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"No - Say It Ain't So!"


Chapter 1
Say It Ain't So!

By Wayne Fowler

This first chapter is too long for FS, I apologize. I decided that splitting it wasn’t viable - sorry. Some may recognize it from a contest entry. MAGA might take a pass and save themselves a trip to the ER.
 
Chapter One
 
“What time is it?”

No one answered.

“Where am I?”

Still, no one answered.

I turned on a lamp and surveyed the splendor. Am I in a fancy hotel? How did I get here? Who checked me in? I didn’t. I never would… couldn’t afford it for one, and wouldn’t spend what it would take anyway. The furnishings are… I don’t know, some brand of antique - French provincial, maybe. I say that only because I know it’s not Shaker and those are the only terms I know for antique furnishings.

A sense a terrible wrongness hit me right away . Somethin’ ain’t right. First of all, I’m not built like this. Secondly, I’m wearing pajamas. I haven’t worn PJ’s since fifth grade.

Forcing the feet of this unfamiliar frame toward a door that should be a bathroom, I force myself forward. The sight in the mirror staggered me… literally. I nearly fell, saved by the wall behind me. Seeing my size, I feared breaking the towel rack off the wall.

While in the bedroom, I sensed that it was early, dark early, but still I felt an urgency, a rush to hurry through my ablutions and get to where I could try to make sense of the situation. After searching in vain for a new toothbrush, I decided that since I was in his body anyway… I did resolve to toss mine if we ever switched back, though.

I had no idea where anything was outside the bedroom, but it didn’t appear overly complicated, a fairly simple rectangular order about the space, the third floor of the White House.

Stumbling about, trying to make my unaccustomed frame behave, I was startled by a man who approached from behind. “Might I be of assistance, Mr. President?”

I snapped erect, again nearly falling in the process. I felt my jaws flapping.

“A midnight snack, perhaps?” the man asked.

He was a bit disheveled. Like he was put together too quickly. I started to ask what time it was but saw a wall clock that declared 4:15, reasonably close to my normal rising time. “Do you know where the toaster is?” I asked.

“Toast, sir?”

I didn’t reply. He’d obviously understood me.

I began to speak but immediately caught myself. Whatever I said to anyone, might be the beginning of a course I would not care for … involuntary commitment – men in white coats with a jacket that fastened in back.

“Could you help me figure out how to get a piece of toast and some coffee?”

“Coffee, sir?”

I nodded. “Have we met, formally, I mean? I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Not really, sir. I’m Thomas, Thomas, McQuin.”

His arm moved, but he caught himself. I extended my hand. “Thomas, or Tom?"

Shaking hands, he said “Tom.”

“Help me out here, Tom. I’m in a bit of a fog.”

Before I could tell him what I wanted, Tom asked. “Coffee, h-how do you want it, sir?”

“Black, and in a regular mug if we have one, not a teacup, or one of those monster things that makes coffee run out the sides of your mouth like you’re a three-year-old, know what I mean?”

Tom chuckled, holding back an outright laugh. “Yes sir. I’ll be happy to get that for you.”

Holding my gut, I told him that I only wanted one piece of toast and that I would get dressed and be right back out. I added that he was to pour himself a cup of coffee if he’d like. Hearing a noise, we both turned to a hallway. Tom instantly assumed a sort of parade rest posture.

“Everything all right, sir?” A man asked. He was tall and broad-shouldered. Secret Service, I surmised. “Yes, fine,” I said, hoping my posture told him to return to his post.

He did, a confused look on his face.

I waved to Tom and returned to my room, intent on dressing as quickly as I could and get a few undisturbed moments with Tom.

+++
 
“How long have you worked for me, Tom? Uh, for the White House?”

“This is my second week, sir. You, uh…”

“Didn’t want Biden’s staff,” I finished. Tom’s expression wasn’t clear. “And I didn’t want the regular White House staff, the career staff.”

Tom nodded.

“Tom, how did you vote?” Tom’s complexion reddened. “This is a test, Tom. I have to know if I can trust you. I promise you. You will not suffer for telling the truth.”

    Tom locked eyes with me. “I haven’t voted Republican since Reagan’s Iran/Contra deal and Ollie North.”

I nodded. “I’m not Donald Trump. I woke up this morning in his body. I don’t know how long this will last, but I’m going to do what I can to…” Before saying anymore, I tried to read him, see if he thought I was even crazier than yesterday.

“So, who did you vote for?” Tom asked.

“I wanted Biden, or better yet, one of the Democratic governors. But I voted for Kamala.” Pronouncing her name right might’ve helped. 
 
“And you really are…?”

“Phil Jansen. Philip R. Jansen.”

Tom just nodded and sipped his coffee. I did, too.

“Look you need a code. Every time I see you, I’ll say, uh… wonderfine. Wonderfine morning, isn’t it Tom? Oh, I’m wonderfine. You’ll know it’s me.”

Tom nodded.

“I’m up by four every day, but…”

“I’ll be happy to fix coffee and share the morning with you, sir.”

I nodded and thanked him, telling him how much I would appreciate that. “What are your work hours, your shift?”

“Mr. President, I can be here twenty-four/seven if you wish. Just clear it with my boss, Benjamin.”

I nodded “Can you work with me? Help me? At least for the next couple weeks?”

“Anything I can help with, yes sir, but, if I may…”

I nodded.

“Do not trust anyone. I realize it’s a hackneyed cliché, but…”

I bore into his sincerity and nodded my gratitude before speaking. “First, I’ll write down my address for you. If things go south for you and, you know, I’ve switched back… well, I don’t have much, but I’ll be more than happy to share with you.” I waited until Tom nodded. Then I drew out a couple hundred-dollar bills. Can you get me two… make that three cheap cell phones from Walmart, or somewhere?”

He could and would have them for me anytime after lunch. I told him the next morning if we couldn’t do it today.

I chugged the rest of my lukewarm coffee. “Any idea what my routine is?”

“The last few days it’s been edging later and later, but you’ve never gone down to the Oval Office until after nine, so far as I know, sir.”

I blinked and decided to let him continue calling me, sir. It wouldn’t do for him to slip up when others might be listening, which caused me to think. “Tom…” I deadpan him. Is there any surveillance in here? Cameras?” I glanced around the ceiling.

“There are, sir. Cameras that the Secret Service monitors. How well, I don’t know. But no audio unless someone tells Siri to turn audio on.” After a short pause, he added, “But there are none in your quarters.”

I nodded and glanced at my watch, sucking in air through my teeth, a practice I was only now aware of. “Then how about another cup of coffee?”

“I should…”

“Ah…” Tom took my admonishment gracefully, smiled, and carried our empty cups to the counter to refill.

+++
 
“Mrs. Goodman, Betty. Good morning. How is my wonderful Chief of Staff this morning?” It was almost eight o’clock and I could tell that I surprised her, though my bet was that the Secret Service agent, who seemed a bit perplexed, had messaged her that we were on our way down. I could sense that Betty and I were on a first-name basis, at least me her since the inauguration.

Before she could speak, I raised my hand. “A few things. Elon Musk no longer has my open-door policy. Appointment only. But in the next ten minutes, send him a text that his services are no longer required. Thank him cordially, blah, blah, blah. Then prepare rescinding orders for the eight-month termination plan, as well as the impoundment order, and the cessation of the government stop payment plan. You know the one.

“Oh, and I guess you’d better get us some more door security for the fall-out.” I gave Betty an opening to apprise me of my morning schedule, which I was already two hours ahead of.

After nodding, I asked her to come into the oval as soon as the rescinded letters were prepared, adding that they did not need the folder fanfare.
She was back with them within twenty minutes. “Elon is on his way over, Mr. President.”

I waved the notion off. “Have him stopped at the door… the building door, not the Pres… not my door.”

She turned back toward her office to issue the command and then returned with the documents. While signing them and directing that they be released to the press at the same time as normal distribution to relevant parties, I told her of the weekend arrangements I wished to organize.

“I know it’s short notice. But today’s what, Wednesday? Yeah. I want the leaders of both parties of both the House and the Senate, and their seconds and their thirds… I offered a non-committal wave… whoever they wish, just have them submit a list. To a summit at Camp David. Friday night is optional. We’ll have a couple meetings on Saturday and if anyone is still there, another on Sunday. A Saturday dinner would be good, don’t you think, Betty? Can it be done on that short notice?”

Betty was dumbfounded, speechless. Finally. She asked if that meant my weekend of golf with senators was to be canceled. Of course, she knew the answer to that, but I allowed for her shock and confusion. She assured me that the office of the Presidency could open doors and incentivize people.

“And speaking of canceling, everything that’s not public-oriented for the rest of the week… You know, like going to see veterans in the hospital, or meeting with decorated firefighters… things like that, cancel.

“Oh, and send for the Secretary of State. I need to see him ASAP.”

“ASAP, sir?”

I nodded. I could tell that she’d never heard him use that term before. After an interminable moment of her gawking at me, I satisfied her by suggesting she send for my personal physician. That settled her enough to leave the Oval Office to have my wishes obeyed. Let her think I’ve had a stroke. I expect she was preparing to call the Vice President and the cabinet to order the enactment of the 25th Amendment.

By that afternoon I had a private cell phone for myself, one for Tom, and another for Hakeem Jeffries, the leader of the minority party. All my conversations with other politicians would be public. That afternoon the Secretary of State and I, much to his relief I’m convinced, made call after call to heads of state worldwide. We would continue with more the following day. The foreign leaders would need more than a phone call to assuage their fears concerning America’s positions, but it was a start.

I trusted the Secretary of State, but not enough for my next idea. For that, I needed 007, a superspy. I actually imagined myself calling Daniel Craig, or Tom Cruise, or one of the others. Don’t ask me how, but Joe Biden’s outgoing Secretary of Defense proved to be the person for the job. He had an opened bottle of Smirnoff vodka from his attaché case resting on my desk, the Resolute. He’d taken it from the current Secretary of Defense’s office and already had the man’s fingerprints lifted from it. There were photos and a witness list. The former Secretary was happy to be of service, though not all that cordial. I didn’t blame him.

With the evidence in hand, I had the Secretary’s resignation the same day. I think he was mad enough to show me his tattoo, but he didn’t. I thanked him for his service.
 
+++
 
Tom McQuin and I not only trusted one another, he was becoming a great friend.

“Tom, I need you to go to Hakeem Jeffries’ office and give them this phone. I’ve already called Nancy Pelosi and set it up. He’ll expect you between three and four. He’ll know that you have something from me, but won’t know what. I didn’t tell Nancy. My number’s in that phone. Tell him to call me from somewhere private whenever he can.”

Tom did, and Hakeem did, calling me a little after six that evening.

“Do you recognize my voice, Hakeem?”

“Yes sir, but with AI and modern technology… Nancy told me you would call. And, yes, I know your voice, but..."

“I understand. Look, Will you be at Camp David tomorrow night, Friday night?”

“Yes sir, I will.”

“I made sure that they assigned you a cabin at the end, the last one occupied. I’m sure they thought it was a race thing. I have the key to the next one, the Birch House. If you’re the least bit curious, I’ll be inside with the lights off but for a little battery lamp at 3:30 in the morning. The door will be unlocked. Don’t worry. You’ll be safe. I hope to allay all your concerns then.”
 
"Allay, sir of itself goes a long way toward satisfying doubts."
 
+++
 
“Hakeem, you won’t want to believe this, but my name’s Philip Jansen. Here’s my full name, address, and social security number.” I handed him a note. “I woke up in Trump’s body three days ago.” I saw Hakeem’s head barely but perceptibly nod.

“The unexplained rescissions? Mr. President, I’m not much into the paranormal stuff. And no offense, but I’ve been around long enough not to question what’s right in front of my eyes.”

I nodded. “I don’t know how long this will last, but I’m telling you. I didn’t ask for it. But here I am. I woke up as Donald Trump. No one is more shocked than me. Hopefully, until we can figure out how to get a different Vice President in and I can resign. Or until the midterms if we must. But I don’t want to be here that long.”

I could see the wheels turning. Hakeem was wondering what I was trying to pull, how I was trying to screw him around, whether it was some sort of prank to embarrass him or get something over on the minority party.

“That name, Phil. I imagine he’s about to be committed by now. Might already be in jail. I don’t know. If you would… When your people talk to him, you’ll… I’m sure you’ll see.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. President, I’ll see that he’s taken care of… well taken care of.”

I could tell that he meant it in a good way. I could also tell that he was buying into the truth. this crazy phenomenon.

“Look, I can’t go all the way, you know, switch sides. I think they’ll kill me. Or have me put away. Or poison my panties.”

Hakeem chuckled.

“I won’t give you away, Mr. President. And…” He held up the Walmart phone, his eyes questioning.

“Call me for anything really important. Just understand, I have to be Trump to get the House flipped, get public opinion… you know.”

Hakeem nodded.

“I might even go so far as to let those idiots shut the government down for a day or two.”

Hakeem nodded.

“I have to be Trump a little bit if it kills me.”

“Might it?” Hakeem asked. “Can you handle it? Do you have a pressure release?”

“Pray for me.” I bore into his eyes.

I held out my hands. His nod told me we were one. We had a prayer meeting right then and there. We tried to be quiet, but thankfully, the Secret Service had not seen me leave my building.

“Wonderfine,” I said to his crossed eyes, I explained mine and Tom’s code. “Without wonderfine…” But Trump, I don’t think, will be answering this phone. Or calling you.”

Hakeem nodded.

“We’ll see how this plays out, how well I can pull it off, get this nation back on the track of mercy, justice, and humble righteousness.”

“Why don’t you leave here first, Mr. President? I’ll watch your back.”

I tried to smile, hoping it didn’t look like a smirk. Hugging instead of shaking hands, I imagined his shock was not too unlike mine when I first looked in the mirror.
 
+++
 
In keeping with what I told Hakeem about going slow, not being too radical, I had to compromise my dreams of a massive turnaround. The poisoned panties thing was not a joke. There were people with vested interests who were not above such things.

“No more Presidential orders. At least for now, I told them. But I want that wall built, and I mean today. If you don’t get me the funds to do it, I’ll take it from infrastructure. And you know the Court will let me.” A little Trump bluster would serve me well here. And there’s nothing really wrong with a wall, anyway.

I assured the Congressmen and Senators that I didn’t like the idea of an oligarchy, that I was always against an oligarchy. My mispronunciation helped cement their consciousness that I probably didn’t even know what it meant. My goal for the summit had already been met, my secret meeting with Hakeem. So, I let the leaders talk their talk, promises of working together where they could, blah, blah, blah.

I couldn’t help myself. On Sunday I asked Hakeem to close the summit with a prayer. While Hakeem prayed, I asked God’s forgiveness for my pettiness.

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman
(Remind me to never again enter a prose contest that doesn't specify 'no poetry'. It's like one a pie in a cake contest - pie preferentials voting.)
The final word count is 46K in 34 chapters. Per Stephen King's philosophy, it's how a person gets out of a predicament that make the story. (for those who predict the outcome)


Chapter 2
Say It Ain't So!, Ch 2

By Wayne Fowler

In the first chapter Philip Jansen woke up one morning in the White House in President Donald Trump’s body. Making rapport with White House service staffer, Tom McQuin, the new Trump decided to maximize the opportunity to make some course corrections, not knowing how long he would remain Donald Trump. Using Tom, he managed to get burner telephones for himself, Tom, and Hakeem Jeffries, pulling him into the conspiracy. A quickly arranged Camp David retreat began the process of upending Washington D.C.
Due to today’s events, I can’t hold to twice-a-week postings. It’ll just mean more modest pay outs. Sorry.
 
Chapter Two

    “Mr. President, your physician is here.” Betty, the chief of Staff led Dr. Schweitz in, following closely behind as if to stay.

    “Thank you, Betty. Have you reviewed the presser book? I’d like to look it over.” I nodded toward the door. She got the drift.

    “Dr. Schweitz?”

    “Good morning, Donald.”

    Dr. Schweitz was the only person to call me by my first name. I insisted on it at our first meeting the morning of my awakening. My physician being in a subservient role didn't feel right. I needed him to be honest.

    “I have the results of the tests. But first I want to take your vitals, if you would sit and get comfortable. How’re you feeling? Any recent changes? Any thought troubling patterns?”

    I knew he was asking about depression and suicide. Everyone with insurance and any age at all got the same barrage. “Fine, fine. Tell me Dr. Schweitz, do I qualify for those obesity pills?”

    The doctor grinned as he took my pulse, and then fastened the blood pressure cuff. Once finished, he gave me a qualified passing grade and a video link for chair yoga. He also recommended I fast-walk and swim for at least an hour a day. He understood that a trip to Bethesda, the hospital, for a check-up would be a bad look this early in my term, but would send in the same nurse as on the first day to draw more blood.

    I saw him to the door and asked Betty for the presser book. “Give me twenty minutes with this and then send in Kristen, would you?” I knew Betty didn’t like being treated like a common secretary, but what could I do? I’d only been Trump for a few days. And I knew not to trust anyone in this administration. Kristen was my press secretary.

    “Kristen, I know this isn’t, wasn’t, in your orientation or training, but I want you to repeat after me. ‘I don’t know. I’ll try to find out.’”

    Kristen’s jaw dropped, actually dropped. I saw her molars.

    “It’s okay. Go ahead and say it. Because if it’s not in this book, that’s the response I want you to give. No matter what you think the party line is or what you are sure my position would be. ‘I don’t know. I’ll try to find out.’”

    “Mr. President… I… I’m not sure…”

    “Kristen, it’s all right if you don’t think you’re up to the task. You’ll still have a job here. But I need the press secretary to do this. I can get…”

    “No sir. I don’t know. I’ll find out.”

    “I’ll try to find out. And the next day, if you haven’t found out…”

    “I don’t know yet, I’ll try to find out.”

    I smiled. “Thank you, Kristen.” I released her to her studies.

    “Mr. President, the Vice President is persistent. He wants to see you.” Betty was persistent, herself. It was Monday morning and not having been invited to the Camp David summit, he was, naturally, quite put out. I told her to find a few minutes for him the next day… and to be sure to bring me an update on the dog and cat eating in Ohio. That oughta set the tone.

    That morning I woke and as had become my routine, immediately checked myself over to see who I was – Trump.

    Acknowledging a solid six-and-a-half hours sleep, my Philip Jansen normal, I got up and was ready for the coffee that Tom said was nearly ready when I entered the kitchen.

