The Hands (Part 1)
The Hands (Part 1) donald trump stories
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razmatini
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Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
I. An extraordinary event happened on the morning of March 14, 2019 in Washington, DC. On this morning, former President Barack Obama awoke to the unfortunate scent of Michelle’s oatmeal.

The Hands (Part 1)

I.

An extraordinary event happened on the morning of March 14, 2019 in Washington, DC. On this morning, former President Barack Obama awoke to the unfortunate scent of Michelle’s oatmeal.

Barack sighed heavily, hauling himself out of bed and heading to the kitchen. There, Michelle greeted him blandly.

“There’s some oatmeal on the stove, and some fresh fruit in the fridge, dear,” she said, not looking up from her newspaper.

Barack would have preferred pancakes and bacon, but he knew— indeed, the whole nation knew— Michelle’s thoughts on that particular issue.

He served himself a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of disgustingly pulpy orange juice.

Barack raised his spoon to his lips, but, noticing the strange shape in his oatmeal, recoiled, letting the lump drop to the table beside his bowl.

Barack scraped the goop off the mysterious object. It was, he realized, a hand. The hand was small, the size of a small child’s, but wrinkled and withered with age.

It was bright orange in hue, reminiscent of a Nacho Cheese Dorito.

(If Michelle asked, Barack Obama would say he knew nothing of the various shades and flavors of Doritos, but secretly, they were something of a guilty pleasure for him.)

Barack returned to his bowl, and, after some exploration, produced another, similar hand. With the full set in front of him, Barack Obama had no doubt whose hands these were.

They were, in fact, the hands of the forty-fifth President of the United States, one Donald J. Trump.

“Barack Obama!” Michelle cried, having noticed the hands.

“Those are not part of a balanced breakfast! I don’t know where you got those, or how you managed to sneak them in, but under my roof, we will not eat garbage! Get those things out of here, now!”

“Can’t I just throw them in the trash?” Barack begged.

He felt no particular pressure to return the hands, especially as their absence would make it exceptionally difficult for Donald Trump to sign Executive Order 100,000 on March 15, 2019,

which one might recognize as the day following the one on which our story takes place.

“No! You might be tempted to pick them back out. Get them out of my house— and take Bo and Sunny with you. They need a walk.”

“Yes, Michelle,” Barack sighed. He wrapped the tiny hands in his napkin and placed them in his pocket. Then he took his dogs, trotting dutifully before him, out into the gloomy DC streets.

They were, of course, accompanied by a Secret Service agent, but Barack knew he would lose him soon enough.

The SS never exactly felt the need to send their best off with the former President, which is why Barack’s walk this morning was being supervised by 80-year-old Roger.

Walking at a reasonable pace, Barack could wear out the old man in a matter of a block or two. At this point, Roger would tap out, leaving Barack vulnerable but relatively isolated.

Sure enough, Roger’s frailty came through for Barack that morning.

But before I continue, readers, I would be remiss if I didn’t elaborate more completely upon Barack Obama’s current situation— that is, his life after leaving the White House.

The Obama family had decided to stay in the Washington area until Sasha had finished high school before returning to Chicago.

Barack and Michelle felt this would provide some much-needed stability for the girls, not to mention the fact that, given the choice,

no good parent would allow their children within seven hundred and one miles of any Chicago high school.

Free from the strict schedules and codes of conduct that had plagued his last eight years, Barack suddenly found himself paralyzed with the abundance of free time he now had at his disposal.

Nothing he tried managed to hold his interest for very long. Barack and Michelle’s home was thus littered with discarded books, half-baked manuscripts, and dusty athletic equipment.

Even his once-beloved golf brought him no joy these days.

In this way, he was almost happy for the imminent threat posed by Executive Order 100,000, which, if passed, would surely and swiftly trigger the apocalypse.

Working to prevent this had finally given Barack a purpose.

It should be noted, however, that apathy is a state that is remarkably easy to enter, and even more remarkably difficult to escape,

which is why it took Barack several minutes to notice that Bo and Sunny had each managed to snatch a hand,

and that the both of them were now mouthing their prizes delicately as they trotted in front of their master.

“Bad dogs! Let go of those!” Barack Obama cried, trying to remain fairly discreet as he wrestled the hands from his pets’ jaws.

This proved a difficult feat, as grappling with one dog provided an opportunity for the other to further mangle his treat.

Finally, Barack retrieved both hands. Their spray tan had been partially drooled off, streaking down in disgusting neon drops, but they were otherwise unharmed.

Relieved, Barack continued on his walk, clutching the hands a little tighter as he did.

Normally, on days like these, Barack could go his entire walk without seeing a single soul. But today, it seemed all forces in the universe were against him.

Elizabeth Warren stopped him to speak in ominously hushed tones about Executive Order 100,000.

Harry Reid greeted him and seemed he could not rest until he’d heard, in great detail, what both of the Obama children were up to. And then, of course, Joe Biden found him.

“Hey, Barack! Did you see this new meme?” Joe shouted, waving his phone wildly in front of Barack’s face. “They made it look like we’re snipers! Isn’t that hilarious?”

“Sure, Joe.”

“I’m feeling a mid-morning ice cream! Wanna come along?”

“You know I’m on a diet.”

“I won’t tell! I promise!”

“Fool me once, Joe…”

Joe kept this up for a good twenty minutes before finally darting off to pester Hillary.

Alone at last, Barack tied up the dogs and slipped into a nearby McDonald’s. “Please don’t tell Michelle,” he begged the indifferent, teenaged cashier.

He ordered a McGriddle with extra hash browns and scarfed them down as he returned to Sunny and Bo. Then he slipped the hands inside the McDonalds bag and tossed them to the curb.

“Hey! That’s littering! You shouldn’t litter, you know!”

Barack jumped away from the bag as he was confronted by the ghoulish presence of Betsy DeVos. Betsy picked up the bag, waving it at him furiously.

“Littering is bad for the environment! And if there’s one thing I know, it’s the environment! That’s why President Trump made me head of the EPA!”

“Betsy, you’re the secretary of education,” Barack replied.

“Irregardless,” Betsy began.

Not much is known of what happened after this point in the conversation, as the bug in Betsy’s watch quite suddenly gave out.

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