.

"Because I hadn't learned it myself."

The silence that followed was different.

No Shouting.

No Insults.

No Jokes.

For the first time that night, father and son were having a conversation rather than a contest.

Mary watched them.

Then she spoke.

"Donald, I want to tell you something 

about your father."

Fred looked apprehensive.

"Mary..."

"No, Fred. It's time."

She turned to her son.

"Your father knew how to build things. 

He understood Bricks, Mortar, Money, Contracts and Property. 

But there is one thing no businessman can build with those materials."

Donald looked at her.

"What?"

"A Decent Human Being."

Fred lowered his head.

Mary continued.

"That requires patience. Example. Discipline. Compassion. 

Sometimes the courage to tell someone you love that they're behaving disgracefully."

Donald frowned.

"So you're saying I'm a Disgrace?"

Mary held his gaze.

"I'm saying that when people entrust you with power, you have a duty to examine the consequences of your decisions. 

When your conduct causes harm, 

you have a duty to put matters right."

"But I've done so much good!"

"Then let the good stand on its merits. 

You don't need to announce 

it every seven minutes."

Fred almost laughed.

wasn't finished.

"Donald, do you know what worries me most?"

"The Media?"

"No."

"The Democrats?"

"No."

"The Investigations?"

"No."

"Then What?"

"That you might reach the end of your Life. Having spent so much time defending the image of Donald Trump,

That you never discover who 

Donald Trump Actually Is."

He stared at her.

For Once, No Answer Came.

ACT FOUR: THE CULT OF THE NAME

Mary walked towards the fireplace.

"Now, there's another matter."

Donald groaned.

"Another?"

"Aye. Several. 

You'd be surprised how much paperwork accumulates in Eternity."

She turned.

"Your Name has become more than a family name. 

To some, it's a Political identity. 

To others, a Symbol of Grievance. 

To your Supporters, it may Represent Defiance. Prosperity, Patriotism, the Promise of Change. 

To your Fiercest Critic.

It represents something altogether Darker."

Donald interrupted.

"They're wrong!!!"

"Perhaps about some things. 

Perhaps not about Others. 

But dismissing every Criticism before you've examined it is not Leadership. 

It's Vanity."

Fred spoke.

"There's a danger when people become more Loyal to a Person than to the Principles they claim that person represents."

Mary nodded.

"Precisely."

She looked at Donald.

"People have used words like CULT, GRIFT, AUTHORITIANISM, and worse when Criticizing your Political Movement. Others reject those descriptions and see themselves as ordinary Americans seeking Representation."

She paused.

"But whatever labels people throw at one another, 

here's the question you ought to be asking."

Donald folded his arms.

"What question?"

"Are people being encouraged to think for themselves?"

SILENCE.

"Are they free to question You?"

SILENCE.

"Can they disagree with you without being treated as Enemies?"

Donald shifted.

"They are being asked to Examine evidence, or simply to believe whatever the Loudest Person in the room tells them?"

Fred leaned forward.

"Donald, if people cannot Question a Leader, they are no longer being treated as Citizens. They're being treated as Followers."

Mary nodded.

"A President serves Citizens. 

He does not own Followers."

Donald looked irritated.

"I have Tremendous Supporters."

"Then Respect them enough to tell them the truth, even when the Truth is Inconvenient."

Mary returned to the desk.

"Another thing. You don't get to wrap every personal quarrel in the American flag and pretend it's a matter of national survival."

Fred murmured, 

"That was rather well put."

"Thank you, Fred. I'm just Warming up."

ACT FIVE: THE FINAL BOLLOCKING

It was approaching four in the morning.

Outside, Washington slept.

Inside, the President of the United States 

was discovering that being interrogated by Congress, questioned by journalists or challenged by political opponents was comparatively straightforward.

None of them had changed his nappies.

None of them had sent him to bed.

None of them possessed the terrifying authority of a mother who knew precisely when he was talking nonsense.

Mary looked at the clock.

"Time is running out."

Donald looked relieved.

"You're leaving?"

"Eventually."

"Good."

Mary raised an eyebrow.

"Don't sound so Enthusiastic. 

We haven't discussed your manners yet."

Fred laughed.

Donald glared at him.