    “Good morning, Tom. What a wonderfine morning. Any plans for today?”

    “At your service and disposal, sir.”

    I thought his wording comical and chuckled at him. “Tom, I looked at your file, just so you know. How about you fill me in with what’s not in there.”

    After setting a cup of coffee and a banana in front of me, he poured his own cup and took a seat.

    “Not a lot to me.”

    “To-om?” I said, dragging the question out, telling him that I didn’t believe him.

    Tom sighed and began. “Troubled teenage years.”

    I saluted with my coffee cup, acknowledging an understanding: compatico, simpatico.

    “The Marines grew me up.”

    Again, I saluted.

    “Served on the Eisenhower.” That told him I’d looked at his military record, since the details of his service were not covered in his personnel folder. Tom stood close to six foot, beefy, but spry, not encumbered with dead-weight muscles. Even at his age, 64 last January, I would not want to have to race or wrestle him, especially considering my present condition.

    Serving on the Eisenhower was what got him his White House position. Marines serving aboard U.S. Navy ships were the elite. More than bellhops or MPs, they served the Admiralty as personal guards and attachés. Tom had letters of recommendation from Admirals, both deceased, who’d supplied them decades past, and current, those who were junior officers back in the day, but remembered Tom favorably, supplying letters to accompany his application.

“College on the G. I. Bill.”

“Business Management,” I said, telling him I wanted what was not on the resume.

“Then some mercenary work.”

“Ahhh, the unexplained years: 1975 through ’78.”

Tom smiled.

“Iran…” He involuntarily looked around, knowing he was about to say what he been ordered to keep silent about. “East Germany.”

I nodded, holding up my hand as in that’s enough.

“This’n that when I let that go. Managed a Casey’s, a few of ‘em actually. Worked for a private investigator for a few years.”

“Until he was killed?” I said, gazing at him intently. “I got that from Benjamin. The White House does a pretty decent background check.”

“Yeah. His widow asked me to protect her and her kids through the transition and her move out of state.”

“Why you didn’t pursue the matter… physically.”

Tom nodded, a sadness on his face.

“You did the right thing. You would not have reached the final responsible party and you would most likely have been killed. Life ain’t the movies.”

Tom nodded again and rose to fill our cups.

“This’n that and here you are,” I summed up. “Now, how do you feel about traveling?”

Tom shrugged.

“Good. Because I already told Benjamin and Betty that I wanted you on Air Force One with me whenever we went anywhere. We’ll be going to New York City soon, and Brussels soon after that. A little diplomatic repair surgery.”

Tom nodded.

“Good. At about eight this morning, meet me on the second floor and I’ll take you to the West Wing and introduce you around, especially let the Secret Service know not to question your appearance anywhere.

Tom’s eyebrows lifted as he nodded.

“Oh, one more thing.” I studied him closely. “What do you think about me putting out a directive that anyone using the word felon in the White House or on the grounds would be tossed over the castle fence and then fired.?”

It took a moment but Tom finally replied.

“Might help with your balancing act, keep people believing you are yourself while simultaneously undoing more serious damage.”

“I think we’ll make a good team.”

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr.Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself

I realize the song is not exactly on point, but...


Chapter 3
No! Say It Ain't So, Ch. 3

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Phil, as Trump, required Betty and the press secretary, Kristen, to change the presser book and to answer questions with ‘I don’t know’ responses. Readers learned of Tom’s varied background and that he would accompany Trump everywhere.
 
Chapter Three
 
 Trump (waking in Phil’s body)
 

    “Where am I? It’s still dark. Where are my pajamas? Oh, this headache!”

    When he again woke it was daylight and his headache was gone. He looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings – Phil Jansen’s bedroom. Unfamiliar with the frame of a slim man, his extrication from bed coverings and swing out of the bed landed him in a wad on the floor. He looked at the dark brown hair on his chest, stomach, and legs with total confusion. Dreaming. Must be dreaming. He looked back to the bed, considering getting back into it. But the pull of nature to the commode overrode.

    The sight of the man looking back at him from the bathroom mirror nearly made him forget why he went into the bathroom in the first place… nearly… making him miss the toilet with his initial release.

    He hated the taste of the toothpaste once he’d found a brand new toothbrush in a drawer. There were clothes already laid out on the top of a chest of drawers. He didn’t like denim, never had, but that’s what was there, and they fit.

    The sodas in the refrigerator were generic and none were diet, but at least there was a cola-flavored drink. He couldn’t find anything he wanted to try to eat, disdaining the opened but rubber band-sealed package of generic Fig Newtons on the counter.

    The driver’s license in his wallet said he was Philip Jansen. The photo somewhat resembled the man in the mirror. Donning a jacket that he didn’t need, he went outside to look around. He failed to pick up the keys from the small table just inside the door. The entry door locked behind him. Though the back door was unlocked, he didn’t think to scale the six-foot fence, as the gate had no handle to the front. He then realized that had there been a cell phone, he failed to see it. His pants had a phone holster, but it was empty. There were twelve dollars in the wallet – twelve dollars and a debit card that he didn’t know the PIN for.

     He was on a residential street and only a few cars drove by in the few minutes he watched. None paid him any attention, a fact he felt strange. Looking around at neighboring houses, there wasn’t one that he felt safe to approach, not knowing who might wish him harm. He started walking, surprised at how easy it was to take three-foot strides.

    At every intersection, he looked left and right for evidence of civilization. Though he wasn’t tired, he was famished. Finally, he saw a McDonald’s restaurant. He was sorry that he had money only sufficient for a Big Mac meal, despite that it filled him to discomfort, he would have purchased another had he the PIN to the debit card.

    Finished eating, he sat and watched people and traffic, wondering what to do, wishing he had a telephone. He edged as close to the window as he could, placing as much distance between himself and other people as possible. After nearly half an hour, people looking at him wantonly for his table, he saw two police officers enter, obviously looking for lunch.

    “Excuse me, officers. I’m President Trump and I need you to take me to the White House.”

    One laughed out loud. The other peered at him with a wary smile. The smiling one asked, “Do you need to save the world?”

     Trump, in Phil’s body, furrowed his brow. “I have money. Just take me to the police station and I’ll take care of it there.”

    “What would you do at the police station?” the smiler asked.

     Trump began to fluster, annoyed that the officers appeared to mock him. “What are your names? Look, I need to call Betty Goodman. She’s my Chief of Staff. It’ll all get straightened out. Just call Ivanka!”

    On a dime, Trump’s demeanor turned from goofy to insane, leaning in toward the formerly smiling policeman.

    “Are you armed?” the formerly laughing officer asked, followed quickly by the other asking if Trump was on anything.

    “Something happened to me! I’m not me. I’m Donald Trump, the President of the United States!”

    By that time it was a scene.

    “Are we going to have to cuff you? We’d rather not, just have our lunch. Why don’t you just go on home?” the formerly smiling officer said.

    As Trump inhaled, indicating the start of another outburst, the laughing officer had Trump’s hands handcuffed behind his back within seconds, ushering him outside. The other officer was on his collar radio requesting backup in the way of transport for a disturbing-the-peace violator.

    “I know the codes!” He corrected himself. “I know where the codes are! I can blow up the whole world!”

    Police officers were trained not to fool around when it came to domestic terrorism and bomb threats.
“10-73, request transport. McDonald’s on 1000 Lawrence Street.” 10-73 was the detention of an insane person.

    “10-4.”

     Trump was allowed to make as many phone calls as he wanted at the police station, the officers there were more interested in a responsible party picking up the offending civilian than arresting him, or even going to the trouble of detaining him for psychiatric evaluation.

    After stumbling with the phone for several minutes, he gave up trying to remember either Ivanka’s or Don Junior’s numbers. After pleading, someone finally looked on a computer and gave him the White House number where he could not get beyond a switchboard operator.

    After a couple of hours, the police tired of the hassle. Also, Trump visibly calmed. They transported him to Phil’s house, the address on Trump’s driver’s license. As an act of charity, an officer scrambled over the gate to allow Trump entry into the house. Trump immediately tuned the TV to Fox, sitting to wait for the news that the President was missing. But for trips to the refrigerator and bathroom, that was where Trump remained until a knock on the front door brought him relief.

    “Yes, Mr. President. We’ve come to help you. Men then carried Trump’s anesthetized body to a black Suburban and took him to a Federally maintained safe house.
 
+++
 
    The safe house, used by various federal agencies, was a two-bedroom hunting cabin near the Potomac situated within a Federal Forest Reserve maintained by the Department of Agriculture. The house, set back from the highway by several hundred yards, was hidden by trees with no other housing for a quarter mile in any direction. The austere accommodation sat in the middle of a treeless lot, fenced by a ten-foot cinderblock wall, topped with strands of razor wire. Every door was affixed with keyed deadbolts and required a key on both sides. The single-car attached garage door was padlocked on the outside. The interior door from the garage into the house also featured an electronic lock that could be remotely operated. The bedroom door also had an electronic lock. Trump could be locked inside his bedroom should access to the house be required. All the windows were of bulletproof plexiglass and were padlocked closed. Food and supplies could be brought into the garage and left. The door unlocked and relocked remotely.

    The house was outfitted with cameras and microphones connected to a wifi that was housed in the attic.

    Off to the side of the property was a tiny guard structure, large enough for a half bath, leaving room only for a chair, a small refrigerator, and a stand that held a laptop computer.

    Donald Trump, in Phil Jansen’s body, had no phone and no computer. The guard(s) knew only that their charge was Phil Jansen, a man in protective custody.

    During a resupply, Trump yelled through the locked garage entry door, “I have money, lots of money. Call Mel... Mala...Melana. She’ll pay you. Get me out of here. I have billions of dollars.”

    “We already tried,” the delivering guard yelled back. “She said no.”

    He laughed himself to tears once out of the garage and Trump, in Phil’s body, transferred the goods to the house. Of course, the guard would never in a thousand years believe that Phil and Trump had switched bodies.

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr.Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself

The Bobby Bare song is only tangentially related, but I like it.


Chapter 4
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 4

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter, Donald Trump woke (the first time) as Phil Jansen in Jansen’s home. He managed to get to a McDonald’s and after creating a scene with policemen was transported to the police station in handcuffs for being a crazy man. As a courtesy, Trump was driven home and after a while, Hakeem Jeffries’ contacts took Trump to a safe house.
 
Chapter Four

Trump (Phil)
 
It was time for the Cabinet meeting I’d called. Monday afternoon at four, time enough for everyone to get here from wherever, but not enough time left in the day that any would try to belabor a point.

When I asked Betty to give me a seating chart an hour before the meeting, she once more acted like I was stupid. I didn’t care. In fact, it fit in my role-playing. Not only did I not know all the secretaries, but just as I guessed, Elon and Betty both had seats in the room. “Huh-uh,” I said. Secretaries only.”

“I… we…”

I gave Betty my clown smile, the one that with a little make-up I could be confused with IT. And make sure Elon does not get into the building. Speaking of clown make-up, I let Tom convince me to continue with the orange spray. He helped me with my hair, too. But I drew the line at the shoe inserts.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve probably heard some pretty crazy rumors about changes in my administration.” I heard grumbling and squeaking chairs, but no one put words to the more than palpable thoughts. “So here it is. I have not had a stroke or anything. Dr. Schweitz was here twice and can confirm that. I told him he could answer any of your concerns.

“Write this down…” Only a few cocked their pens. “Whatever we agreed on before, I want no drastic action taken for six weeks, at least. We’ll have another meeting before then. That means we’re not selling any land,” I looked at the Secretary of the Interior. “Not prosecuting any of our political opponents, or even investigating them.” The Attorney General might have sighed and relaxed a bit, I don’t know. “We’re doing nothing about Greenland. I’m not talking about Greenland anymore.

“Mr. Duffy, you better not make Pete Buttigieg look good.” I gave him my convicted felon glare. Safety first and he got the message.

“Career bureaucrats. Nobody gets fired. They’re just doing their jobs. They worked for me four years ago. It’s not their fault that the team changes colors every four years. You can move people around, but nobody gets sent off to Nome or Siberia.” I shot everybody the felonious glare. They got it.

In the next few minutes, I addressed each department. Against my better judgment, I opened the floor to questions. Right off I had to say no – no private meetings for now. Send me a memo. To some of their questions, I alternated my goofy look, dumb-bell look, and felon look, none of which was appropriate to the question asked. Having heard from all who posed a question, I closed the meeting and left, clearing my throat and motioning as if to say I leave first, clear a path.

Once out the door, I wondered who, if anyone might be the first to say the words – Article 25, the Amendment to the Constitution that allowed the cabinet to vote whether the President should be removed from office for being incapacitated, incompetent to govern. The Vice President, I am certain, would go along with it.

I was confident that I caught them all off guard. Real notions of my removal would probably be a few weeks away. They would have to hear from the cabal, their financial backers, the oligarch. I made a beeline outta there, glad that I didn’t see Betty anywhere about, though I’m sure she was there and had probably been listening by way of electronics that I didn’t know about.
 
+++
 
    The next morning Tom and I enjoyed our coffee as had become our wonderfine routine. Suddenly, Tom bolted from the counter area where he had buttered my toast. He dropped the butter container and ran to snatch the toast from my hand just before I could take a bite. Right before our eyes, the butter was coagulating to a crystal-like form. We looked at one another understanding that battle had been engaged.

    “Probably not a cabinet member,” I said. “We just had the meeting yesterday.”

    “Could be, though. They’ve had time. Could be anyone” Cabinet, Congress, Secret Service, the Party… anyone.”

    “Could we look at the video, see who accessed the kitchen?” I asked.

    “Easily doctored,” Tom replied. “And even so, the one putting the butter in the fridge might not have known it was poisoned.”

    “You sure it was…?”

    “Oh, yes sir. Want me to feed it to a dog and watch?”

    I shook my head saying no. “I’d better call the First Lady. She was coming down from New York after I addressed the U.N.”
    “Excuse me, sir, but did you open the package of briefs yourself this morning?”

    “No. They’re the new ones you bought, like we said, but I thought you went ahead and took them out of the package.”

    Tom jumped up, but I beat him to the bedroom where I stripped off my pants. I’d go commando until Tom got me another set of underwear. We agreed that the packaging would be intact, packs of three. He would replace the opened packages with new ones regularly, at least for the near future.

    That evening, late for me, there was an air catastrophe. I really chewed out the Secret Service Director for not notifying. It was about 9 o’clock and I might have already been asleep, I don’t know, but I should have been advised. Then I thought. Trump would most likely have been awake, but if asleep, very aggravated to have been woken up. Oh well, what’s done is done. Let the Secret Service director stew.

    I told Betty I wanted to make a personal appearance in the press room as soon as she could get the Secretary of Transportation here. He was out of town, some ground-breaking ceremony for a Biden project.  

    As I Trumped my way to the press room, I remembered my conversation with Hakeem, I had to be Trump. The goal was to win the House in ’26. But if I could get Trump impeached… For that, though, I would have to do even more than shoot someone on 5th Avenue.

    “It was Biden’s DEI hiring,” I said of the catastrophe, ashamed of myself for saying it. When questioned about what evidence I had to support such a claim, I simply replied that I had commonsense. I should be committed. Those poor families of the lost souls. I felt horrible as I smirked my way from the room, leaving Kirsten to deal with my calamity.
 
+++
 
    My suite in New York City had two bedrooms. Tom occupied the second. I didn’t care what anyone thought. Tom checked my food, switching plates with me once. Instead of room service, we ate protein bars and protein drinks that he’d brought. It would kill me for Tom to be poisoned, but… well, he was my hero.

    Once salutations were made, I got right to the point, checking my U.N. speech notes, but not using a teleprompter.

    “Ladies and gentlemen, friends, and members who are not so friendly.” I threw that in because as Trump, I could. “First, let me declare here and now. America is a proud member of NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. Under which is Article Five. An attack against one, is an attack against all. The only time that has ever been enacted is after September 11, 2001. And we will never forget it.” I waited through the applause.

    “An integral part of the United Nations charter is that borders shall not be changed as a result of war. We stand by that.” There was more applause.

    “America will resist aggression all over the world. Peace is our mission.” More applause. “And if we have to fight for peace, we will.” More applause. I wanted to keep it short and simple. I couldn’t make myself Trump through a speech where I wanted the message to be the message, not Trump be the message. “Pick up the fallen. Feed the hungry. Help heal the sick. And protect the weak.”

    I turned and left the podium to standing ovation. People would swear that Trump had been possessed. Let them. They couldn’t dispute that it was Trump speaking. They can analyze the tape to their hearts’ content.

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary


Chapter 5
No! Say It Ain't So! Ch 5

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Trump held a cabinet meeting where he stopped the Secretaries from dramatic changes. Tom figured out that Trump’s life was in danger. Trump reacted negatively to the commercial jet and Army helicopter collision. Trump delivered a rousing speech at the U.N., expressing sound support for the U.N. charter mission, as well as support for NATO.
 
Chapter Five

    “Tom!” I was at my wit’s end. “What if I released the Epstein files?”

    “Are you certain you’re… he’s on them?”

    I hated the way he said that, but I understood. “He has to be. Look at the flight records, at the photos with Trump and the little girls. And before you ask, I don’t care who else gets sucked into it. If they visited those little girls…”

    “I’d say, given the makeup of the House, you would probably get impeached. Maybe 50/50. But I don’t see 67 Senators voting to convict, especially not without a blue dress.”

    I knew that Tom was referring to hard evidence of the nature of Monika Lewinski’s blue dress with DNA on it.

    “Then how about if I took a gun and shot Steve Bannon dead?”

    “Impeached, not convicted. I can hear some Senators now. ‘We have precedent. Presidents are subject to the courts after they are out of office.’ And another is going to blather on about Presidential immunity.” Tom held up his hand, stopping my ridiculous argument for commonsense saying that murder is not a President’s normal duty.

    “Now if you hurt an innocent? Like you took your gun and shot Bishop Budde? Or you had some little girl, or boy… Never mind. Forget I said that.”

    Tom stopped his pacing. We were in my sleeping quarters at the White House where we could talk unobserved. “But before you did anything to be impeached for, or resigned from office, God forbid, have you figured out how to replace the Vice President?”

    My shoulders involuntarily dropped, giving Tom his answer.

“But speaking of resigning, what if I taped a resignation to go along with my written resignation that you could find in the event wonderfine wasn’t fine anymore – we’d switched back? Wouldn’t that screw the pooch?”

