(Thursday, late afternoon–Washington, D.C.)

It was Trump’s personal staff–not the Whitehouse Security Staff– who first realized the real danger that Trump was in. If they didn’t get him out of Washington, D.C., now, the crowd likely would rush the Whitehouse, even set it on fire. So they made a plan to use the tunnels for his escape. They rushed Trump down the basement stairs into the bowels of the Whitehouse through the tunnels to an iron gate where an ordinary used Subaru station wagon with only a driver and a Private Security guard dressed in a business suit, were waiting to take Trump out of Washington, D.C. 

They thought that New York City would provide enough camouflage to hide the President. No one would expect to find the President in New York. He had lost most of the buildings he once owned there. Without the entourage of black limousines with police motorcycles to lead his usual parade to and from every place he traveled, the station wagon would go unnoticed.

Trump grumbled and whined about the condition of the car. He was sure that “his people would protect him.” You know, the ones who came to every rally, cheered his name, wore his hat with his slogan, ‘Make America Great Again.’ “These were his people. They wouldn’t hurt him or let him get hurt.” 

The station wagon headed towards New York City in a zigzag pattern to avoid driving on any predicted main route for long. His normal Whitehouse Security was left at the Whitehouse–the growing number of people, mostly men, that were part of the continuous parade around the Whitehouse, had grown louder and more vociferous. They were calling for Trump to show his face. Each time the parade completed its circle, it moved closer to the Whitehouse gates. 

One hundred ninety-nine bombs had exploded in one hundred ninety-nine cities across the Nation Thursday morning. Then men with rifles and automatic weapons were attacking government officials and any staff who tried to escape. Reports of shootings were heard all over the US. The streets were at war–they wanted to hang the President and the SCOTUS. 

When the station wagon reached Fifth Avenue, President Trump wanted to stop to use the restroom. (The station wagon did not provide a bathroom. He was accustomed to traveling this distance in a plane.) 

The driver and the security man decided that a department store would be the easiest location to secure the President’s safety. The station wagon could pull into one of the receiving docks and the President could enter from the back of the store. Use the restroom then hide, a fitting room would be excellent–he could hide in one of the stalls and lock the door. The driver and the Security Officer could stand and guard the area. The dressing room was isolated and the men’s dressing room could be closed without drawing attention. The men’s dressing room entire area could be closed until the President’s staff in D.C. figured out a better solution.

Of course, Donald Trump wanted to go through the front doors on Fifth Avenue–he needed to use the bathroom right away. He couldn’t wait for Security to clear the street or the store. He reached up from the back seat and grabbed the steering wheel, making the car swerve right. The driver tried to keep the car steady, nearly hitting a parked car as he gained control back from the President. Trump needed the driver to stop and let him out right now. He needed a bathroom. The driver finally agreed and pulled the station wagon to the curb. 

After the bombings this morning, all police forces had been assigned to stop any further street shootings. Snipers were set up across New York City and other major cities, but no one knew who the enemy was. Raw emotion was fueling both the crowd and the snipers. The protesters were armed as soldiers in the battlefields. His one security man and the driver were the only defense that rode with Trump. 

The lack of planning was because no one cared to assert that there was a security risk to the President’s face. His bouts of anger usurped the staff to point out the immediate need to get Trump out of D.C. The Whitehouse was too dangerous for him to stay there while the parade of protesters continued to grow. “Hang Donald Trump” signs were carried by hundreds of men continuing to move closer to the government buildings, including the Whitehouse.

It was late Thursday afternoon and the streets felt abandoned on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Shootings had been reported all day. One hundred ninety-nine bombs had gone off that morning in 199 US cities. After the bombs exploded, protesters with automatic weapons across their chests walked down the streets shooting indiscriminately at people as they were trying to evacuate the bombed buildings. People just walking down the street were killed for no reason.

The news of the bombs going off at the same time had the Nation in a panic. A growing number of innocents were shot on the streets after the bombings. No matter how important you are or how important you think you are, hurrying out of the bombed buildings for a safe place to hide would likely get you shot. It was two days of horrors in the United States. Now the crowds were gathering in D.C. The growing patterns of canvas tents were blocking the streets–their inhabitants were part of a continuous parade moving closer to the Whitehouse each time they passed.

Trump believed that the protests were not about him. He took no blame for the SCOTUS ruling–His followers wanted Pro-life Federal legislation. He had done just that. Right now he needs a restroom.

The Security Officer opened his side door and he got out and surveyed the area. Maybe a dozen people were on the street. Most were frantically searching for a safe place to hide until the shooting stopped. No one was paying attention to the station wagon.

At the Whitehouse the President’s staff continued to search for an immediate location for the President to hold up while hiding in New York, but right now, Trump needed a bathroom. 

Trump seemed oblivious to the sacrifice that his two men had made when they promised to protect him. In fact, he didn’t seem to care. He insisted that they stop the car. Trump slid across the backseat and started to crawl out. Both his driver and guard rushed over to Trump’s car door and hovered over the open back side door. The driver offered his hand to Trump to help him out.