Mary continued.

"Now, Donald, 

I want you to imagine something."

"What?"

"Imagine that one hundred years from tonight, somebody opens a history book."

Donald smiled.

"There'll be a huge chapter about me."

"Undoubtedly," replied Mary. 

"But what will it say?"

"That I was a great President."

"That isn't something you get to write yourself."

"Why not?"

"Because history,

 is not your publicity department."

Fred smiled.

Mary continued.

"Imagine children reading about your years in office. Imagine them examining the decisions, the speeches, the controversies, 

the consequences. 

Imagine them asking whether the Country became more secure, more prosperous, 

more just, more United."

Donald opened his mouth.

Mary held up her hand.

"No Slogans."

He closed it.

"No Boasting."

He looked away.

"No blaming everybody else."

He sighed.

"No pretending that Criticism 

is proof of Greatness."

Fred folded his arms.

Mary stepped closer.

"Just the record. The whole Record. 

The Good, the Bad and Everything In Between."

Donald stared at the desk.

"What if I don't like what they write?"

Mary's expression softened.

"Then give them better things to write about."

For a moment, she looked less like a Supernatural prosecutor and more like 

a Mother speaking to her Son.

"You still have choices, Donald. 

Every day brings choices. 

You can listen instead of shouting. You can correct a mistake instead of defending it. You can treat an opponent as a human being instead of an enemy. 

You can remember that power is temporary."

She paused.

"That the consequences of power can last Generations."

Fred stood.

"We should go, Mary."

"Not quite."

She opened her handbag again.

Donald recoiled.

"What now?"

Mary produced a single sheet of paper.

She placed it on the Resolute Desk.

Across the top were the words:

THE TRUMP FAMILY'S FINAL INSTRUCTIONS

Donald picked it up.

There were no instructions.

Only three questions.

1. What have you done for people who can do absolutely nothing for you?

2. When did you last admit, without excuses, that you were wrong?

3. If every building bearing your name disappeared tomorrow, what would remain of your legacy?

Donald stared at the paper.

"That's it?"

Mary nodded.

"That's it."

"Three questions?"

"Three questions."

"What, am I supposed to do with them?"

"Answer them."

"To whom?"

Mary smiled.

"Yourself."

Fred approached his Son.

For a moment, Donald looked as though he expected a handshake.

Instead, Fred placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Son, I taught you that winning was everything."

Donald looked up.

"I know."

Fred's voice was quiet.

"I was wrong."

Donald stared at him.

His father had just spoken three words he had rarely expected to hear.

Mary watched.

Then she opened her handbag one final time.

"Oh, and Donald?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"If you ever find yourself thinking that the entire World is wrong and only you are right..."

She paused.

"...there's a reasonable chance 

you ought to reconsider."

The room began to grow cold again.

The grandfather clock started ticking.

Fred took Mary's arm.

Donald rose.

"Wait!"

They stopped.

"Will I see you again?"

Mary looked at him.

"Eventually, Dear. 

Everybody has to come home sometime."

"What happens then?"

Fred smiled.

"That depends on what you do with the time you've got left."

The lights flickered.

The two figures began to fade.

Donald called after them.

"Mom! Dad!"

Mary's voice echoed 

from somewhere beyond the room.

"HEY DONALD!"

"WHAT?"

"FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, 

LEARN TO SAY SORRY!"

They vanished.

The clock struck five.

Donald was alone.

On his desk lay the three questions.

He stared at them for a long time.

Then he reached for his telephone.

His finger hovered over the screen.

He looked again at the paper.

For perhaps the strangest moment of his political life, he wondered whether there was anyone he ought to call simply to listen.

Outside, the first light of dawn touched the White House.

Inside, the President sat silently.

Nobody knew what he would do next.

Not even his parents.

Somewhere beyond the reach of earthly microphones, 

Mary Anne MacLeod Trump 

turned to her husband.

"Well, Fred?"

"Yes, Mary?"

"Do you think any of it went in?"

Fred considered the question.

"Hard to say."

Mary sighed.

"Then I'd better keep the Handbag handy."

"It still looks like a Whores Boudoir !!! "

THE END

Or perhaps, depending upon Donald's next decision, merely the beginning.