    Tom grinned, then chuckled. “Trump would be carrying on about being in someone else’s body. And denying what the video of himself said. Hilarious.”

    “Amendment 25.”

    “And your Vice President,” Tom said.

    “Has he done anything impeachment-worthy?” I asked.

    “You mean since the inauguration?”

    “Or before, if it’s a felony.”

    We both thought a moment.

    “You could assign him a task, make him in charge of some project or other where him being him, he couldn’t help but soil himself.”

    “Hmmm. Like investigating Justice Clarence Thomas?”

    “Convince him that only a GOP investigation would unearth the truth and not be political?”

    “Knowing that he would politicize it and engage in a cover-up.” I smiled.

    “Or assign him to investigate the Mexican cartels. Tell him to interview the leaders, that you wanted to negotiate a truce. He could get down there and get himself killed.”

    I frowned at that one. “And maybe some Secret Service agents, as well.”

    “Then poison his panties. He’s the one most benefitted by your demise.”

    “Tom, I only look like a felon. I’m liking the Supreme Court option. We could assign him investigation and reports on all nine – a restore confidence in the Court program. Tell him that the FBI can’t be trusted. That one side or the other wouldn’t believe them. That he was the only person who could carry the banner and that it would secure his future.”

    “Kavanaugh’s finances, Alito’s alliances, Robert’s allegiances concerning his wife’s Federal Court attorney work… Oh, and you have all those names of women who complained of Kavanaugh’s behavior.”

    I smiled. “All nine, full reports,” I repeated. “And a short timeline, like four weeks.”

    Tom was nodding his head. “And even if that doesn’t get him impeached, it sure won’t hurt the cause. Either a couple Justices resign, thinking you'll replace in kind, or there’s better justification for the next President to expand the court to thirteen.”

    “With Democratic Senate votes, I could put a couple in who would be considered truly centrist, with bipartisan support.”

    Tom nodded.
 
+++
 
    The Vice President wasn’t exactly delighted, but he would like investigating the cartels less. But he was happy to be off the bench so to speak.

Next, we were off to Brussells. I had to make nice. Not as easy as it would have been for Joe Biden. I couldn’t get a firm commitment from a single head of state. A few disinvited me from landing Air Force One. I called President Zelenskyy and had a perfect phone call. No, seriously, I did. I thought about asking Alexander Vindman if he would like to sit in on the call.

The beauty of being in the skin of someone who you don’t care what happens to him is that it swells four gonads. It’s a wonder I could walk around after my phone call to Putin. See, I didn’t care what he had on Trump. I, Philip Jansen could not be embarrassed by nude photos with a Russian hooker, or disclosure of an act of espionage.

“Hello, President Putin?”

Quickly after niceties, I got to the point. “I will fly to Kyiv on Thursday between nine and ten in the morning, Kyiv time.”

I didn’t pay the least attention to what he said in return, something about it being a war zone and not responsible for my safety. It was funny that he called his special military operation a war.

“Mr. President,” I said. “Air Force One will take me to Kyiv from Warsaw. Before I enter Ukraine airspace, every NATO jet will be in the air. You will see it on your satellite cameras. None will behave offensively unless provoked. I fully expect you to respond with your aircraft. But know that air is not our only tool.” I waited for the response just to be polite.

There were hints of why I should not do it and the expected bluster of retaliation. He even managed to get the word nuclear in there, though it wasn’t coherent. I, as naïve as an ordinary American could be, knew that doing anything nuclear against the President of the United States of America was far different from a tactical nuclear strike against a military unit in Ukraine, a non-NATO country. I also had a pretty good idea that Putin would not want to spend the money it would take to put a matching number of jets in the air over Belarus. And that presupposed President Lukashenko would tolerate the event taking place over his country. 
 
In any event, I would wager Putin couldn’t get half our number in the air, and keep them there long enough to make an impression. I’ll bet also that NATO generals would welcome the information learned from Putin’s attempt. No, he would do nothing. I would give Zelenskyy welcome assurances, tour something or other, and leave. No muss, no fuss.

And if Trump returned to his body before I got it done, well, what could he do but embarrass himself? I already spoiled his love affair with Putin. For whatever he might do to repair that, he might get impeached… again. And impeaching Trump as himself was far different from impeaching me, replaced by his Vice President.

All I had to do was to stay alive.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Monika Lewinski: young lady involved with Bill Clinton's impeachment
Alexander Vindman: an Army Colonel who testified at length in Trump's first impeachment
Steve Bannon: major, outspoken trump supporter
25th Amendment: Constitutional amendment detailing removal of the President


Chapter 6
No! Say It Ain't So! Ch 6

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Trump and Tom connived as to dealing with the Vice President, settling on having him investigate the Supreme Court Justices. Trump then made phone calls and arrangements to visit NATO headquarters and Kyiv, Ukraine, threatening Putin for misbehavior.
 
Chapter Six
 
(Phil's POV)

    The Secret Service was a bit of a hard sell, having Tom nearby nearly constantly. I didn’t care what they thought. Let them think we were lovers, I didn’t care. The bottom line was that I didn’t entirely trust them. We all saw the man on the roof who was somehow allowed to take multiple shots at Trump. We all heard how it seemed they were complicit in getting Trump to the Capital Building on January sixth. And we all learned about the farce behind the disappearance and destruction of the agents’ cell phones.

    No doubt they researched Tom’s background the same as I had. Fine. They saw a good American. An ex-Marine who was not gay. And they knew Trump’s penchant. So, again, the bottom line was that they couldn’t object to his presence.

    The problem I saw, was that Tom was in as much danger, if not more, than I was. Tom was a pawn. Pawns get knocked over all the time. I was the King. When the King is toppled, actions have to stand up to super scrutiny. There would be no such scrutiny for Tom. And Tom stood in the way of getting to me, as somebody, or bodies, were by now aware.

    What Tom had been busy at on this trip, besides making sure that my clean skivvies came from his own bags, was to watch what food and drink I was offered, where it came from, who carried it, that no particular plate had been handled differently. Only once did he rush to hand me an unopened bottle of water, making me know that he’d either seen hanky-panky with my water glass or simply could not guarantee its purity. I poured it into a nearby clean wine glass just so I wouldn’t have to try to drink from the plastic bottle the way I’d seen Trump do it on a video – trouble finding his mouth with both hands.

    The First Lady wanted to come to Washington. Why, I didn’t know. It was a reversal of the last term. I had to argue that my life, and hers, were in danger, that attempts had been made. She wanted to know what and when, that she’d heard nothing about any attempt. Of course, I couldn’t tell her – trust no one. There’s no telling how her life would change as widow of an assassinated President. All I knew was what I’d seen on TV over the years.
 
+++
 
    In my eyes, the European adventure was a resounding success. Zelenskyy and I parted as partners if not friends. Well, probably not friends, but I could tell he was more at ease. I really wanted to suggest he put a 2,000-pounder on top of the North Koreans, but I didn’t dare. If that somehow got to Kim Jong-Un…

There was applause after my NATO speech – muted, but at least they didn’t throw rotten eggs. And they offered to shake my hand. That was the best I hoped for at this stage.

    Putin made a speech that every Russian television channel carried. He ignored that I… Trump, went to Ukraine but did report that NATO put on an amateurish display of airpower that with nothing in reserve, could have been forfeited in minutes. His graphic was a chess board depicting all eight pawns simultaneously advancing two squares.

    Tom suggested I divert the return flight to Scotland, paying Trump a million or so at his golf course. Sounded like the right thing to do only… I don’t play golf. It would be funny, though, to let the world see Trump stumbling all over himself, scoring two or three hundred, breaking all his clubs. Nah. I had Tom look up the symptoms of bursitis and then babied my right elbow. I rode in the cart, though, making sure everyone else paid, I mean played.

Dr. Schweitz was ready for me when we returned, seeing me on the third floor. He was curious about Tom, but didn’t say anything. I’m sure that he was on to me. Not that I wasn’t Trump. He’d never seen Trump before seeing me as Trump. I think, though, that he didn’t believe I had bursitis. He probably thought I just didn’t want to play golf anymore. Some men my age can’t stand the steady decline in their game – too much pride. He said that he would send over some ibuprofen and to take two tablets… as needed.

Fine. I would flush four tablets each day down the commode.
 
+++
 
    The next morning on my walk to the Oval Office I could tell things were different. People who were talking, stopped talking as soon as they heard or saw me approach. Everybody knows what that means… they’re talking about you. And not in a good way. Were they getting suspicious? Were they plotting? I would have to show my Trump.

    The TV in my bedroom had DVR. And I knew how to use it. I skimmed through the PBS News Hour every night. Last night I noticed that there was no negative press about me. The jet/helicopter crash was old news. My ridiculous comment was all but forgotten. I would have to show my Trump. Do something despicable that I would hate – tariffs. On our friends: Canada and Mexico.

    I knew full well that tariffs would be inflationary. And retaliatory tariffs would hurt our exports and our employment. People’s disposable income would drop and the unemployment rate would rise. Everything would spiral. Recession and maybe even depression would be the natural result. And not just in America. Free trade was good for the whole world. The Republicans knew this for decades. They campaigned on it.

    Tom suggested I tour an arms manufacturing plant. I have to admit it would be brilliant. I could have Trump blaze away at a paper target of a human being. But I couldn’t do it. The next school shooting would be on me. At least in my mind it would be.

    That evening my special phone rang. It startled me because I didn’t know what the noise was. I mean, I was sure it’s a telephone ring, but I’d never heard it before, didn’t even know the particular ring – a traditional clanging bell. It was Hakeem Jeffries.

    “Mr. President, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

    “No, Hakeem. What’s up?”

    “Sir, I know you said to only use this in an emergency, for really important things, but I feel this qualifies.”

    “Sure, Hakeem. What is it?”

    “Well, sir, first of all, congratulations on your U.N. and European tour. No one could have done better. Second, the tariffs. I know you hate hurting working America, but it was a good move politically. But what I really called about is a voting rights bill that’s coming up. There’s a small chance we can pass it.”

    “You want me to…”

“No, sir,” Hakeem interrupted. “If you’re asked about it, if you would just say something like that’s a state issue, you aren’t getting involved. And just decline to make phone calls to the GOP congressmen and women.”

    “I can do that, easily.” The easily was a Trumpism. I was trying to speak more like him, but I hated throwing it in here.

    “Thank you, sir. And I just want to tell you that you know who isn’t happy, but he’s getting fed and cared for.

    He was talking about me, Phil Jansen. “Thank you, Hakeem. I just hope when we switch back I don’t have to take off a hundred pounds.”

    Hakeem laughed, still laughing as I broke the connection.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary


Chapter 7
NO! Say It Ain't So, Ch. 7, 8

By Wayne Fowler

These two short chapters are combined for efficacy. In chapter eight, I toy with the 1st person POV issue. If I change all the names and do a rewrite, I might also change to third person.

In the last chapter Trump took Tom on the European tour with him, visiting Zelenskyy in Kyiv and speaking at NATO headquarters. Trump made the jet detour to his golf course in Scotland. At home Trump imposed tariffs on Canada and Mexico. Hakeem called to congratulate him for the successful European tour, as well as to solicit help on a voting rights bill. He gave Trump a positive report on Phil Jansen’s welfare.
 
Chapter Seven
 
    I woke up in a cold sweat. It was only 2:20. I couldn’t stay in bed and slobber in my fear but I didn’t want to go out and trigger Tom into getting up so early. I was in a lather.

    The source of my fright was Phil, my own self. He had a life. The house was nearly paid for. It wasn’t much, but it was the nest egg, worth about $400,000 on today’s market. And the lot was splittable. My plan was to sell when I could draw Social Security and live cheaper in the Ozarks, within driving distance of my brother and my favorite nieces and nephews and their kids. With my old, but perfectly serviceable camper, it was a dream life, camping in state parks or wherever, going to kids’ ball games, house sitting for family while they traveled.

    But the house payments had to be made. Insurance payments. Utilities kept on. I couldn’t afford a lot of late fees or shut-off and turn back on charges. And car insurance… if you lapse, you get charged higher rates. And my truck needed serviced. Oh, and my job. I was copy editor at the Washington Post. Not a writer, just an editor. But I enjoyed the work and would like to continue another five or six years. I probably already lost that job. Lost a good job just to be the President of the United States!

    I was about to sweat thru the fresh clothes I’d put on after a shower.

    After my second shower, fear once again consumed me. Trump had my wallet and my keys. Had he already destroyed my life? Poisoned my relationships? He’d been loose, running chaotically through my stuff for how long before being taken care of according to Hakeem? With his lifestyle, I could have massive credit card debt looming. And what about when we switched back, assuming that ever happened? Oh Lord, the very thought of being imprisoned in this body the rest of my life!

    Who could I trust to get things in order? Trust no one. Tom and Hakeem. And who did Hakeem feel it was necessary to bring into the loop? Surely someone. He couldn’t do the legwork required to take care of Trump… me. How could I impose on Tom to check on my whole personal life? Maybe he could contact my brother… but there would be too many questions. And knowing Thad, my brother, he would demand to see me, to move me to his home. Can you imagine, Trump in my body at my brother’s house? Not for a minute. He’d be committed.

    Tom would do whatever it took. And Hakeem could get him my wallet and keys, but it would take time. Could I survive around here without Tom? I’d not only grown to depend on him for my safety, but for my sanity, as well.

    It was going on three when I lumbered my obesity under a painted face to the kitchen where Tom was pouring coffee. “Wonderfine,” I said. He looked at me and simply said, “Phil”. I nodded, accepting the extending cup with gratitude.

    Yes, Tom would be glad to take care of Phil. I would call Hakeem and get Tom the wallet and keys. I would detail Phil’s particulars to Tom. And most of the next two days I would mostly hibernate in front of a TV. Kill me now. Not in the ear, shoot me in the eyes!
 
+++
 
    “I want different Secret Service agents. Rotate them. Different every day, but I want familiar faces, not surprised every morning with a stranger outside my door. Just get it done.” My conflicting commands exasperated Betty, I know, but that was the point.

    “And I want different carpet here in the oval office: red, white, and blue… the flag and the stars right in front of my desk. And I want to rename it. No more Oval Office. It's more like a circle, don't you think? From now on it's the Round Office. And anyone who doesn't say that is fired.”

    “I can have drawings made,” Betty offered.

    “No. No drawings. New carpet. And get these…” I pointed to the portraits of past Presidents on the walls. I want landscapes, nice landscapes. But no mountains, I don’t like mountains.” I waved to Betty, leading her on a tour of the White House where I had little idea of it’s various rooms.

    “And stop the tours. These people just want to steal the ashtrays.” Of course there were no ashtrays in the White House, but I knew what I meant. “Who wants a parade of losers trompling through their house. It’s my house… isn’t it? Isn’t it?” Betty didn’t know that I wanted the question answered.

    “Yes sir,” she mumbled, following along.

    “What’s this?” I didn’t wait for a reply. “Dishes? This is a wasted room. Somebody could have their office in here. Clear out all these dishes. Nobody uses them anyway, Am I right?” I gave Betty time to respond. “See all this space and these ropes? Like cattle. This place is like… I don’t know, cattle pens. I like my cattle on a plate. Don’t you Betty, a nice sirloin?

    “Where does this hallway lead? Oh, outside. What are those bush things? Roses? I thought the First Lady got rid of those. They look dead.

    “What do you mean, they’re dormant? Put something in that’s not dormant. It’s a disgrace. Football. When do the football players come? You know the champions always come to the White House? Like the lancers come to the castle and, you know, salute the King. They come to the White House. They haven’t played the Superbowl yet? Oh, well make sure I’m here. You know, in the White House when they come. What do you mean if they come?”

    “Well, Mr. President, sometimes the team, or individuals if they are Olympians, belong to the other party and…”

    “That’s not possible. The champions come to the White House and… just make sure I’m here that day.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Okay. You get the point. The White House redecorating. Right?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“And no more tours. Then we can get rid of these ridiculous ropes and ugly plastic runners on the floor. Tacky. You know tacky?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Okay then. Which way is the elevator? I’m going to lie down for a while.”

“Sir, Elon Musk has an appointment for two o’clock. You agreed to a meeting.”

“Postpone it to three. No, make it four. No, make it tomorrow.”

“Sir, you’re going to California tomorrow.”

“Good. Make it tomorrow afternoon.” I walked into the elevator and pressed the close door button.
 
Chapter Eight
 
    I woke up the next morning confused. My head was throbbing with each pulse. It was bad enough that I thought I might, if I ever got out of bed, call on Dr, Schweitz to take my blood pressure. Then I rolled to my side and felt something amiss. The clock on the bedside table read 3:41, but it was a different clock. And there was no window where there had been. And no TV on the wall. I sprang out of bed on wobbly feet, wishing I hadn’t moved so sharply. This was not the White House. The bathroom mirror confirmed what the sight of the pajamas I was wearing told me – I was Phil Jansen.

    Running to the front door of the little cottage I’d never seen before, I discovered the front door locked, a deadbolt requiring a key to unlock, preventing exit. The back door from the kitchen was locked, but I could open it. Though barefoot, I ran out, nearly destroying an aluminum screen door in the process. The sizeable backyard was enclosed with a ten-foot high cinderblock wall. The top four feet appeared to be of a different construction than the bottom six, old work, but different. I figured that the government added the top rows after buying it – probably for some sort of safe house. The steel walk-through gate at the back was secured with a padlock.

    Back in the house, I discovered that my special phone was back in the White House in the bedroom with Trump. After taking care of business and getting dressed, I sat sipping Diet Coke, waiting for daylight to do a better recon of my situation.
 
+++

Tom’s POV
 
    “Good morning, Mr. President.” I didn’t expect any response, let alone a wonderfine of any sort. He didn’t. I opened a Diet Coke that he wordlessly accepted. Can I fix you anything? A sausage biscuit, an egg benedict?”

    “A sausage biscuit, please.”

    He sat waiting for the frozen Jimmie Dean to be ready.

    While he ate, I absented myself, waiting for him to leave the floor before entering his quarters to begin my duties… and to retrieve the special phone.

    I called Hakeem, but did not leave a message. When Trump’s – Phil’s – phone rang a little after noon, I answered it. “They’ve switched back,” I replied to Hakeem’s greeting.

    The silence made me think he’d disconnected. He knew better than to ask if I was sure.

    “What can I do?” he finally asked, forever endearing him to my bosom.

