Narendra sighed as he stepped off the plane, grimacing at the unclean American air, booming with sin and chemicals.

He dreaded his trips to the 'great' nation. Nothing great about the US of A.

Nonetheless, Narendra was a man of honour, truth and dedication.

Trekking the short distance to the awaiting car, Modi found himself wondering how this fellow Trump would behave.

He desperately hoped they'd get along better than he had with the previous bore, mister Obama. (No disrespect).

As Narendra passed the various landmarks, he found himself day-dreaming.

He would later blame this discretion for failing to realise the car had stopped. Stopped and — what was that sudden rush of cold air?

"GIMME YOUR MONEHHHHH," Came the gruff command from outside the driver's door.

"Listen here, buddy, we don't have ANY MONEHHHHHHHHH. Do you know who I'm escorting?! WE'VE just stepped o-" But the man could continue not, for his once marvellous head had been blown OFF.

With what Modi presumed to be... a firearm! A GUN! HIS DRIVER??

Oh dear...

That could mean only one thing...

Modi was next.

And just as this thought passed through his shock-driven, frightened mind, Narendra Modi heard two more shots ring from his left and then his right.

His two bodyguards had been gunned down.

"Right. Sight tight, grandpa. I dunno who ya' are but from this Joe's," He gestured towards the slain driver, "Attitude, I take it you're somebody important... Could make me a pretty penny," The man winked, before setting off in search of loot in the deceased's pockets.

Modi knew this was his only chance, his only chance of an opening... hIs only chance at survival.

He hastily made his way to the door, disregarding the mangled body sitting/sat in his way.

No one, no thing, not a woman, man, nor child, not to mention mugger, would stand in Modi's way of survival! Such a shame about the driver, though, he was a lovely chap. Easy on the eyes, too, but a little too pale for Modi's liking. He liked 'em with fake tan as dark as blood oranges.

In such a state of panic, Modi failed to register the solid form he'd managed to run into.

"Oh. I... I apologise,"

"Not a problem, my dear stranger. I believe I'm the man you've been looking for," the strange thing, Modi now knew to be a man explained/claimed.

"What?" Modi said, shaking his head in exasperation and confusion.

"I've (only) just been mugged," Modi attempted to explain.

"Ah, I have just the thing for that..." The mysterious man promised, making his way through a nearby alley. "Come along," He invited, giving a winning smile with white teeth that gave a wonderful contrast to his spray-painted skin.

"You can call me Don, by the way," Was the last thing Modi heard before the man was enveloped by the darkness that lay within the alley's shade.

And that sold it!

Finally, Modi understood this man's strange behaviour.

He was Donald Trump, the forty-fifth president of the United States.

Swiftly following him, so as to catch up, Modi found a sense of dread and unease welcoming his stomach.

Where was this man taking him? Did he really, truly know he was the president as he'd claimed?

After all, the man hadn't submitted/offered any proof....

"I know what you're thinking, Modi.Can I call ya' Modi?"

Modi gave a slight grunt in response.

"Thanks, dollface. Anyways, yeah. It's me. I'm the Don. Here's my ID," Trump said, flippantly handing over what Modi presumed to be the man's ID.

"Oh. Much thanks, Trump. You could say, it's fortunate I met you. Some hooligan's just blew/blown my driver's head off! And those of my guards... I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't showed up," Modi admitted with a soft sigh, noticing they'd somehow ended up outside a house that resembled a slum.

"Not to worry, my friend. Happens all the time," Donald soothed, turning to pat Modi's arm.

It was then that Modi noticed the spectacular shade of Donald's eyes. They were a pleasant grey-blue.

Ah. What a nice surprise.

He seemed like a green man.

"I hate to be a bother but... where are we?" Modi inquired.

"We," Donald declared, giving pause for dramatic purposes. "Have arrived at my favourite crack den,"

Wow...

A crack den!

Obama would never.

"Oh." Modi said in surprise. The man was dumbfounded.

"Come," Donald commanded. "You'll fit right in," Modi was assured as Donald raised his left hand, knocking pleasantly on the door.

This, in itself, was a shock to Modi.

The door appeared as if it might fall apart, if only a gust of wind blew too fiercely.

And the man had the manners to knock in a place like this.

"Eh-ay! Donnie!" Came the shouted greeting from a man with fair hair and a few hairs standing in for a beard on his chin. The man was dressed in a tank top, also known as white wife beater as well as shorts that extended to the knees, looking as if they'd never met a washing machine.