The Security man opened the door wide for Trump to get out of the car. Both the driver and the Security Officer had promised to keep him safe. They looked at each other. Their eyes met with genuine fear in their expressions. The only way to shield him was for them to walk closely in front and behind him, like a sandwich, until he got inside the store. The best way to protect him would be if they took the chance of getting shot themselves.

Trump dismissed the driver’s hand and pulled his body closer to the edge of the seat. He maneuvered one foot out first. He felt the curb under his shoe. Then his body shuffled a half turn on the seat, The other leg turned and felt the cement of the curb. He got his footing and stood up, one hand waving as high as he could reach to his fans. He turned 360 degrees and smiled and waved.

Boom!

Pieces of pink flesh and splintered bone exploded from the side of the car. Blood splattered high in the air. A blood geyser from his neck, blowing up brain and shoulder matter, flesh flying like a rocket, then floating with wisps and disconnected fragments of skull and brain matter as it blew back to earth. Urine ran down Trump’s pant leg. Tiny bone bits with strands of orange hair blew and floated in the air. Bold yellow patches of scalp and tinted hair caught by afternoon street lights, lingered in the back wind, floating down in the blast’s percussion echo. 

Neither Security guard or driver were seriously hurt, but for small cuts from the projectiles from the gun blast and the flying bone splinters.

At 4.47 p.m. Eastern Standard time, Donald J. Trump was pronounced dead at the scene.

At 5:48 p.m. Ronald DeSantis was sworn in as President.

epilogue

There was one good thing that happened amidst a Nationwide insurgency and the bombing of 199 Federal buildings, State and County seats across the United States that morning. 

Each truck bomb contained a stockpile of artillery. Automatic weapons were loaded with enough ammunition in its cargo bed to kill one million American citizens, one bullet at a time. Each truck carried a bomb big enough to wipe out a ten story government building and kill all inside. There were 200 trucks and 200 specific locations. Ideally, a coordinated group of armed protesters would unload the guns and ammunition and distribute it to other protesters. Then they would park the truck on the nearest street to their targeted government building, and wait. 

The truck designated for Austin, Texas, did not show up at its predestined location. 

So one can argue that the Roy boys saved the City of Austin, Texas. They were heroes who sacrificed their lives without intending to. Blown up in a truck heading for the suburbs near Las Vegas, Nevada, after they had dumped Christian’s body in the desert. 

“The animals will disappear him, scatter his bones as they carry parts of his body away. Goody, Goody Church boy, too bad. I think he was a fag, anyway. Ever see him at a dance? Ever see him with a girl?” Stone continued debasing Christian in hip hop rhymes as the boys pulled Christian’s body, wrapped in tarps, out of the back of the van.

Stone was ranting to himself as much as he was yelling at his brother. They carried the tarps–the shrouds—of Christian in two pieces to a desert patch of cactus. Some of his blood had dried on the tarp, but both boys’ hands still were covered in Christian’s blood which poured like maple syrup from the edge of the tarp onto the cactus. They both wiped their hands using the sand, then their jeans.

“Yeah. The more I think about it, the more I am sure that he was a fag. Goody, goody church boy was a fag, now a dead fag.“

And with one pull, Stone ripped the tarp open and started to pull down Christian’s pants. “No one will miss a goody, goody, gay boy quarterback. I should put this up your ass.” Stone screamed angrily at Christian’s corpse.

Stone grabbed the metal handle of the van’s jack and was about to desegregate Christian’s body when Donny grabbed the jack handle away from Stone and threw the handle on the tarp. The jack handle slowly sank and disappeared in a puddle of blood.

“God, Stone. You’re sick.” Donny turned away from what was left of Christian. Then suddenly, his mood changed and he raced his brother for the driver’s seat. 

“It’s my turn to drive.” Donny jumped into the driver’s side and climbed behind the steering wheel. Any more thoughts about the tarps, now opened with Christian’s body almost desegregated and left exposed to the desert creatures and the sun, was never thought of again. Neither brother was disturbed beyond a moment, now past, by either boys’ conscience. 

(Thursday, 10:05 a.m. Central time) 

Boom! 

Their plan was to take the truck to Dad’s old boss who ran a chop shop on the outskirts of Vegas. He would know where to sell the guns. They just didn’t make it there.

At 11:05 a.m. Eastern time, at 10:05 a.m. Central time, at 9:05 a.m. Mountain time, and 8:05 a.m. Pacific time, 199 bombs went off in the Nation’s largest cities. Before the trucks were parked in front of their destination, the guns and ammunition would be distributed to the protesters. Then the trucks would explode–all bombs would explode at the exact same instance, synchronized by time zone. The citizens, of course, were caught amidst the gunfire, if they survived the explosion.

Since the truck that the Roy boys were driving still had all its guns and ammunition in the cargo bed, the bomb blast was extraordinary. Several weather stations and images from the space station showed the blast strong enough to be seen from space. The heat from the blast was so intense that the DNA from either boy was destroyed. There was no DNA to identify the heroes.

Christian’s body was never found.

God works in mysterious ways.

This is a story written in 2023 about the United States in 2030. Today, it is fiction.

The end.