    “Sir. The switch lasted ten days. We don’t know what caused it, or if it will repeat. And if it does, for how long the next time. I’d like to help Phil. But if we released him, what would we do when and if the switch happened again? Could we get Phil, Trump, back to safety?”

    Again, the silence was unnerving. I appreciated that Hakeem took time to think, but… Tired of waiting, I asked him. “Congressman, is there any way I could get to Phil and, I don’t know, at least let him know what’s going on?”

    “Sure. But tell me. Did Trump, this morning, act as if he was aware that he’d been in someone else’s body the past ten days? Does he know that he’s been someone else?”

    Now it was my turn to freak him out with the silent treatment as I thought about the ramifications of both Trump and Phil’s amnesia. Because Trump was unaware. “I’m guessing, sir, that Trump is just now learning the extent of what he’s done the past ten days and he’s thinking that he might be losing his mind. He won’t want to let on, for fear of the 25th.”

    I could hear Hakeem nodding his head.

    “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can with Phil’s address and how to approach the house. You might consider a couple days of vacation, or sick leave, until we get a solution. I want to stay away from having a man inside the White House, some Watergate-type scenario.”

“If you would like, you can take our friend home, to his house, but only if you can get him back to the safe house if…”

“With a dart gun, I could. Thank you, sir. I’ll leave this morning. And I’ll have the phones, mine and Trump’s with me.” We disconnected and I left the White House within the hour supposedly with Covid-like symptoms.

+++
 
    “You’re kidding, right? This is some kind of joke and they accidentally picked me instead of Michael Douglas?”

    “I saw that movie. It was a good one. Sean Penn. No, Phil. You wanna go for lunch and I’ll explain the last ten days? We need to go to your house and take care of your business, too. But just so you know… well, you won’t know. But I’m going to inject you with a tranquilizer gun…” I reached into my pocket and showed it to him. “… if you Jekyll into Trump.”

    Phil laughed out loud. “Let’s go,” he said. “Take out pizza?”

    I nodded.
 
+++
 
    The pizza wasn’t that good, but Phil liked it. I guess being Trump for ten days would do that to a person.

    “You’re kiddin’, right? We went to the U.N.? I met with foreign dignitaries. And Zelenskyy? Oh man, I wish I remembered. I think it's there, just fuzzy. Man! I bet Betty Goodman wants to kill me.”

    I chuckled. “And the Secret Service. They probably do too. Phil, you need to think hard about your last day… and night, before the switch happened. Whad you eat? Whad you do? Did you do some sort of meditation? Watch some weird thing on TV?”

    Phil thought, saying nothing before going into his bedroom. He came back out with a paperback novel. “I was reading this. Ten days ago? On one hand, it was just last night, but on another, it was years ago.”

    He handed me the James Patterson and Bill Clinton book: The President Is Missing. “I dog-eared where I left off,” he said, pointing toward the book. The dogear was page 277 of the 528.

    “Do you mind if I read for a little bit while you take care of whatever you need to? Pay bills and the like? Maybe call and see if you still have a job?”

Phil’s face paled, draining of blood. His shoulders slooped. “I never thought…”

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to comfort him. Just do what you have to do for a little while anyway. I paged back to the previous dog-eared page, sat down and began to read. Learning nothing, I turned back to the beginning of the book and began skimming. I saw nothing paranormal anywhere. When Phil came into the room and sat down, I gave it up, handing the book back to him.

“Think of anything?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m fired is all I know.”
 
“One thing I thought of, “I began … “in case we switch again, get a locksmith out here to dead bolt that back door, keyed locks on both sides. I don’t think Trump could get free, but bad guys might be able to get in. And they might convince Trump to unlock the door for them.”
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary


Chapter 8
No, Say It Ain't So, Ch. 9,10

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapters Trump (Phil) was terrorized by fears of what might be happening to his (Phil’s) personal life. He and Tom resolve to take care of matters. Then Trump torments Betty with an insane morning.

Phil and Trump switched back after having spent ten days as each other. Tom and Hakeem spoke and agreed that Tom would take vacation time to help Phil. Phil and Tom have been unable to determine how or what happened to cause the switch.
 
Chapter Nine
Tom
 
    “You know, Phil. I never asked if you even wanted to turn back to Trump.” It took a few minutes, but Phil finally stopped staring into his backyard and turned to me.

    “It’s a scary prospect. What if I became stuck There? Would you?” Without waiting for a response, Phil continued. “But look at the good I could do… we could do. At the harm we could prevent. The lives saved around the world.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I know… a bit grandiose.”

    “Not at all, Phil. Trump would never help hurting and dying third-world people of color in a million years. He’s ready to let Putin flatten and gobble Ukraine. He doesn’t care if Putin moves into Poland or Moldova or the Baltics. Shoot, he’s ready to kill Obama-Care and doesn’t give a flip whether Americans earn a pension or not.”

    “So, you’re in?” Phil asked.

    “I’m in. I’ll help you get back into the White House – if I can. Wish it was easy. Tell me, the night before the event. You were reading this book.” I held up the paperback. “Did you take anything… Melatonin, antihistamine, pain killer. Did you have a drink? Smoke any pot?”

    Phil laughed. “Don’t smoke, dip, or chew. And don’t go out with girls who do.”

    I gave him the perfunctory chuckle.

    “Don’t drink or smoke dope – you know all that. I’ve taken antihistamine, but not for sleeping. Don’t even know what Melatonin is, but I’ve heard of it.”

    “You’re a regular Boy Scout,” I quipped, smiling so he’d know I was joking.

    “Ever dabble in the occult?”

    “I’ve read all Jim Butcher’s books.”

When I didn’t respond, he added, “The Dresdin Files? Some of the X Files came from them.”

    “Lately?” I asked. He shook his head in the negative.

    “Years ago.”

    “What do you remember about that day and the evening? Eat any mushrooms?”

    Phil grinned. “I might have seen Alice, but not the one with a restaurant. No, seriously. I watched the news, PBS. It was depressing. Trump had been President for a day-and-a-half. My son called. We talked for a bit, nothing unusual going on. I looked on Prime and Netflix for a movie to get my mind off politics. After trying several and quitting them, I read my Bible for a few minutes and then got ready for bed. I read some in that before going to sleep.” He’d pointed at the paperback.

    “What did you read in the Bible?” Phil thought a minute before walking over to the table beside me where a Bible sat. I guessed that I was sitting where he normally did. He opened to where there was a bookmark.

    “First Samuel, chapter 28. I’m reading it through.”

    I nodded, encouraging him to go on.

    “That’s the part where Saul consults with a medium, a witch, and calls up Samuel.”

    “You didn’t call up anyone before going to bed, did you?” I was only half kidding. Something very strange happened that night. But I was quite sure it was not the devil’s doing. “Do you believe in witches, witchcraft?” I asked.

    “Paul did,” Phil answered. “He got in trouble with the authorities when he prayed to shut one up. Witches and such are mentioned in several places in both testaments.”

    I nodded. “The ten days mean anything to you? Like if it was to happen again, could we count on ten days?”

    Phil shrugged his shoulders.

    “Well, I can’t come up with anything. I could stay, or…”

    “Would you?” Phil asked. “I have a spare room. My son and daughter stayed with me a few times. We’d see the sights, go to some ballgames.”

    “What about your work at the White House?”

    “Not real sure I have a job there anymore. Benjamin, my boss didn’t like that you, Trump, adopted me. Messed with his control thing. I fully expect with me going home with Covid symptoms, he put someone else there and I think he would ask Trump if everything was all right. He’d use that as an excuse to leave whoever on the third floor and reassign me. Like I said, even if I still had a job.”

    “How will I get you back, if, you know, I switch back?”

    “You knew who you were all the time, right? That you were Phil Jansen and what all you’d done the day before? No blackout time?”

    “Yeah. Remember, I told you my name and address?”

    “Well then. You’ll know to call for Benjamin and insist he get you back – me back or him gone. An offer he can’t refuse.”

    “Godfather him,” Phil returned, smiling. “Speaking of waking up with a horse’s head… I’d really like you to zap me if I wake up as Trump. I wouldn’t like him around here ruining my life.”

    “I could do that. And if it doesn’t happen in the next few days, I could come back to be here on the tenth day, just in case.”

    “I like it. But we need to do some grocery shopping. You could get some beer if you’d like.”

    Phil did a quick inventory of his pantry and fridge. We decided to drive to Arlington, Virginia, to not take the risk of being me being recognized, not that I would be, but several have seen me with the President. I just wouldn’t want Phil to be photographed, or someone with authority accessing some closed-circuit camera footage.
 
+++
 
    It was the fourth day, a Tuesday. I woke just after two AM with a bad feeling. Hanging around would be stupid. In thirty-five minutes I was at Phil’s house using the key he’d given me to gain entry, tranquilizer gun in hand. I made myself comfortable in the chair that gave me a view of Phil’s bedroom door.

    When he shot me a “Who are you?” I got him tranquil and caught him in time to firemen’s carry him to the back seat of my car.

    “Hello, Hakeem? Yeah, it’s Tom. I have our friend in the backseat of my car. I can be at the house in about an hour.”

    “He’s out?”

    “Cold.”

    “Might be a bit of a wait, but I’ll get someone to open and close.”

    “Thank you, sir.”

    We disconnected at the same time. I was going to have to go home to clean up and get dressed, but I didn’t expect a call from Benjamin for a few hours, mid-morning, probably.

    I wondered how Phil – Trump/Phil – was going to learn what all he might have to reverse.

    I bought a Covid test kit to take in with me. Test in front of Ol’ Benjamin. I also bought a meth/cocaine test kit. I figured that Don Junior was due, if he wasn’t there already.
 
Chapter Ten
 Trump (Phil)
 
    “Wonderfine, Tom. I’m wonderfine. You back yet?... Good. Anyone else there? Cleaning people? Good. I’ll be up for lunch in about thirty.” I was in the Round Office reading about my ridiculous cabinet nominations.

    All right back to work. It actually worked for the best. Trump was here to deal with Junior. And he didn’t play any golf to blow my bursitis excuse. He also signed a few more Executive Orders that I would have wrenched a gut signing. I’ve already figured out how to have a press conference and confuse the Dickens out of the issues. No one will know how to implement the orders and the Cabinet Secretaries will have to put them on pause.

    As far as I know at this point, the Vice President is continuing with his investigations. In the four days he was here, Trump never once spoke to him, the Vice President.

    The bad news is good and bad. Trump got into a shouting match with Musk. Elon threatened him. Trump threatened back using the government contracts and also higher taxes along with an audit. The bad news is that they kissed and made up. But it’s still a win – they will trust one another even less than before.
 
+++
 
    “Tom! Good to see you again. Hope you didn’t hurt me.”

    Tom laughed. “Mr. President, we should probably go on the assumption that this trip may only be four days. But there’s no way to know. Did you have any warning? Any sense of the event?”

    “None, woke up here at about two. Managed to go back to sleep for an hour. Your replacement did not come in and make coffee. I used that to have him reassigned.”

    “Anything I can do for you?

    “Not as of this moment. But since Trump was not poisoned, we can relax on that front.”

    “I’m not so sure, Mr. President. It might be slow-acting. He, you, might have been exposed, but without symptoms yet. We should remain vigilant.”

    I nodded. “The cook came in right after our conversation. Grilled cheese and soup okay?”

    “Sure. I feel like Trump ate a thousand hamburgers. Did you tell the cook no mayo?”

    “I did. For both of us.”

    “Good. Thank you.” I lowered my voice just in case. “Does Hakeem know?”

    Tom nodded.

    “I’m going to push Congress to pass a law doing away with the debt limit. The Democrats will be mad. They want to use it against the Republicans – a little turnabout is fair play. But the truth is that the Democrats have always hated that law. It’s stupid. If you have a problem with debt, deal with it in the budget. If you pass a spending bill, you automatically approve the associated rise in debt. Period.”

    Tom just nodded. I nodded back.

    “And that’s what I did. I sent over a bill. Identical language to both the House and the Senate. I called Schumer and teased him about asking for this very thing four years ago. He wanted to bitch at me for destroying Civil service. Of course, I agree with him, but I couldn’t tell him that, not as Trump. We both got a little loud. I dared him to send the border bill over, the one I killed last year before I was even President. He said he would. So now I have to call Johnson in the House and tell him that I want it.

 “I’m pretty sure Trump, the real Trump, if he’s here, will sign them.”

The pins are in the air…pins, or balls, or knives, I don’t know. Anyway. The juggling has started. I have to keep everything in the air and be sure to catch them in the right order. And no doubt others will be tossing their own pins, or balls, or whatever that I will have to add to the mix. That is, if I’m still in Trump’s body.
 
+++
 
    There was a dinner that night that I didn’t know about until Betty reminded me at about four o’clock. Some Florida millionaires. Ron DeSantis wanted to come, but Betty told him no herself. Hah!

    Betty acted confused when I told her that I wanted to look over the menu. I guess I’d never done that before. But then again, Betty was not here in my first term, so she wouldn’t really know. Of course, it was too late to make any changes. I just wanted the guest list that was attached. I looked them up when I got upstairs. Well, I had Tom look them up. I wouldn't know their nicknames, but felt okay about their first names. I could stumble my way around small talk, mumble and act dumb, offering stupid grins, smile for photos, and then act extremely tired.

    Most of them would either think I was worn out from the schedule Project 2025 had me under, or that age was catching up to me. Some might think I was losing my mind. I didn’t care.
 
+++
 
    “Wonderfine, Tom,” I said the next morning at 3:45.

    “The First Lady is here,” Tom whispered. “In her room. Got here at about ten. That’s all I know except that she asked for breakfast to be ready at 9:30.”

    I nodded. “I think I’ll go to the Oval Office at six. I want to study all, every one of Trump’s Executive Orders.”

    Tom nodded as he handed me a cup of coffee.

    Just after ten, the First Lady arrived at the Oval Office. I puckered and leaned in to kiss her cheek. She offered me a scowl and looked around the office. “I thought you were going to remodel this… this office.” Her grimace preceded her gaze.

    I harumphed, soliciting a furrowed brow along with the scowl. “What are you doing today?” I asked.

    She didn’t answer. My immediate guess, the way she was dressed, was some photo shoot, probably for a magazine. Her outfit looked too complicated for a shopping trip.

    “I want a different bodyguard,” she said. “These don’t carry packages. And every woman they gave me last time was… not too pretty. And there is no way to dress with her gun. And why do I have to have two every time I go out?”

    “I’ll talk to…”

    “No, Donald. I will talk. Your talk does nothing.”

She left the office without offering me her cheek. The best thing for me was the separate bedrooms. Worked perfectly. I should have asked about Barron. But then that might have been out of character. I had no idea.

By lunchtime, I had a top-secret, eyes-only list that I had to protect from Betty. I’m sure that would be out of character, but she could check my DNA all day long. Any fears that I was an imposter would fade away. I’m physically Donald Trump. But if she was in on putting me away, should I stray from the program… No, this list was for me. But I would really like to have regular sessions with Hakeem or Schumer. No way. I had to forget about that.

Next, I asked Betty for a complete list of my nominations, both filled, filled but not yet confirmed, and the positions yet to be filled. I called Senator Thune and Speaker Johnson for the voting records of their members. I specified that I wanted to know, of those now in office, who my most loyal supporters were, as well as the most disloyal. I’d already prefaced it with hints that I was looking at administration positions, that every spot was on the table, whether already filled, or still open. Let them think I was an idiot. I didn’t care. In fact, that would work to my benefit.

What I had in mind was to appoint to an office whatever it took to sabotage Johnson’s majority. The Senate was obviously too much of a long shot. And any red Senator who might accept a position would more than likely be from a red state and be replaced by a red governor. The House was my best shot.

Before leaving for lunch, I instructed Betty on which executive orders I would rescind, and who I wanted to see that afternoon. Also, there were two orders that the real Trump reversed my reversals during the last few days. This was going to be fun.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary


Chapter 9
No! Say It Ain't So!, Ch 11-12

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapters Phil and Tom attempt to determine the trigger for the switch between Phil and Trump. The second switch occurs after four days of Phil living in his own home, as himself. On the fourth day, Tom woke early and drove to Phil’s letting himself in and waiting for Phil to get up. When Phil asked who he was, Tom tranquilized him and then arranged with Hakeem for Phil to be once again locked in the safe house.

Tom and Phil, as Trump, discuss plans. Phil learns that the First Lady is in residence. He escapes detection from her. Phil plans administrative actions with the goal of confounding and reversing Trump’s agenda. He also plots to appoint sufficient red members of Congress to remove the Republican speaker.
Combining these two chapters made it a bit long – sorry.
 
Chapter Eleven
Trump/Phil
 
    Tom said, “Mr. President, I was thinking.”

    I could tell that he was waiting until he was sure it was me in Trump’s body. We had no reason to believe that a switch could take place during the daytime, but that didn’t mean that it couldn’t. It was entirely plausible that the transfer could streamline itself. And wouldn’t that be awkward, Tom suggesting how to undo Trump to Trump, the real Trump?

    “Suppose you make some significant appointments, I mean in your scheduling, have substantial donors show up for a meeting unannounced, Betty unaware. You could be elsewhere, or actually not know them, even if the real Trump did. And it would even work if the switch happened and they showed up with no one aware.”

    My silence wasn’t disapproval, but working it out, jumping to the next steps. Finally, I said, “We’re going to have to see what we can do about getting you a pay raise.”

    Tom laughed, asking me to please not. He’d rather try to remain as far under the radar as possible.

+++
 
    “Congressman Sheppard. Thank you for coming. Please have a seat.” I waved to the seat in front of my desk.

    “That’ll be all, Betty.” I could tell that that was not how she preferred to be dismissed. And, that she wanted to be made aware of who I’d invited to come see me. Too bad, I thought. Quit, if you don’t like it.

    “Richard, okay if I call you Richard. Or Rich/ maybe Rick. That’s what I’ll call you, you look like Rick. Look, Rick.”

    I hadn’t given him an entry, actually cut him off when it came to what I would call him. “Last time, my last term, you only voted the way I wanted 89%.” He started to speak, but I cut him off again. I knew that he would explain his votes based on the state’s need for immigrant meat packers. “I have the Director of the FDA open, or it will be if you want the job. Put you in perfect position, a couple years there. You’re from Kansas. Lotta agriculture and meat processing. You didn’t know I knew that. I know a lot. I’ll tell ya. A lot. 89%. But see a couple years at FDA and you can walk in to the Kansas governor’s office. Good way to end your career, don’t you think? What are you, 64? 72 after two terms as Governor? Think about it, walking around Kansas called Governor the rest of your life, invited to every party, judging every beauty contest?” I gave him my lascivious grin. “Better than being primaried, huh?” That threw him. He thought he was safe.

