THE HIGH-END conference room is dark- both literally and metaphorically. Elegantly dressed businesspeople occupy the wide, leather chairs, their hands clasped in front of them in a uniform position of simultaneous power and deference. At the head of the table sits the infamous President of the United States himself...Donald John Trump. His yellow- yes, yellow, not blond- hair is as voluminous as always, springing up from his visible scalp like the fur of a squirrel. His thousand-dollar coat is unbuttoned, exposing the full length of his signature blood-red tie.

Directly opposite to him, crammed into an inadequate space at the back end of the table, is the only woman who has clearance to attend the meeting.

After all, according to Trump, that is where females belong.

Karla Bates makes a show of fanning herself with a wad of dollar bills, tilting her forearm so as to expose her expensive wristwatch. She is the the only female non-Cabinet member and non-celebrity on President Trump's core team, as well as the youngest and the least wealthy. If she is to be accepted by the rest of the team, she knows that she will have to be as exuberant as possible. And, in a world run by male Trumpets in which women are judged solely by their beauty, a little extra makeup couldn't hurt, either. This is why her eyelashes are dusted off with more sparkle than usual, and her lips are a deeper shade of crimson for this meeting.

She raises her hand timidly, having noticed a point that she deems worthy of addressing. Every head in the room instantly turns toward her. The President's Cabinet looks at her like a pack of hungry wolves, ready to rip her to shreds for the crime of making her presence known.

"Yes, Miss Bates?" Trump attempts to raise an eyebrow questioningly, but ends up blinking instead.

"With all due respect, My Lord, your toupee is on backwards."

She sincerely hopes that she does not sound sarcastic, for any kind of disrespect toward the President is punishable by heinous torture, or, if Trump is in a good mood, death.

Most of the Cabinet members furrow their eyebrows threateningly, but it is clear that a few of them are trying very hard to stifle their laughter.

Trump stares at Karla for a solid minute, before his underdeveloped hands reach for his head. His hair springs up and down like a sponge as he pats it, attempting to get a sense of its shape. Suddenly, his eyes widen in realization.

"You're right! I was too focused on making America great again, I didn't even realize that! Now, we all know that my fashion sense is the greatest, but I don't mind getting an occasional pointer from a lady like you," the President grins as he peels off his wig to readjust it.

Karla is not sure whether that is intended as a compliment, but chooses to smile gratefully anyway. You can never be too careful around President Trump.

"That was a rather foolish mistake for a great man of my caliber to make," Trump shakes his head. "I need a drink."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, a maid in the traditional Trumpet "Make America Great Again" shirt and hat rushes into the room. She carries a ridiculously large and ornate gold platter, which holds a golden mug embossed with the Presidential seal and encrusted with various jewels.

"You lazy pig," Trump spits as his pudgy fingers close around the mug. "Be faster, next time."

"Yes, Mr. President," she bobs her head up and down, her eyes glazed over with terror.

"What?" Trump snarls.

"Lord Trumpy."

"Good girl. Now, go away."

She doesn't have to be told twice.

Karla catches a glimpse of the liquid that sloshes inside the cup as the President slides it closer to him across the firm hardwood. It's definitely not soda. Or coffee. Or beer. Or any other normal beverage, alcoholic or otherwise. It's an unnatural, maroon color, filled with small, frothy bubbles and a clear, serous overlay.

"Curious, are we, Miss Bates?" Trump smirks. "Very well then, I suppose you have the right to know. This is 100% pure alien blood- made only from the greatest immigrants! There's a whole new industry coming up around it's production, just for me! It's gonna be yuge!"

Karla suddenly feels nauseous. She had supported Trump with the purest of intentions. She had truly believed that Trump could fix the economy and keep countries like China in check. All she had ever wanted to do was make America great again.

She had no idea that was going to translate to bomb America great again.

With each insane executive order that he signed, Karla's support of the President had dwindled. Until now, when she only remains in his service because not to do so would mean certain death or expulsion into the desolate world outside.

The Trumpets continue to discuss various issues including immigrants, terrorists, and the Resistance, but Karla does not hear their words. All she can focus on is the disgusting glass that sits before the President, still untouched.

Suddenly, there is a welcome pause in the flow of cruel remarks that echoes through the room. "This meeting is abjured," Trump finally declares, rising from his seat and slamming his fist down on the table in imitation of the tap of a gavel. He does this for no apparent reason other than to display his executive power. He has been in undisputed possession of the Presidency for seven years, but he still treats it like a new toy. And it is common knowledge that he has the mind of a child. 

"I think that the word you are looking for is 'adjourned,' sir," Karla says quietly. She means it to display her alertness and intelligence, as well as to prove that she is actually paying attention to the meeting's proceedings, but the President very obviously sees it as an affront.

"Stay right here, Bates," he spits, displaying his set of overlapping teeth in various stages of decomposition.

Karla freezes, gripping the edge of the table in front of her in order to steady herself. She has only seen a member of the President's team held after a meeting once before, and the fate of that man is not something she wishes to recall. She knows she has overstepped her boundaries. Punishment is most certainly in order. Her breathing grows heavy as the Cabinet members filter out of the space, leaving her alone in the conference room with the angry President.

The crucial moment has come. 

"Stand," Trump commands. Karla obeys, almost too quickly. He crosses his arms behind his back and approaches her slowly, his face twisted into a scowl. He stalks toward her with purpose, his neck craned forward. He takes his time, his lips curling into a malevolent smirk. He enjoys every moment of her terror, and he wants her to know it. Soon, his face is so close to hers that for a moment, Karla thinks he intends to kiss her.

He does not.

He leans past her face, until she can feel his hot, Cheeto-flavored breath on her ear.

"You are talented, Miss Bates. But if you want to stay in this organization, I'd suggest that you keep your snide comments to yourself."

"Yes, Lord Trumpy," Karla smiles, addressing him by the title he adores in hopes of quickly gaining his forgiveness.

Trump smiles. "You hurt my feelings today."

"I apologize, My Lord."

"An apology isn't enough! I want you to prove your loyalty once again! Show me that you are a true Trumpet!" He reaches across the table, retrieving his glass of blood. Karla's eyes follow his every move as she anticipates what he is about to do. Raising the container, Trump places it on Karla's lower lip.

"Drink," he commands, staring devilishly into her horrified visage. 

Karla looks down into the glass at the murky liquid, and her stomach churns. She thinks of how it must've been obtained, all the people who must've been bled dry...

"I-"

"Don't say a word!" Trump yells. "Drink, or you're fired!" He enthusiastically utters one of his most well known sayings. 

Karla whimpers, but the President's grin only grows wider.

There is no life outside of Washington, D.C. It's either be a Trumpet or be a corpse, she tells herself. You didn't last this long just to die for something as stupid as this.

She grips the mug between both of her clammy hands and tilts it up, downing the metallic-tasting liquid in one long sip.

Trump smiles approvingly, patting Karla on the back. "Good girl."

"Please excuse me," she gasps, rushing out of the room as fast as her legs can carry her. As soon as she is out of the President's sight, she doubles over, retching. Overcome by feelings of guilt and revulsion, she empties the contents of her stomach onto the hard, marble floor, spitting until the last remnant of blood is gone from her mouth and her throat is dry as a desert.