"How ya' been, man? Been missing you,"

"Now, now, Tommy... Where's Derek?"

"Just over by the urinals. Watch out, though, he's with Leyla,"

"Ah," Don gave a knowing look and a nod, before strutting off towards what Modi could only assume would be the urinals.

Quickly scurrying after him, Modi wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing here.

"Aha! Derek, my man!" Don exclaimed as he shoulder-embraced a rugged man whose visage resembled that of a werewolf.

"You got the stuff?" He whisper-shouted intimately into the man's ear.

"You got my money?" Derek whispered erotically in return.

"You know me, Derek," Trump admitted as he deposited what could only be some form of payment into the man's back pocket.

"Here ya' go, Don," Derek said, disentangling himself from Donald. "Don't snort it all at once," Was advised with a wink before Derek, like smoke into clouds, disappeared through the crowd.

"C'mon," Don said, making his way to a rickety old staircase.

Modi followed, to the door of what he presumed to be a bedroom.

Kinky, he thought.

"Listen, I know this is weird an' all but... I'm lonely. I thought, maybe, you'd like to do some coke with me," Don admitted, his eyes growing large as vulnerability became one with him.

"Oh, Don," Modi sighed, "I understand,".

This interaction, five bottles of cheap beer later, somehow led them to Donald kneeling on the floor, reverently opening his package of blow.

Upon viewing the sight, Modi giggled, almost sp;illing the expensive liquid held securely within his hip flask.

Donnie giggled back cutely, almost blowing his blow off of the table, which only led to more laughter.

"Ya' want some?" Donald asked, extending a rolled up hundred dollar bill.

"Well I never," Modi thought, "You only meet the forty-fifth U.S president for the first time once..."

"Why not live a little,"

And so he took.

He sniffed.

And he snorted.

And he snorted.

Then he snorted some more.

And finally....

"Watch it, mate. You're hogging it!"

"My bad," Modi apologised, knees cracking as he rose from his previous kneeling position.

"You're alright, mate," Trump soothed, re-rolling the dollar bill and taking his very own sniffs and snorts.

Some fifteen minutes later, Modi found himself on top of an old, rickety table, singing the tune of ABBA's hit 'Dancing Queen', Donald singing along.

On one particular note, Modi found himself falling and was worrying he'd have to fork out for another dodgy hip replacement when out of nowhere, Donald caught him.

"My hero," Modi sighed, moony-eyed.

Donald breathed in the exorcised breath.

"Are we having a mo..." Alas, Donald found himself cut off by the soft press of Modi's lips to his own.

Stunned, he began to kiss back, enveloping Modi's lips, not unlike a hoover.

Fuelled by the earlier coke use, Modald began to kiss as if tomorrow was a far away fantasy; only stopping when being limited to breathing the top of the other's mouth became too unbearable to withstand.

"Donald," Modi sighed blissfully, on the cusp of a moan, diving in for a second smooch.

This act was graciously welcomed and reciprocated by Donald.

(Having a crisis at the this point)

Separating once more, Donald and Modi made their way to the old bedramfe and dirty mattress nestled in the left corner.

With Modi seated at the edge, Donald sank to his knees, waiting as Modi fiddled with his buttons and zipper/fly.

Tiring of waiting, Donald shoved Narendra's hands aside, finishing the job himself.

(Another crisis)

Shoving his undergarments and over garments aside, Don marvelled at the wonderful scene before him.

Leaning forward, Donald J. Trump began to induce his attack.

"Oh, Donald," Modi whimpered.

"Donald J. Trump," Don corrected, momentarily rising.

"Very well," Modi agreed easily.

"Donald J. Truuuuuuump," Narendra moaned as Donald expertly ravaged his nether regions.

(What am I doing?)

"Zshatss buetter," Donald managed, pulling out his swish and flick trick, finally sending Modi over the edge with a cry of "DONNNN J. GRUMP".

In exhaustion, Donald collapsed on the floor and Modi snuggled up beside him, sleeping off their earlier escapades.

T o. B e. C o n t i n u e d.

P.S,

 I've dedicated this to the genius responsible for the birth of this pairing.

Also, I know essentially nothing of American politics and even less of Indian politics, so I do deeply and sincerely offer apologies for any offense caused.