    “Tell you what. Take the rest of the day. Call your wife, Mildred, right? Three kids, Seven grandkids?”

    He looked like I’d ruptured him. Next came Congressman Anne Colfax. She literally bounced into the office, no doubt anxious to get a photo with me. After she took her seat, I opened the folder. “Congresswoman, it doesn’t look good. A bad look, actually. At a time when I’m cleaning house, draining the swamp, you might sink my ship, so to speak. First, you failed to disclose your criminal record…”

    “That was… I was underage. That was sealed. I didn’t have to…”

    I overpowered her. “And then during the campaign, your first campaign, you racked up over 15,000 miles on one of your expense reports. Now we both know that you didn’t drive 400 miles a day. But the trouble is, the other side can prove you falsified the report by the mileage when you traded cars. When you won the election you bought a new car.”

    Anne’s face blistered red. She was speechless.

    “Here’s a resignation letter. I need you to sign it now, save our party from embarrassment.

    “But I…”

    I pushed the letter and a pen to her. She was crying as she signed, but sign, she did.

Congressman Quick from North Carolina was next. I could see his confused expression as he watched Anne Colfax leave.

    “Congressman Quick. Come in. have a seat.” I waved to the one just vacated. Give me just one minute.”

    I took Anne’s resignation to Betty asking her to make copies and to deliver copies to the press.

“Leonard, right. I’ll call you Leo. That all right? Look Leo.” I knew full well that he preferred to be called Red for his red hair, but by his last name when speaking to those not his good friends. Once again, I did not allow for mutual exchange. “100% voting record for me last term.” I smiled stupidly and nodded. As soon as I saw his jaw move as if to speak I filled the airspace. “You’re in the Air National Guard. Captain. A pilot. You have a future. I see you as the Ambassador to the European Union. I guarantee Colonel after four years. Irish, right? Ireland’s EU. You could stick it to the King.” Of course, he knew I meant the King of England, the historical enemy of all good Irishmen. “Fly around the Alps. Be right in the middle of it if things go south. Your father was a decorated hero in Bosnia. He was a pilot, too. I see Secretary of State, and then who knows… maybe run for President. You have a future, Leo. I’m ready to submit your name.”

    “I’m flattered, Mr. President.”

    “Good. Submit your resignation and I’ll have Marco, you know Marco, right? The Secretary of State? He’ll walk you around the Senate offices. You’ll be in Brussels by the end of the week. Any questions?”

     Trump ushered ‘Leo’ from the office and instructed Betty to send a message to the Senate leader’s office that Leo be confirmed immediately. Also, that I wanted a press conference to make appointment announcements, the two I’d just made along with repeating some of mine and the real Trump’s nominations.
 
+++
 
    “Ladies and gentlemen.” I gave them my stupidest grin and sucked air through my teeth. If I could, that would be my gift to Trump, breaking him of that silly habit. I named off several appointments and nominations, repeated some previously announced, expressing my support and desire that they be confirmed immediately, 100%. The last two were Sheppard and Quick. That information did not go unnoticed.

    “Mr. President," one of the reporters began. “In nominating Congressmen Sheppard from Kansas and Quick from North Carolina, and after Congresswoman Colfax’s resignation, you realize, don’t you, that the Republican Party is reduced to the minority, that the Democrats will be in the majority and will vote, more than likely, for Hakeem Jeffries as the Speaker of the House?”

    “No. You have it wrong. See, that’s why I’m President and you’re not. Common sense. Next question.” Of course, the reporter was right and I was wrong.

    The same reporter, as I knew he would, charged back. “Mr. President. The count, with these two will be tied factoring in the vacancies.”

    “Speaker Johnson’s vote will break all tie,” I confidently declared. "And even with one absence, the tie goes to the party in power and that’s me. Next question.”

    “Mr. President!” was screamed from every corner. Everyone wanted to be the one to call me out.

    I gave my press secretary a dumb look, soliciting a minute shake of her head. “That’s all I came to say. The press conference is over.” Then I slouched off.
 
+++
 
Johnson didn’t like it, but after a point of order, a new election for the Speaker of the House resulted in Hakeem’s speakership on the first ballot. He was now in line to be the President of the United States of America right behind my Vice President. It was time for a progress report from him.
    
Chapter Twelve
 Trump (Phil)

    After the press conference where I, operating as the President, managed to throw the Congress into chaos, went directly to the third floor, ignoring Betty’s pleas. There were too many White House staff people and Secret Service agents around to risk a conversation with Tom. I plopped on a living room couch and turned on the news, CNN, which had gone right wing, but was the best option at that moment. Tuning in to MSNBC would be too far out of character for Trump.

    I ignored the ringing phone.

    The news was about as I expected. Surfing the channels, I found one that carried the roll call vote of the House of Representatives speaker election. Good enough to while away the afternoon.

    Later that afternoon Melania returned. I didn’t say anything to her, not even responding to her cryptic inquiries concerning my schedule. She had a Chief of Staff of her own whose job was to keep up with that. I figured Melania only wanted to pick a fight. We traded pleasantries and engaged in small talk over a dinner of some German or Dutch dish that I didn’t care for. I figured Melania had requested it. At least she seemed to enjoy it. I bet she knew that I hated it.
 
+++
 
    “Mr. President!” It was a Secret Service agent. I was reading, something I felt I had to do in my suite, not where I could be seen. I’d Googled a book on the supernatural/paranormal. It wasn’t much help, but I wanted to skim through it anyway. “Sir, you’re needed in the situation room.”

 I was dressed in less than two minutes and behind the agent.

My Acting Intelligence Director was already there along with a general. I hope I wasn’t supposed to know him. The Secretary of State arrived a moment behind me, soon enough that the Acting Director started over with his analysis of what was happening.

“Sir,” he began again, speaking to me, but eyes darting to the Secretary of State. “Putin is on the phone waiting for your response. He called…” He looked at his watch. “Eleven minutes ago. His aide called a few minutes before that telling us to prepare for the call. Normally we have an hour or so heads up… protocol.”

“What’s he want?” I asked.

The Secretary of State interrupted him even as his lips began to reply. “Has there been any notable military action?”
“The last couple of days, everything in the water has steered toward our coasts, but that’s fairly normal behavior. Reports are that most of his available long-range bombers are in the air. But again, that’s routine. They do that on a regular basis, just to keep us on our toes.”

“Or to make us lazy, catching us off guard just once,” the general said.

“Get him on the line,” I said, unnecessarily waving for the receiver since the man pushed a button and had Putin on the speaker.

The translation of his first remarks had to do with my reneging on an agreement I’d made three days prior – when the real Trump was here. Everyone in the room glared at me. Evidently, I made the call without their knowledge.

“I have still the photos and files…”

“Vladimir,” I shouted, shutting him and his interpreter up. “I don’t care what files and photos you have. Hear me, I no longer care. In fact, my finger is on the button, you know the one, the button, right this minute. Do you hear me?”

I waited for the next words I thought might be responding. “My finger is on the button. In the next hour turn your ships around, land your jets, and pull the Korean soldiers from Ukraine. This will not be an international fight. I want to see the first Koreans leaving for home tomorrow. You think I’m not serious. I’m crazy serious.

“Good-bye, Vladimir. Send your files to the press, to Melania, I don’t care. My finger is on the button.”

I stabbed all the phone’s buttons until the Acting Intelligence Director reached over and tapped the right one.

No one asked about the mysterious files, though I’m sure they all wanted to. What did I care if Trump was photographed with a Russian hooker, or in a compromising position, or proven to be short-changed?

I left the room to what was first a cacophony of noise, but utter silence before the door closed behind me. I’m sure they all thought I was crazy.
 
+++
 
    “Good morning, Mr. President.”

    Tom moved neither to the coffee maker nor to the refrigerator but waited for my wonderfine. I gave it to him with a genuine smile.

    “I’m glad to see you this morning, Tom, especially glad.”

    “Oh, bad night?”

    I glanced toward the hallway where a Secret Service agent might be. I also glanced toward the cameras where for not the first time I wondered if someone else could activate the audio. Or if someone was good enough at lip reading to record my words. Putting my finger to my lips, I whispered that we should take our coffee into my suite. After last night’s phone call incident, it wouldn’t surprise me for Intelligence to activate some sort of surveillance protocol.

    In my room I gave Tom the chair while I sat on a bench. He pinched his lips and furrowed his brow as I related the previous night’s blow-by-blow.

    “So Trump called Putin and promised to do something, or make some announcement that you did not make. You think there are any notes in the Oval Office?”

    “Didn’t see any. But I wasn’t looking.”

    “Who else do you think might be in on it. Somebody had to help him make the call.”

    That we agreed Trump was incapable of calling Putin unassisted didn’t need to be said.

    “What if it has to do with that meeting between you, Trump, and Putin? The one in Greenland? You remember, no American present and Trump confiscated the Russian translator's notes?”

    I nodded. “Could be. If Trump committed treason, I hope Putin does out him.”

    Tom nodded. “How’s the Vice President’s investigation going? How’s the timeline going to work?”

    “What if he offers an update, or raises a question to the real Trump?”

    “That might be a problem,” I said. I shrugged my shoulders and looked at my half cup of cold coffee. “Let’s go back out there and microwave this.”

    “I’ll make fresh,” Tom said, leading the way.

    “Another thing, Tom. I’ll try to mumble so pay close attention. It’s going on four days now. And last time…”

    Tom nodded that he understood Phil was talking about being switched back.

    “I’m wondering about distance. What if I was on the other side of the world, thousands of miles away.”

    Tom smiled. “Can you do that on short notice?”

    I smiled. “I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii. Then I jump up to Alaska and…” I held up air quotes with my hands… “review the troops.”
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
MarcoRubio: Secretary of State
Kirsten: Trump press secretary


Chapter 10
No! Say It Ain't So! Ch 13

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapters Trump (Phil) appointed two republican Congressmen to Executive Offices and convinced a Congresswoman to resign, flipping the House of Representatives to the Democrats (Hakeem).
 Phil, as Trump, survived an evening with Melania. Later that evening he took an emergency call from Putin. Putin evidently was threatening to out Trump over some mysterious file. Trump threatened nuclear war. Demanding Koreans exit Ukraine.
 
Chapter Thirteen
 Trump (Phil)
 
    On the fourth consecutive night as Trump, Phil was comfortably ensconced on the top floor of the Honolulu Four Seasons, certain that he’d made furious those deposed from the entire floor. When he awoke, he sent a simple text to Tom’s phone: ‘up?’. The Secret Service had by then learned to afford Tom full access. Neither cared what any of them thought. Tom made coffee that they enjoyed on the balcony. He did not require the secret code word since the real Trump would never have texted him.

    “Feel anything at all?” Tom asked. “Wake up in the night for anything?”

    “I woke once, at least. But no different from normal. A jet, maybe. But I sensed nothing.”

    “Wish we could say that meant something, that it didn’t happen.”

    I nodded, enjoying the pleasant atmosphere, the warm breeze.

    “Mr. President, with yesterday’s chaos, I didn’t have a chance to pass on Hakeem’s gratitude. Great work, by the way. Too bad you can’t do the same to the Senate.”

    I nodded. “Assumed. Look, the next time I’m switched… no, get Hakeem to do it now. Put together a box of books. I’ll make you a list. In the big one… Atlas Shrugged. Put in another burner phone with a charger. Tell Hakeem to have it hidden in the garage. There’s a small workbench. Make the box small enough to hide, though.”

    Tom nodded. “I wonder, in the event you have a really big deal going on and you can’t afford for Trump to muck it up, what would happen if you didn’t sleep at all that night, took a pill?”

    “I wouldn’t trust a pill. Don’t wanna go there, but I could call you. Play chess all night, or something.”

    “Something to consider, is all. We just don’t know enough about it. Like if it would grab you as soon as you did fall asleep?”

    “I thought about journalling. You know, to try to plot a trigger for the switching.”

    Tom winced.

    “Yeah, I remember when Hillary’s Rose law Firm billing register was found by the cleaning staff. Best to not write anything down.”
    
+++
 
    “Okay, where are you with the Supreme Court?” I had the Vice President in the Round Office sitting in front of me like a schoolboy. Sitting in the chair that I’d had the legs cut short by two inches made him look up at me. Giving him a sense of comradery and with a nod toward team building, I apprised him of the Putin call, leaving out any reference to Putin’s folder.

    “Well, sir, there’s nine of them…”

    I thought about taking away his chair altogether, making him sit on the floor.

    “… and I had to start somewhere, so I began with the most recently appointed, Ketanji Jackson.”

    I sighed heavily, followed by that annoying sucking air between my teeth. I just couldn’t break that habit. I let him continue.

    “In High School she wrote a story about her debate coach that could imply an inappropriate relationship.”

    I gape-jawed him.

    “And in college one of her term papers was strongly supportive of Marxism.”

    That was it. Enough. “What about as an adult, something we can actually use? Did she kill anyone, rob any banks? 
 
Perjury, lies, conflict of interest?”

    “Well, actually, she recused herself from a couple cases that she would have been the swing vote.”

    “Nothing else? Nothing? Move on.”

    “So. Next is Amy Coney Barrett. Five kids.”

    I slammed the pen I was fidgeting to the desk. He got the message.

    “Nothing on her.”

    “No perjury? Didn’t she reverse herself from her confirmation hearings?”

    The Vice President crossed his eyes. Of course, he knew that I, well Trump, had appointed her to reverse Roe v. Wade.”

    “Well, that’s not really perjury, it…”

    “Next.” I knew he’d find nothing significant on Barrett.

    “Brett Kavanaugh.”

    “I handed you the hundreds of complaints myself. Investigations were practically done for you,” I quipped.

    “Uh, we couldn’t reach most of them, the women.”

    “Who paid off his credit card debt? Paid his country club fee? Where’d his quarter million down payment for his house come from? Did you ask him?”

    “Uh, no we didn’t interview him.”

    “Now, as I see it, everything is done but his answers to inquiries. What am I missing? And you’ll get those, right? 
Next.”

    “Neil Gorsuch.”

    “He’s clean. Don’t waste your time on him. Next.”

    “Kagan…”

“Jump up to Alito and his flags.”

“He said, she said. Just semantics.”

“Semantics? You think I don’t know that word?”

The Vice President, who’d been squirming, totally flustered, turned crimson.

“Okay, he might skate. Breyer, forget him. Move to Clarence.”

“Clarence Thomas, nominated by…”

I had picked up my pen so I could slam it down again.

“Sir, where…?”

I’m pretty sure the VP was going to ask where we were going with this.

“ProRepublica did all your work for you. Did you interview those people?”

“Uh, sir, where are we going with this? Thomas votes with us. He gave that Florida judge…”

“Look. I’ll be up front with you. I’m looking to the future. Thomas, I’m sure, at his age and me in office to nominate his successor, he’ll retire before 2028. But we can’t be sure we have the Senate after ’26. I’m like J. Edgar Hoover, but smarter.” I grinned a Trump grin. “Your report is to protect the Court, anticipate attacks. I’ll see Thomas gets a copy and get him to resign in ’26.

“Then is the beauty of my plan. I need someone we like, and who is young enough to stay there thirty, forty years. How old are you? See, if you followed me here in the Oval… And that might not be until ’32. But the people hate you. Ever since that Ohio thing.”

I almost slipped calling it the Oval Office, but he didn’t seem to catch it. He winced and began rapid-fire blinking at the gist of my remarks.

“Yeah. They hate your guts, believe me. So in ’28 you’re forty-four years old. You aren’t selling any more books, either. People hate you, so I’ll have a different running mate, someone who can win, but you’ll be set for life. See, if I put you in the Supreme Court now.”

“I don’t think…”

“No, you don’t. Who made you Senator? Who made you Vice President? Finish that report. And be sure to get the stuff on Roberts and his wife – conflict of interest stuff about what lawyers come before his court. He only gave me partial immunity. I want the rest. You’re nearly done, right? Am I right?”

“Yes, sir. Nearly finished. A couple weeks.”

“Weeks?” I asked incredulously.

“A few days,” he amended.

I nodded. “Oh, and don’t bring it until I make you an appointment. Wait until you hear from Betty that I’m ready for it.”

The Vice President nodded.

“What?”

“Yes sir. Not until you call for me.”

I reached out to shake his hand, giving his arm a power pull.
 

Author Notes It's with a heavy heart that I post today, the day the President of my country made it plain that he now sides with Russia against our traditional allies. The news emasculates this light-natured work.

photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump

Note: I began to add a short video of Trump in a CNN interview asking if he'd said that he'd called Pres. Zelensky a dictator, "I can't believe I said that." How fitting for this story!


Chapter 11
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch. 14

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter, Trump (Phil) did not get switched back, even though four days had passed. But he and Tom could not know if it was the distance to Hawaii or not. They arranged for Tom to have a package of books with a burner phone inside to be hidden in the safe house garage. Phil called the Vice President into the Oval Office to grill him about his investigations. Trump intimidated him into expediting the work. Trump promised him a seat on the court, despite the Vice President’s obvious contrary wishes.
 
Chapter Fourteen
 
Presented in 3rd person, omniscient (see notes)
 Trump (the real – the time is back to the first switch)

    “Help! Somebody! Help!” President Trump woke up in the safe house. The guard was unsympathetic since the prisoner was screaming in Phil’s voice.

 “I’m gonna defund them,” he declared to no one. Waking in the small home was a shock. He referred to it as a shack. And a prison. The doors were all locked, even the windows. There was no telephone anywhere. Diet Cokes, bread, and canned and tray foods were available, but he didn’t consider such fare food.

 “Help! Somebody! I have money. I’ll pay you. Call Ivanka. Call Melania! Help! I’m starving! I can’t eat and the microwave doesn’t work!”

For days he watched TV. Yelled at the TV.

He thought he’d lost his mind, gone crazy. “This is what crazy feels like when people have split personalities.” He thought. Of course, he’d seen himself in the mirror. “This guy woke up thinking he’s me. No wonder they think they’re different people, act like different people. I act differently. I think I’m me. But I’m not. I’m this Philip guy with a short body and ugly hair.”

Philip, of course, was the name on the driver’s license in his wallet, the name that the police called him.

The guard in the shack at the road thought to himself, “No wonder they have this guy secured. He’s convinced that he’s Trump. I guess they want him out here where he won’t hurt anyone and no one can get to him. He probably hasn’t done anything wrong, broken any laws, but they’re afraid he might. Maybe this guy is connected somehow… rich. And they don’t want him in an insane asylum. Who knows. He is convincing, though. If you only just read a transcript of what he said. One look at him, though, or the sound of his voice…”

    The guard thought he’d better do something about the microwave. He was not calling the boss over that, though, at least not until he’d checked it. But he sure as heck he wasn’t going in the house, not even with the crazy man asleep. “I didn’t get the gig by being stupid,” he thought.

    The guard decided that he would look at some video and write a note to place in the garage. READ THE MICROWAVE INSTRUCTIONS ON THE FOOD BOX. PRESS THE NUMBER 1. OPEN THE MICROWAVE AND STIR AFTER ONE MINUTE. REPEAT FOR EACH MINUTE ON THE INSTRUCTIONS. LET SIT ONE MINUTE. EAT.

    DO NOT PUT CANS IN THE MICROWAVE. OPEN CAN. EMPTY INTO DISH FIRST. THEN MICROWAVE. OR EAT COLD.

    “How many times do I have to click your door to the garage before you figure it out, Bozo? I can see you on the monitor! I see you looking that way. Go check it out, Moron! It’s an electronic lock! Click and you can open it!” The guard was talking to himself, aggravated that the person in the house, though he looked at the door, wouldn’t at least try it.

    “There, finally. Read the note. That’s right. Now pick something and read the instructions. There you go, Jimmie Dean. You’ll like that. Oop. Easy does it, there muscle man. Okay, it doesn’t need the top anyway. Somebody else will be cleaning that thing.

    “Ding. Ding! Mister. Time to eat. There you go.”
 
+++
 
“Well, you’re up early this morning," the guard said to himself. "Coffee, that’s a switch. What, no TV this morning?” The guard in the shack was watching his charge on the monitor. What’re you doing, there, pardner? You don’t trust anybody? Going through your wallet? You’re acting like a different person altogether.

    “Whoa, ixnay of the OXFay today? … What, only ten minutes of news? And more coffee? Oh, you must have gone to culinary school in your dreams there, Bub. Nice going. I won’t have to worry about your balanced diet today.”
 
+++

( a few days later)
 
    “Help! Help! Somebody! Help! I have lots of money! Call Melania!”

The guard studied the monitors. Thinking, nearly out loud. “What’s up, Bub? Meds wear off? Man, oh man. You forget everything you knew about the microwave? No wonder they have you locked up. A few days of normalcy and wham-bam, lunacy.

“Find your note, Bozo! Geez. Do I have to write another one?”

A few moments later Tom drove into the compound, stopping at the guard shack.

“Hello, Bud. Got some I.D? Oh, yeah, Tom. I got a call. Been expecting you. Hey, that guy in there is something, ain’t he?”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“Well, one day he’s hollering for Melania or Ivanka. Can’t even use the microwave, and the next he’s drinking coffee instead of Cokes and all cool like McCool.”

Tom chuckled. “Sounds like our man. Thanks.”

“You need some help unloading? No? Okay. You got him a Big Mac? Hope it’s still hot. He isn’t much at the microwave the last few days.”

“President Trump?” Tom knocked on the inside entry door. “Here’s a Big Mac. Put it in the microwave for just half a minute if you want it hotter. There’s two chocolate shakes. You can put one in the freezer for tomorrow. No, Mr. President. I don’t have the key to that door. After I leave, listen for the click and you can open it. Good-bye, now. I can’t hear you anymore.”

Tom stashed the box of books within the workbench.
 
+++
 
    “Wonderfine, Tom.”

    “Wonderfine to you!” Mr. President.

    Phil told Tom of the meeting with the Vice President and offering him a seat on the Supreme Court. Tom snickered politely.

    “So he’s peeing his pants having to write up dirt on his favorite Justices. He sees his very favorite resign. Then, he resigns as Vice President. And then his next-to-favorite, Kavanaugh, gets impeached by the House after you appoint someone else to the Court. Then you appoint another. Bingo, a 5-4 Supreme Court.”

    “It could go that way,” Phil in Trump’s body said. “But maybe not. I would appoint centrists, where I expect Roberts will be from now on in an effort to rebuild his integrity and legacy. Might suddenly be 6-3. Or on some issues either way.”

    “Back to now,” Phil said, “you get our friend served yesterday?”

    “Yes sir. And he enjoyed the Big Mac. I stayed with the guard long enough to see him drinking the shake after putting the second one in the freezer.”

    “Hope the valium wasn’t too strong. I don’t think I’ve ever taken any. The guard was gonna keep an eye on him. Said I’ve been… he’s been, pretty stressed the last few days. “Hate that part. Wish we could get him to relax. Some way to occupy him and sedate him.”

    “I hope the valium doesn’t trigger a switch,” Tom replied.

    Both Phil and Tom sipped their morning coffee in silence.

    “Tell me, Mr. President, the next switch and it’s you in the safe house, if there is another switch, would you like me to get you out?” Tom listened, wondering how he could pull it off and fulfill his duties with the President.

    Phil thought about it. “I could get out with a lock-pick kit, and maybe it would be a good idea to hide one in the garage. I’m not sure if I could pick one fast enough to be unseen by a guard watching the video feeds, though. But if I were to break out, as far as I know now, all I would do is go home. But if it turns out to be a very long stay the next time…”

    Tom nodded and said he would get a lock pick.
 

Author Notes Writing this fantasy, I considered POV (1st and 3rd omniscient, objective, and limited). I quickly determined that it required the intimacy of Phil's experience but also needed Tom's POV since Phil was not always privy to events necessary to the story. In this chapter, the reader needs to know what is happening to Trump when he is outside either Phil or Tom's view. 1st person Trump is not an option. This leaves a brief switch to 3rd as the only alternative to rewriting the entire project in 3rd, which, in my opinion, would lose more than it would gain.
I recently read Lee Child's The Bodyguard short story in which he seamlessly transitioned from 1st to 3rd. Only because of this project did I even notice. Here, I did not attempt so bold a faux pas, choosing to warn readers before the fact with headers.
I'm totally open to suggestions.
(This short chapter is presented alone, isolating the issue.)

photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader


Chapter 12
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch. 15-16

By Wayne Fowler

Readers visited the real Trump and then a guard at the safe house. In the White House, Tom and Phil discuss the Supreme Court plan.
 
Chapter Fifteen.
 Trump in the White House
(3rd person, omniscient)

    It was 8:50, the real President Trump was going to get to the bottom of things. He got to the West Wing early, according to his norm, to see who was working and who was goofing off.

    “Betty. Send for my doctor and then come into the Oval. Betty, what’s going on? And I don’t want to hear any bull. Where’s Elon?”

    “Sir, Elon, as far as I know, is in California. And let me tell you. He is not happy.”

    “Well, let me tell you, who else isn’t happy. What’s going on?” I nearly shouted. I would have except for struggling to get air.

    “I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. President. You’ve been here every day. Nothing happens after you leave the office that I haven’t told you about. Yesterday, you met with the Vice President, and…”

    “No, I di…” But maybe I did, Trump thought. Maybe that prison house is just in my head. That guy who I was yesterday, maybe I’m in and out of him while I’m right here all the time. Maybe I’m not myself anymore. “What did we discuss?”

    “I don’t know, sir. You wanted privacy and you gave me no notes to have transcribed.”

    “I…” I couldn’t tell her that it was not me. That would mean I was somebody else. She would call for Amendment 25. I couldn’t tell anyone that I’d been held captive off and on in a tiny prison-house for the last few weeks. Or that I might be two people. I would be committed,” Trump thought. “Where’s that doctor?”

    “Are you not feeling well, sir? Is there something I can do?”

    “Send for Elon. And get Senator Thune on the line. And Paté.”

    “Yes, sir. But I’m going to be surprised if Elon will come back. He was pretty put out. I got wind that he’d met with the Cabinet Secretaries who’d been confirmed and was waiting for the others before coming back.”

    “A coup. That’s what Elon was planning, a 25 coup. He and the Vice President would put me away, and then run things themselves without me.” Trump’s mind was sailing.

    “Where’s that doctor?”

    “Oh, here’s a nurse, sir. He can take your vitals. The doctor is just a minute away.”

    “Mr. President, my name’s Thorne, Stuart Thorne. I just go by Thorne. If you would give me your arm, sir. I’ll check your pulse and blood pressure. Are you experiencing any pain, Mr. President?”

    “No! I… I what?" What could I tell this stranger? How would I know who’s behind this, this coup? Maybe every time they take blood, they’re injecting something? How do they put me into another body? Or are they, maybe it’s all psychology stuff. My brain sees that other man, but I’m really me. But the police didn’t recognize me. Where’s Paté? Trump sat quietly, fearful that his thoughts would land him back in the prison-house.

    “Oh, hello Doc, Where’s Paté?” He just stared at me with his mouth open. “He‘s in on it,” Trump thought.

    “Good morning, Mr. President.”

    “One forty-one over ninety-six, pulse eighty-four, temp ninety-eight five,” Thorne said to the doctor's nod. He was by then listening to Trump’s heart.

    Trump took a chance. “Doc, what if I’m not myself? You know what I mean?”

    “Mr. President, we all feel like we aren’t our normal selves from time-to-time. Can you be more specific?”

    “No. False alarm. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

    “How’s the bursitis? The medication working?”

    “I don’t have bursitis.”

    “Mr. President, Paté’s on the line.” Betty looked at me with questioning eyes.

    “Hello, Paté. Can I call you back in a few minutes? Yes. I’m fine.”

    “False alarm, Doc. I’m fine. Feel better already. I woke from a bad dream, I guess.”

    “Mr. President, have you been trying to lose weight? It looks as if you’ve lost some inches around the middle. We could do a full blood workup.”

    “No! No blood. I think we’re finished here. Thank you for checking on me.” After that Trump went stone-faced, pinching himself together. Eventually, everyone was gone and he could call Paté. He agreed with her that he should go down to Mar-a-Lago. Soon. She would meet him there and they would have a long talk. Trump figured that that was when he could tell her about the house in the woods. Friday. In two days.

    There was no one at Justice or the F.B.I. that Trump trusted. Neither position nominees had been confirmed yet, but even then, he doesn’t know them well enough to trust them. “Robert Schlape. He owes me,” Trump thought.

    “Robert. I need to see you… Okay, not at the White House. That’s fine… No, today… Fine, at Air Force One… No, in my car by the jet… One hour… Okay, two hours. I’ll be there.”

    President Trump told Betty to have him taken to the airport and that he wanted to be there at 12:40.

    “No, I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll eat when I get back.”

    He didn’t tell her who he was meeting, believing that she probably thought it would be Paté.  He took that opportunity to tell her to schedule him at Mar-a-Lago on Friday for three or four days, telling her that he badly needed to play golf where it was warm.
 
+++
 
    After the pleasantries, President Trump got right to the point, ignoring his starting to talk about the House of Representatives. “Robert. I need you to do me a favor.” Trump gave him Philip Jansen’s name and address, telling him that he needed to know everything there was to know about him. And if he owned a small house in a clearing in a forest somewhere.

    He had to clam up after that. “He owed me,” Trump thought, “but he might owe others more.

    “But I only just returned,” Melania cried in a huff when President Trump told her about the trip to Mar-a-Lago. “If I knew only two days here I would stay in New York. No. I will go back to Barron in New York when you go to Mar-a-Lago unless you change your plan.”

    “I can’t.’

    “You won’t. Is your children. Don and Paté. They will be there.”

    Trump tried to give her an I don’t know expression.

    “See. It is yes. Tomorrow I return to New York.”
 
+++
 
    Once more Trump and Schlape met at the airport. This time aboard Air Force One.

    “Mr. President, I know everything there is to know about Jansen except where he is right now. But I will. He can’t escape me.”

Robert told Trump Philip’s history, that he was fired from his job and had been missing ever since he was picked up by police. The neighbors knew him and liked him, but had not seen him in weeks. There was no evidence of a house in a forest, but Robert and his team would continue their inquiries. His ears perked up when I told him there was a guard shack and a high cement fence in the back. They agreed to meet again when Trump returned from Mar-a-Lago. The information would be useful for a detailed Google Earth search.

Satisfied, Trump returned to the White House.

 Trump then had the strangest conversation with Betty about the third-floor man who served as a butler, the one Trump said he wanted replaced, but then returned, only for a moment though. Trump then guessed that he went to another duty.

“Why would I need a butler to go to Mar-a-Lago?” Trump asked Betty, who nodded like his point made perfect sense.

    Betty made a note to do a full background check on Tom McQuin, the butler.
    
Chapter Sixteen
 Trump (Phil)
(Mar-a-Lago)
(1st person)
 
    I woke at 4:30, a bit late for me, but within range. I was Trump. We'd switched the first night in Mar-a-Lago. I’d never been to Mar-a-Lago, of course, but I knew that’s where I was – this was not good. The only other time I’d been to Florida was an expensive vacation taking the kids to Disneyworld, the beach, and Cape Canaveral.

    This experience would not be nearly as much fun. The first thing I did was jump up, dress, and search for some coffee as I gave myself a tour of the conspicuous consumption, both inside and out, giving the Secret Service detail conniptions.
    Golf, family, people who I’m supposed to know… not good.

    “I want to go out on a boat.” The Secret Service agent I spoke to was perplexed. It was clearly neither his job to orchestrate such a doing nor within his purview.

    “I guess you would have to see Jeremy for that,” he said. Ahh, that must be the Jeremy with the Trump wanna-be hair who met us at the door. I barely saw his name on the lanyard ID. It appeared all employees wore such.

    I angled back toward the entry foyer where I saw Jeremy yesterday. No wonder he looked a bit put out. I didn’t pay him enough attention, and I didn’t inform him of my schedule.

    He greeted me at the door the same as yesterday. “Mr. President. Good morning, sir. The breakfast buffet opens at eight, but we can get you anything you would like. Would you like a table, sir?”

    “Have some toast sent to my suite.” His instantly furrowed brows told me I’d already messed up. I wondered if I usually said room or rooms instead of suite. Or if I never, but never, ordered room service. Or if I always made breakfast, or had it made, in my suite. Nothing to do about that now.

    “Jeremy, I want to go out on a yacht. Can you see that it happens? Lunch on the yacht? Some sort of seafood?”

    “The McMaga is moored in the bay, sir, Jeffrey McKnight will be delighted that you’ve finally accepted his offer. Shall I arrange for an 11:00 departure? And the golf foursome, shall I reschedule them for tomorrow?”

    “I’ll let you know on that.” I swiveled fast enough that Trump’s frame nearly toppled. I’d forgotten where his center of gravity was. I suddenly realized that I should have called Tom, which I did as soon as I was in the privacy of my quarters.

    “Tom! Am I glad to hear your voice. I feel like I’m in hell down here. What’s happened that I have to know about?”

    “Trump is trying to woo Musk back. California bloggers got that. Also, he’s trying to figure things out. I don’t think he believes he’s as crazy as he did at first. He’s having you investigated but not using the FBI, probably Schlape, or Flynn, or Bannon. One of their connections. I got that from Hakeem. He called me.

    “You might expect a keeper or guardian to be tethered to you at any time now. But that might not be until you return to DC.”

    Of course, Tom couldn’t see my nodding head, but he probably imagined. “I’m going on a yacht ride today. That should make me sick enough to stay secluded.” I imagined his nodding head. “One thing. Get us some new burner phones, just in case.”

    At 11:20, fashionably late, I sauntered from the elevator, wearing a ridiculous-for-the-occasion suit and tie.

    “Mr. President. Forgive me, I should have called you. But I’m told that the seas are a bit rough. I’m afraid it won’t be the ideal conditions for a cruise.”

    I waved him off. “Let’s go. It didn’t feel too windy to me. And we would play golf, right?”

    “Yes sir, but…”

    I was already halfway to the door.

    Catching up, he waved toward one of the golf carts that was waiting for me. I let the subtle motions of a Secret Service agent indicate where I was to board.

    At the yacht, I was met by a dapper fellow in his fifties, wearing what I would call a Jimmy Buffett version of a Love Boat captain’s outfit – except for the white MAGA cap that was two or three quality grades above my own.

    “Mr. President. I’m honored and humbled that you would accept a cruise. The seas may be a bit rough, but at least we don’t have to swim in it.” He chuckled like an idiot.

    “The Coast Guard will have a High Endurance Cutter, the USS Point Comfort, and two helicopters in the area.

    “I hope not too close,” I said, pointing to my ears. “Noisy.”

    “Oh, I’m certain not. And we’ll steer clear of any other boats.”

    “Just so we get out where I can see nothing but ocean in every direction. Can we do that?”

    “Oh, yes, sir. We were planning on driving the coast, but as soon as we’re underway, I’ll inform the pilot who will coordinate with the Coast Guard. Shall we get underway?”

    I nodded and followed him for a tour of his pride and joy.
 
+++
 
    Lunch was okay. Probably only okay due to my short-notice self-invitational. Lunch over, a Diet Coke in hand that I barely sipped, Jeremy told me we were sufficiently out to sea to satisfy my request.

    They were right, of course, it was far too choppy to be comfortable, hardly the tranquil pleasure most landlubbers conceived of when imagining an ocean cruise. It might not be bad on a thousand-foot ocean liner, but on this 148’ boat, we tossed and rocked quite a bit. Fortunately, I learned I don’t get seasick, at least not involuntarily.

    “I need to use the John before we go out on deck,” I said. After closing the door, I pulled the two little tube-like paper salt containers from a pocket that I took from Mar-a-Lago. I emptied them into my mouth and quickly swallowed, washing them down with a nasty sip of Coke.

    I managed to keep my lunch until after sitting in the deck chair. Most of my lunch made it over the railing, not all, but most. Oh, how disappointing a guest I was. I let them make a fuss, leading me into the cabin area where I didn’t have to relate to anyone.

    Once back ashore and then back to Mar-a-Lago, I feigned not feeling well and canceled any evening activity. Jeremy was to contact my family and assure them I was well enough but wanted privacy – no visits. I had more salt packages just in case another display was needed. The next morning, I was aboard Air Force One en route to the White House.

    I stayed on the third floor all day Sunday.

    Tariffs on Canada and Mexico were my (and Tom’s) idea. Trump was going to anyway. He’d said as much several times. This way, I could relax them, too. Or do it the next switch. The concept was that if anyone tried to develop a pattern – Trump causes chaos and havoc when alone and sleeping in, and makes nice when Tom is there and his day begins early. There were any number of idiosyncrasies that could be ascribed to the two Trumps: when he eats breakfast in the dining room, thus and such, when he has his normal hamburger lunch, when he has FOX News on in the Oval Office, and on and on.

    As projected, the clamor from my manufacturing friends demanded I make waivers and exemptions. I put a thirty-day pause on all tariffs. Doing that would prevent the real Trump, should we switch back, from imposing tariffs for at least those thirty days.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President (fictional character, pronounced pah-tay)
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could prove fatal)
Jeffrey McKnight: Mar-a-Lago member who owns a yacht


Chapter 13
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch. 17-18

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapters Trump and Phil switched back. The real Trump was back in the White House. In an extremely agitated state, he called for the doctor but then refused a blood draw. His vitals were elevated but within a tolerable range. Trump spoke to Paté and arranged to meet her at Mar-a-Lago for the weekend. Trump also met with Robert Schlape who investigated Philip, learning that he’d been fired from his job and was missing.
Phil, as Trump, woke up in Mar-a-Lago. He canceled golf and took an impromptu yacht cruise where he ingested salt and threw up, affording him justification for seclusion and quick return to the White House. He then imposed tariffs on Canada and Mexico just so he could pause them, hamstringing the real Trump.

This post is longer than I’m happy with. Sorry.
 
Chapter Seventeen
Tom
 
    I got to the White House as soon as I could after Phil’s call from Mar-a-Lago. I dared bring only one phone with me, the one I would give him. The risk was too great to carry two and have questions I did not want to answer. I could fabricate a story, but none that would hold to Secret Service scrutiny.

    I knocked and entered the President’s suite without waiting for admission. I was sure he was Phil, and I didn’t want to be seen lingering outside his door.

    “Mr. President, forgive me for barging in." I then explained as I gave him his new burner, taking his old one to dispose of.

    “You’re being investigated, Mr. President, your… self.”

    Phil grimaced, nodding.

    I continued. “I got a call from Hakeem. The DNC has contacts in the DC police, as well as all the letter agencies. The first switch, Trump made a scene at a McDonald’s.”

    “Probably the one on Lawrence Street… walking distance.”

    “Of course, he had your I.D. and the police returned him to your home.”

    Phil nodded. “And that was where he was picked up by Hakeem’s people. We should assume the GOP has people in the DC police and the lettered agencies as well.”

“I think it’s safe to say they’ve learned that you were fired and that a neighbor might have seen you hauled off, maybe carried off. Would expect them to be showing your photo around to locate the safe house since you obviously are not in any public lockup.”

    “Matter of time,” Phil said. “Any ideas?”

    “Yeah, I’ve been thinking. If they discover the location, and that might be a big if. They’ve stayed secret for a reason – not many people know about them, but enough do: guards, delivering employees, and probably too many bosses. Even a loyal patriot could slip up at the rightly phrased question.

    “Suppose they discover Phil, you are being held and where. What do they do? What can they do?”

    “You mean besides overpower the guard and rescue me, force me to tell them what’s going on? Or if it’s Trump time, get enough convincing facts from him to bring him here to the White House and force some sort of face-off between us? I don’t think I would like that.”

    “No,” I agreed. “And even if you were in your own body, they might keep you, and eventually you would be Trump again. Or they do a 25th Amendment and swear in the V.P.”

    “So, I can’t be taken,” Phil said.  After a moment he broke the silence with a question. “Did you get the box of books delivered and hidden? And the lock pick?”

    “Books yes, Pick no. But I will. I’ll take him another Big Mac and some oranges. He likes oranges.”

    “Go figure,” Phil said. “Guess I should pay more attention and eat some here.”

    I agreed. “Might be another day, or so. I had to order the kit online. Lockpicks are fairly well controlled. And being D.C., I wouldn’t want a video to show up with me buying one.

    “But the cameras…?” I asked.

    “I think I have that covered. The only thing I haven’t worked out is how to scale the ten-foot block wall and two feet of razor wire. But if I had a hundred feet of rope and a pair of good gloves... With good gloves, the rope could be as small as, oh, 3/8ths.”

    “It’ll be in the garage tomorrow evening,” I promised. “That is… if the pick comes in. But are you sure you can pick the lock? Have you ever done that?”

    “Tell you what. Pick up a Schlage deadbolt lock and I’ll practice. You need more money?” Phil reached for his non-existent hip wallet.

    “Maybe someday. But I’m good for now.”

    “Okay, here’s a project. Get Hakeem to have Schumer prepare a list of centrist judges who have a chance of Senate confirmation. They lean a little left because he can let some Democratic Senators vote for them. But they have to be people who Trump might conceivably nominate.”

    I nodded.

+++
 
    I tried to work it out menatlly - Agencies were getting hammered. Civil Servants were being slain metaphorically. Nothing to be done for it. Trump couldn’t be totally anti-Trump. And the public had to be fired up enough to change both houses of Congress decisively. At least there were lawsuits abounding. Maybe people could get some respite and relief. Phil accomplished a major goal by turning the House. The Senate, there was no way. And he’s working on the Supreme Court and the Vice President. He had to allow pain.

    I left the White House early that afternoon to take care of business. And my call to Hakeem had to be away from the White House. He had to get me back to the safe house, and he had to have Phil’s new phone number. Also, he had to get with Schumer for a list of judges. That would take Schumer some time since any list he might have would be for a Democratic President to offer a Democratic Senate.

    I wondered what Phil wanted with a hundred feet of rope. I should have asked him. I also should have suggested the next day for the materials so that he could practice with the lock pick before I delivered it and the lock to the safe house.
 
+++
 
    “Hello, Pal. It’s me again. Somebody likes that guy in there. Sent me out with another Big Mac.”

    “Yeah, I got a call. But I gotta take it in. You can leave it here.”

    “Can’t do it. I was told to get it there hotter this time.” I patted an insulated zipper bag, the kind that’s designed for a six-pack of beer, or soda if one insisted, but worked for hot things, as well. “Also supposed to get a feel for how he’s doing by speaking for a minute through the wall.”

    It took the man only a second to process it. “Well, let’s satisfy them both. We’ll both go down. You can drive on in. I’ll walk and meet you at the side garage door.”

    “What’s in the box?” the guard asked after unlocking the deadbolt. I was standing behind him with the McDonalds back on top of a medium-size cardboard box. “I’ll have to check it.”

    “Sure, no problem.”

    Inside the garage, I set the box on the small workbench.

    “Oranges and books. Hmmm. Haven’t seen him do any reading.”

    “Probably because there’s nothing in there that suits him.”

    “Hmm. A dictionary?”

    The guard started to pick up the extra-large dictionary, but it was wedged under the net bag of oranges.

    “He reads, but, doesn’t have that great a vocabulary. He likes to look up the hard words.”

    “Big dictionary. Couldn’t get a pocket-size?”

    “You ever look in one of those? You gotta have a microscope.”

    He quit struggling and left it. I wasn’t going to be able to hide it so I went to the door and called for Phil. But I called him Mike. The guard should not have been told his name. “Mike? Mike, you okay?”

    There was no response. I knocked on the door. “Mike!” I yelled a little louder. “You okay in there. Brought you a Big Mac.”

    Nothing.

    “He’s all right. I saw him moving around on the monitor when you drove up. Go on. We’ll leave so’s he can get his burger hot.”

    I nodded. “Leaving now Mike. See ya soon.”

    I left and waited long enough to make sure the guard followed me out instead of going back to dig into the box. I was eternally grateful I’d taken the time to hollow out the dictionary and then glue it shut. I was 99% sure Trump wouldn’t mess with a dictionary.

    When I got home, I viewed a YouTube video lock picking a Schlage lock. It wasn’t a deadbolt, but it should help. I called Phil’s number but only let it ring once. He knew to check it and call me back when he could. We would have to talk about that because I went on to bed without hearing from him.

Chapter Eighteen
Phil
 
    I woke in the safe house. I would have to wait for the delivery to get to the box that had the books and phone. There should be another box with the lock pick kit, rope, and gloves.

    Before making it to the kitchen I saw a box on the floor beside the dining table. It was bigger than I expected. On the table was an opened bag of oranges and a few books, three paperbacks, and a large print dictionary. There could only be one reason Tom would send me a large dictionary. I got the coffee started, for the sake of the cameras, and then took the books to the bedroom. I took the dictionary to the bathroom. Hah! Tom had glued it shut. I carefully pried it open for the rope, which I stowed in the shower for now. The lockpick kit fit nicely in a pocket. There were no gloves.
Now for some coffee and some thinking.

    After reading through The President Is Missing, again. It would soon be news time so I fixed my evening meal and wished I had practiced picking locks while waiting.

    After supper and the news, it was sufficiently dark to implement my plan.

    I turned off all the lights except what was absolutely necessary to get around. Then I put on an R-rated movie that promised nudity with the volume high. When the raunchy part began, I got off the sofa sans clothing, fondling myself. When I got to the dining area I turned on the light and immediately looked up at the camera. I dashed to the bathroom, a look of shock on my face. I came out with a roll of toilet paper. After positioning a chair, I wrapped the camera with paper and turned the light back off. That should give the guard plenty of reason to be unconcerned about the camera.

    I then donned my britches and began working the lock.

    I figured that the guard would afford me all the privacy I desired, at least while the movie ran. The lock took far longer than any I’d seen in movies, But I got it in about ten or twelve minutes. With the rope cut in three lengths, I knotted the two longer pieces every couple of feet. I took the two longer ones outdoors, looking carefully for outside cameras. They were on the corners up on the soffit. Good. It took many tries, but I managed to lasso a looped end of both of them over the PVC vent pipe that extruded from the roof over the bathroom. One length I let hang toward the back, the other, I wadded and pitched over the side of the house, as if I’d scaled the wall and went down the side of the house outside the block fence.

    Then I returned to the house, glad that there was no burglar alarm on the door.

    Next, I tied the remaining shorter piece of rope to the kitchen step stool, the kind that folds and is stashed beside the fridge. With that, I accessed the crawl space to the attic where I stashed water bottles, oranges, a box of crackers, and a blanket. I made sure I could pull the stool up behind me. I could be up there in seconds, quietly hiding for hours or days, if necessary, while I was searched for in the forest. And I could come down whenever it was safe. All I needed was the phone that was in the garage and a chance to recharge the battery.

    I turned off the movie and sat where I could see should lights appear from the drive. I held a book, but had yet to turn on a lamp that would inevitably disrupt my vision through the window. I knew though, not to expect any visitors, if there to be any, before midnight. I knew, too, that since the bedroom door had the same sort of locking mechanism as the door to the garage, it was remotely lockable. Since that discovery, I left it blocked open. I resolved to close it before ever taking to the attic. The door’s unlocking should be enough to wake me. One favorable factor was that if I got no sleep in the attic, I could get as long a nap as needed during the daytime.

    I spent a while thinking, trying to anyway. The first switch lasted eleven days. The next only four. Then six, followed by… I could do it without a calendar, and there wasn’t one in the house. I looked. But what did my trip to Hawaii and Alaska do? Anything? I saw no pattern. And I couldn’t think of any reason at all for any of the switching, let alone switching with me. Of course, I had no way of knowing what was in Trump’s mind, what his concentration had been. Surely, if he’d had a file on me that he was focusing on, I would have seen it.

    Trying to get comfortable, I held my breath and looked around. Several feet away, a tiny green glow filtered through insulation – the modem for the cameras, sending a signal to the guard. I thought of disconnecting it, or at least the camera that exposed my trips to the kitchen. But wouldn’t that necessitate them coming in to fix it? Maybe. Not worth the risk. Blindly, hoping I did not crash through the ceiling sheetrock, I inched my way to the modem, hoping to move it closer to my spot should I decide to unplug it. No such luck. The coaxial cables wouldn’t reach, the reason, no doubt, for its location.

    The next morning, the toilet paper was still on the camera, but it had been disturbed No way it had rewrapped itself. It took hard looking, especially since I was only looking with peripheral vision, but I found a smaller camera near the drapery rod. These guys were good to be so silent. But then, I was in the attic. I don’t think they’d locked and then unlocked the bedroom door, but they might have.

    I was about beside myself wanting to talk to Tom, to tell him my escape plan, to fine-tune it with him. I spent the next while thinking how lucky I was to have him on my side.

    Trust no one.

    Surely that does not apply to Tom. But he was Johnny on the spot, perfectly positioned to leap to my aid. How convenient.

    But he has been such a help. And loyal. And faithful.

    But maybe he has his own agenda? Or working for someone else? Someone foreign, maybe who doesn’t care about our internal machinations.

    Who could it be? What would they want of me? Expect of me? Start World War Three? Prevent World War Three?

    Or something as simple as Net Neutrality that would make somebody millions or billions?

How could I answer these questions? How open could I be with Tom, my new best friend in the world?
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Paté: 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)
Jeffrey McKnight: Mar-a-Lago member who owns a yacht
Sarah Huckabee Sanders: Governor of Arkansas
Tom Cotton: Senator from Arkansas


Chapter 14
No! Say It Ain't So!, Ch. 19

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Tom went to the White House after receiving Phil’s call that he was Trump and had returned from Mar-a-Lago. They discussed the status of the government and Phil’s progress. They also made plans for Tom to deliver another package to the safe house – rope and a lock pick.

Phil woke in the safe house with rope and a lock pick kit. He managed to fashion an escape route, but rigged a hideout in the attic with a plan to hide in plain sight. Phil then overly thought his situation, casting his trust mechanism into doubt.
This is a shorter chapter. Unfortunately, the next isn’t.
 
Chapter Nineteen
 Trump
(White House)
(3rd person, omniscient)
 
    “Paté! You have to come up here! Don’t hang up. No! I was not at Mar-a-Lago. And I did not leave before you got there. Listen to me. I was not sick. That…. That… You have to come up here! I’m… I’m afraid to leave my room! Do you understand me?” Trump’s call to his third daughter was crazed.

    “Daddy, I’m coming, okay? I’m coming. Make sure you’re eating well. And drink lots of water, okay. The doctor is in the White House. He’s in a room in the residence. Okay. Call for him if you need him. Okay?”

    “Just come now!” Trump repeated.

    “I’m sending the doctor in, Daddy. He’ll give you something.”

    “I’m telling you. I’m not taking anything he gives me.”

    “I’m on my way, Daddy. I’m hanging up and leaving now. Okay?

    “Okay.”

    “Who is it?” Trump asked who was knocking on his door. “Doctor Thorne?”

    “No. That’s the nurse,” the doctor said through the closed door, nearly shouting. “I’m Doctor Schweitz. I saw you before. You weren’t feeling well. You had slightly elevated blood pressure. Remember? I understand you were ill while you were down in Florida.”

    “No. I wasn’t. You can send Thorny in. He was nice.”

    “Yes, sir. I’ll send for him. But it might take a while. He might be off duty. Can I help you feel better until he gets here?”

    “NO! I’m fine,” the President said.

    “Mr. President? Do you have pain? Are you nauseous?”

    “No. I’m fine. I’m done talking now.”

    Trump thought he had dozed off, but when he looked around, he saw three people in his bedroom. The doctor that he didn’t trust, a Secret Service agent who was looking around, and Thorne, who was reaching for his hand. Thorne was talking, but Trump didn’t catch what he was saying. He was taking Trump’s pulse. 68, he told the doctor.

    “Hello, President Trump,” Thorne said.

Trump thought that he’d called him Thorny, but he was Thorne. He knew that.

    “How are you feeling right now?”

    He was preparing to put a blood pressure cuff on Trump’s arm.

    Trump looked from him and then to the silent doctor.

    “All right if I take your blood pressure?” Thorne asked.

    Trump gave him his arm.

    “Where’s Paté?” Trump asked.

    “She’s still in the air, sir.”

    It was the Secret Service agent. Trump supposed he thought neither the doctor nor the nurse knew the answer to the question.

    “132 over 86,” Thorne told the doctor. Temp 99.1” Thorne very lightly pinched the skin on my arm. Moderate dehydration,” he said.

    “I told you I was fine,” Trump spat.

    “May I listen to your chest?” the doctor asked.

    “No needles. And no pills,” Trump insisted.

    He was still lying in bed. The doctor unfastened one button and slid his stethoscope over his heart. After a bit, he moved it and asked Trump to take a breath. He did the same to the other side. “Still not nauseous?” he asked.

    Trump shook his head. “Here’s a Sprite, Mr. President,” Thorne said, handing me a can.     “We out of Diet Coke?” he asked.

    “There is Diet Coke, but Sprite always does a better job at settling stomachs and relieving blo… pent up gas. Can we help you sit up?”

    Trump struggled some, but Thorne helped him like he was nothing. Trump thanked him and took a drink. Trump squinched his face as if it tasted weird, but it had been a long time since he’d had a Sprite.

    “Can I take your shoes off for you, Mr. President?” He already was. Thorne was unlacing Trump’s shoes. His suitcoat and tie were already off or he might have done all that, too. Trump took another drink and leaned to set it down. One more good swig? How about it, Mr. President? For the dehydration.”

    He did. And then someone, maybe the doctor, propped pillows around him. The next Trump knew, light was coming through the windows.
 
+++
 
    “Good morning, Daddy. Are you ready for breakfast? They have a lovely quiche or eggs benedict casserole downstairs. Or the cook can fix you something here.” Paté was at her motherly best.

    “Here is fine. Maybe poached eggs and an English muffin with honey?”  Trump answered.

    “I’ll tell him. Diet Coke?”

    “Yes, please.”

    Paté spoke of the weather. When he was finished she suggested they go into the residence office. Trump only used it for official phone calls.

    “Okay, Daddy. What had you so upset yesterday?” Paté asked.

    “I wasn’t upset. I was just angry. Very angry.”

    “What made you so angry? Were you thinking about the felony convictions or the indictments? Or the rape business. Because that used to make you pretty angry.”

    Trump began to get fumed at the memory of the witchhunts and even more angry that Paté broke the rule of not saying the word felon. “No. I can’t trust anyone. And I can’t trust the food. I’m sure it’s fine when you’re here. But…”
    “Daddy, I told you I don’t want to be in politics.” Paté pursed her lips.

    “I know, you said that before. But these people around me, and I get sent… I don’t trust. I think I’m getting, I don’t know. Look in my eyes. Do you see anything wrong?” Trump leaned toward her.

    “I don’t see anything, Daddy. Do you trust Betty? She seems nice. But you could replace her. Is Elon Musk around very much? Because he’s…”

    “Don’t say anything about Elon. He’s a genius. You know that, right? Somebody made him mad, is all. It wasn’t me. I can tell you that much. It’s just that I’m away a lot, a lot. In a ...”

    “In a what Daddy. Where are you away to. Do you mean when you went to Hawaii and Alaska? That was just a few days.’

    “I didn’t go… that wasn’t… Are you in on it? Paté?”

    “Daddy, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you want me to call the doctor? He’s right down the hall. Maybe if you got more rest. You know you stay up too late. You’ve said you have trouble falling asleep.”

    “Yeah. I think too much. Always thinking,” Trump said. “My father was always thinking. And my brother. Do you remember him, Robert?”

    “Yes, Daddy. I remember Uncle Robert. Do feel all right? Maybe you should take a vacation. You campaigned very hard. And these past few weeks… Maybe… did you enjoy Hawaii, Daddy?”

    “I didn’t go to Hawaii. That’s what I keep trying to tell you.”

    “Daddy, I saw the video on the news.”

    “That wasn’t me!”

    “All right, Daddy. All right.”

    Trump’s imagination went berserk – It was obvious that Paté didn’t believe him. He felt like he couldn’t talk to her. That left no one. They’re probably all together talking about him, he thought. Why doesn’t anyone say anything about what goes on when I’m gone to that shack for a week? About when the police arrested me? Who made Elon mad? It wasn’t me? And I don’t have anyone I can ask. I can’t trust anyone. They’ll have me committed and I won’t be President anymore. I’m not talking to any doctor.

    “Where’s Schlape? I forgot about him. He should have found that shack and that guy Jansen by now,” Trump said to himslef, feeling himself become dizzy.

    “Hello, Betty. Get a hold of Robert Schlape. I need to see him,” Trump demanded into the phone.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)
Elon Musk: rich immigrant from South Africa
Jeffrey McKnight: Mar-a-Lago member who owns a yacht
Sarah Huckabee Sanders: Governor of Arkansas
Tom Cotton: Senator from Arkansas


Chapter 15
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 20

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter, Trump talks his daughter into flying to Washington, D.C. Trump finally allows the doctor and Nurse Thorne to see him. After his vitals check within the range of tolerance, they sneak a sedative into a soda. He sleeps through the night. In the morning Trump finally speaks with Paté, but he can’t tell her of the out-of-body experiences.
 
Chapter Twenty
 
 Trump
(White House)
(3rd person, omniscient)
 
    “Excuse me. Excuse me.” Trump tried to get Tom’s attention. “Are you the butler who comes with me to the West Wing?” Trump saw Tom on the 2nd floor working at something. “I remembered you from just after the inauguration day. Weren’t you up in the residence?” Trump remembered not liking the man, but didn’t recall the reason. Trump recalled that someone asked where he was one time, that he’d been like a right-hand man.

    Maybe that’s the answer, Trump thought. Someone to be a constant. A companion, like a comfort dog. Someone he could trust. Trump sized Tom up and down, wondering whether he could confide in him.

    “Yes sir?”

    “What’s your name?”

    “Thomas McQuin, sir.”

    “Do I know you? Did you work here four years ago?”

    “No, sir. I moved up to the residence a few days after your second inauguration.”

    “Oh, I think I remember. Why aren’t you there now? Would you like to?”

    “Whatever you wish, sir.”

    “I’ll speak with Benjamin. Where is he?”

    “Most likely in his office in the basement, sir. But that was twenty-thirty minutes ago.”

    “Let’s go.” Trump followed Thomas to the basement. The Secret Service agent followed them, clearly disturbed by the ordeal.

    Trump surmised that Benjamin was upset, despite his being accommodating. Benjamin kept looking at Thomas like he was mad at him. He wanted a few minutes with Tom before releasing him. Fine, Trump thought. “Send him to the Oval Office when you’re done,” he said.

    Betty brought Thomas into the Oval Office, where Trump was chaotically shuffling papers. He was supposed to have an intelligence briefing in a few minutes and wanted the appearance of a busy desk. 
 
“Why so glum?” Trump asked as Tom stood before him, stiff and obviously uncomfortable.

Tom felt conflicted, wondering first whether he’d been discovered, a tape of himself and Phil as President Trump being too chummy. Or a report of Tom being at a safe house for no valid reason. But what if Trump wanted, as himself, the relationship he had when occupied by Phil? What would Tom do? Would he be able to manage the conflict?

Then two men looking very serious approached. Finally, Trump recognized them from the CIA and NSA. They appraised Tom negatively, neither one speaking. “I clear Thomas. I award him Top Secret,” he said, his eyes darting from one man to the other.

One of them finally spoke. “It has to be official, sir.”

Trump’s jaw flapped twice before acquiescing and asking Tom to step into an adjoining room.

While the meeting went on for several minutes, Trump nodded here and there, every time they hesitated. When they were done, he held out his hand for the file they’d brought in with them. Reluctantly, the one who had it handed it over – Top Secret.

“That needs to be secured, sir.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Trump said. “What are your names again?” Trump slid a paper from the top of a stack and turned it over to take down the names mouthing their names letter-by-letter. Finally, he gave up and brushed the paper aside like so much trash.

He walked the two to the door and then motioned Thomas to come in and just have a seat. Betty followed him in and said it was time for him to meet with the press secretary. She looked at Thomas, and then Trump. Tom shrugged his shoulders.

It was one thing after another until Trump told Betty that he was done for the day, that he would be in residence if World War Three started. Trump chuckled, but he was the only one. Tom followed along.
 
+++
 
Tom
 
    I couldn’t wait to call Phil. Hopefully, he had the cell phone from the box of books. Trump had been affected by Phil’s Mar-a-Lago weekend and then by Paté’s visit. But I don’t think it was in a good way for him. He was treating me like a comfort dog, had even used those words. I don’t know, but at one point I believe he might have reached out and pet me.

    I tried a different tact. “Mr. President, you may call me Tom, if you prefer. Is there anything I can get you? Anything I can do for you?”

    “Thomas? I like Thomas. I like your voice. Not too soft, or quiet. Or too low, or too high. You know what I mean? Thomas. Nice old name. Like Donald. They ever call you Tommie? I wouldn’t like that. Like Tuberville. I call him Coach. I would never call anyone Tommie.

    “But your voice doesn’t make me jump. It doesn’t make me think you are after my money. Do you read, Thomas? I would, but… It’s funny. When I pick up a book, I really want to read it, but the first page… Do you know why they don’t put the page number on page one. They never do.”

    “Mr. President, would you like me to try reading aloud? It… it would be our secret.”

    He looked at me like I’d kissed him. I fought the urge to step back.

    “I could pick up a couple of books today and this evening… Might even help you sleep better. It could make all the difference in your missing days.” I wondered if I’d overstepped. I wasn’t supposed to know about any missing days.

    Trump’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t say anything.

    That day I picked up a few YA books, nothing too complicated, Not exactly Elson-Gray Dick and Jane, but not a 500-character Tom Clancy, either. My collection included a cozy detective by Renee Pawlish, along with Stephen King’s The Eyes of the Dragon. Also in the bag was a Donald Westlake Dortmunder book. And, of course, James Patterson’s, The President’s Daughter. Turned out what he wanted me to start with was The Hobbit. Who woulda thought?

    That evening I hung around cleaning and polishing shoes until called for a little after 9:30. About a page-and-a-half in, Trump asked if the book was made into a movie.

    “A few different times,” I answered. “The cartoon version is the one I liked best.”

    I think he just wanted affirmation that it was worthy based on the fact that it was movie-worthy. Having been made into a movie proved its legitimacy. I managed to get to the end of the chapter wishing Trump was already in his pajamas. I feared my work would be undone by his changing and then more than likely putting on Fox News.

    On his cue, I dog-eared the page in the paperback and put the book down.

    “You’ll be here in the morning, right?”

    “Yes, sir. I’ll be here.”

    “Good.”

    I was wary that he might try to pat my head. I wondered what the switching was doing to his brains… and whether the same phenomenon might be happening to Phil.

    I left, and as soon as I got into my car, I called Phil. The call went straight to voice mail. It was out of charge. Which meant that Phil did not yet have access to the garage.

    The next day was hell… with the heat turned up a few clicks. I thought being at the wall end of a firing squad would be more fun. When I was aide to Phil, while he was President Trump, I was allowed to wander, to be left alone for stretches of time. I could easily dismiss the questioning eyes of other aides and appointees. As the real Trump’s aide, the interrogating eyes drilled holes. I know that was on me; I felt more self-conscious, like I was a spy in the enemy’s camp. But I believe the main reason was Trump’s deference to me, his looking to me for confirmation and affirmation of this and that. “Is that right, Thomas? Should I, Thomas? Bring your chair over here, Thomas? Here, read this, Thomas?”

    I was quite sure that I would be assassinated should Trump go to the bathroom and leave me to the mercies of some of these people in the West Wing. Once, while walking a hallway, we passed an open door. Looking in, I saw the White House doctor. He mouthed that I should come see him. I nodded, indicating that I would, which I did at lunchtime.
 
+++
 
    “He let you read to him? Incredible. Did it help?”

    “I think so. But tonight I’ll try to see that he’s already in his PJs first.”

    The doctor nodded. “Sleep, I think is number one. Would you be comfortable putting something in his evening beverage?”

    When I hesitated, he clarified that it would be natural. I knew about melatonin. He said antihistamine would be next if that didn’t work. And could I trust the nice doctor to give me what he said that it was? What if I poisoned the President and the doctor disappeared? Also, what would happen to Phil if Trump croaked?

    I agreed.

    Later that afternoon, Trump and I left to meet with Robert Schlape.  Schlape insisted that he meet with Trump alone, so I stood outside the car.
 
+++
 
Trump was in his pajamas as I suggested when he floored me with the position he put me in, confidante to both Presidents.

“Thomas,” Trump began, pausing to get my full attention. “You’re with me every day, right?”

    I had an idea where he was going so I replied in the affirmative.

    “When I’m not myself, who am I?”

    “Sir,” I had to be careful. “I do recognize that you are a bit different on some days. But you are still yourself. I think what you’re referring to is nothing more than being overwhelmed. Too much work, too many changes… to your routine. Not enough sleep and not enough exercise. Your memory is having a hard time keeping up with your heavy workload.”

    That seemed to satisfy him, at least for the present. We got Bilbo to his first encounter with a house full of dwarves. Trump commented on their eating all his food without paying.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Paté: 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)

Another chapter too long to combine. I wish Tom and Phil could work faster.


Chapter 16
No! Say It Ain't So, Ch. 21-22

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Trump enlisted Tom to be his confidante, his ‘comfort dog’.
This is a long post – sorry, but time is of the essence!
 
Chapter Twenty-one
Phil
(safe house)
 
    I heard the garage door lock, glad that I’d remained dressed. I’d closed the bedroom door before retiring, not crazy about being locked in, if anyone even locked it, but saw no better way to give myself the minute I needed to get into the attic, and the stool pulled up behind me. As quickly and quietly as I could, I eased the covering board back into place.

    “He’s not here, I heard an unfamiliar voice say. I could tell that the bedroom light was on and someone, or ones, were poking around in the room. Next, I heard movement around the house. At least, I thought I did. It might have been my imagination since that’s what they would probably be doing.

    “The back door’s unlocked.”

    I imagined two men going out to the backyard. I couldn’t tell, but they probably triggered the security lights. I wondered if the guard was one of them or if he might be lying in a pool of blood.

    “Here,” a voice declared. “He climbed to the roof. Maybe made it around the fence.”

    I could tell that one of them was trying to climb the rope, but was having trouble, grunting. The other reentered the house and went back out through the garage, presumably to go around the house to look at the other rope. Soon enough, I could hear them talking to one another.

    “No tracks. He’d shoot to get away from the guard shack, around behind the wall.”

    “What’s out that way?” the man still in the backyard asked. “I’m coming around. I’ll go the other way. Meet me behind the back fence.”

    I no longer heard them. After making certain that the access cover was exactly in place, I settled in for a wait. I figured to wait at least until full daylight, not wishing to have to use a light or to chance noise that might carry in the night hours.

    Comfortable enough, I managed several naps.
 
+++
 
    I saw no movement at the guard shack. But that didn’t tell me anything. The windows were not positioned to see much. I could get to the attic before anyone made it to the house, so I felt all right moving around. I did stay close to, or actually in the bedroom, handy to the closet and attic access.

    At midmorning, I saw movement out front. The guard must have received a phone call because he was running toward the house with gusto, in a hurry. I scrambled to the attic hideout.

    He made a furious room-to-room search, taking no more than twenty seconds. I heard the shower curtain being torn from its cheap hooks, which reminded me that it had been too long since my last shower. He went out the back door, presumably to look at the rope. I heard the knots slap against the aluminum siding.

After he left, retreating to his post, I chanced returning down and into the house, but only as far as where I could see out the front window. I had no way of knowing whether he remained in his shack or quit it and drove away. Wherever his transport was, if he even had any, I couldn’t see it. I was the veritable sloth with my movement about the house. I would have made a sniper wearing a ghillie suit proud. I’m sure that careful observation would have been my end.

I finished a book and a half before it became too dark to read. Unfortunately, it was not dark enough to execute my plan. Taking no unnecessary risks, I waited for full dark in the attic. I’d guessed the timing right. Again, I slothed my way to, and out the back door. No one relocked it, so that was good.

Soon enough, I learned why the one guy did so much grunting trying to climb the rope. Without gloves, it was tough. Making it more difficult yet, was the fact that the wall of the house was about two feet away, not that I would want all the racket involved with clamoring up it anyway. Then I had to crawl over the aluminum eaves that threatened to bust right off the 50-to 60-year-old structure. It took a while, but I made it.

After lying down on the roof to recover, coming down was a snap. Then I calmly walked the perimeter around the backside of the block fence to the locked garage door where entry was made by the searchers, as well as supplies delivery. My lock pick had it open in less than two minutes. Taking no chances, I tucked the hidden box under my arm and retraced my steps back into the house. I risked pitching the box to the roof, but quickly scooted to the front corner of the house to watch for the guard, if there even was one.

Several minutes later I was again in the attic with the cell phone on its charger just below me on the closet floor.

Half an hour later, I was calling Tom.
 
+++
 
    “You’re kidding!” I screamed in a whisper. “You’re his best bud?”

    “His only bud to hear him tell it. There’s no one he can trust; certain he would be committed if he told about being out of his body.”

    “But Schlape?” I asked. “Must have been his people who came for me.”

    Tom agreed.

    “I’ll come for you this evening,” Tom said. “Trump…”

    “Wait, let’s think this through. I don’t think I should go home. Probably somebody sitting in a car in the street, or in the dark in my living room every night. And before you offer, I’ll bet Schlape has you checked out. Your history and resumé is clean, but you thought he didn’t trust you.”

    “Well, even if he does, he’ll check you out thoroughly, even to asking your neighbors. ‘Here’s my card, if you see anything fishy…’”

    Tom was silent after all that.

    “But what you can do, is check on Google maps or Google Earth. See what’s around here in case I have to run. And you could call Hakeem. Tell him about Schlape and my two visitors. See if the place is still guarded.”

    “I can do all that. And I can bring you some bananas. If there’s a guard I can tell him my boss got bananas and oranges mixed up. And I’m thinking about trying to convince Trump to go slow on killing ObamaCare. Suggest he leave something for the Republican Congressmen to complain about, that a complaining workforce is a healthy workforce. You know…”

    “Great idea,” I said. “Maybe he’ll leave it alone until the rest of our plan comes together.”

    We signed off with an agreement that my phone should be in his pocket and silenced.
 
Chapter Twenty-two
Tom
(off duty)
 
    “Hello, Mr. Speaker,” I said once connected to Hakeem.

    “My man! Tom, after what you guys pulled off, you can call me Hakeem. What’s up?”

    “Are you aware, sir, that the safe house was raided?” I imagined Hakeem’s face draining of blood.

    “What happened?”

    “Well, sir, from what I understand, and I didn’t get every detail, our friend eluded them.” I knew how, but no one else needed to know.

    “Where is he now? Is he safe?”

    “Safe might be a relative term, but yes. He’s back in the safe house hiding from the guard. That is… if there is a guard. We don’t know if the place is guarded or not. Whether any more food will be delivered. And if the event happens again, will the other not-so-friendly friend be cared for.”

    “How many times have they switched back and forth?” Hakeem asked.

    “I believe at least four. If more, then it was short duration, and I don’t know about it.”

    “And can we predict a routine?”

    “No, sir. And believe me, we’ve tried.”

    “What’s your theory on how this raid happened?”

    I thought it was a ridiculous question for someone so smart, but he was grasping at straws, hardly believing what he was hearing about something pretty incredible in the first place.

    “We believe it was Robert Schlape’s doing. Trump met with him yesterday. And I don’t know, but I’m sure it wasn’t the first time. I’ll bet you could learn that Phil’s picture was shown around several circles until some MAGA person offered intel.” I could hear Hakeem’s head nodding.

    “I’ll get back to you. Soon. And thank you. Both of you.”

    I then did the rest of my homework, learning that there was a dirt road less than a mile due north through the forest. It might be difficult terrain and hard to keep a straight route, but not impossible. With a flashlight and a compass… And someone in a car with headlights on… Phil could be picked up and taken to a motel thirty minutes from the time he ran straight from the back of the house. The only problem was that it would take me at least five minutes to get from sleep to my car. And then forty, maybe a few more since I wouldn’t know exactly where he would pop out of the woods. We would have to be in phone contact to prevent him being picked up by the wrong person, by someone working for Schlape.

    I drove to the dirt road behind the safe house. Estimating where Tom’s pick-up point might be was 48 minutes – in daylight. I placed a milk jug filled with water at the base of a big oak. It was partly to assist my return, and partly for Phil some drinking water, should he need it. Then I drove on to where I thought there should be a Y intersection that would lead to a state highway. A little burg about ten miles on was supposed to have a motel. But I thought that would be the first place checked and planned to drive on to find a place less likely. At the next burg, about twelve miles further, there was an intersection of highways. To the left was a small city with several motels, some chains, and a few small independents. Now, as long as I recognized the Y in the dirt road, I should be able to get us out of the woods – so to speak.

    I felt comfortable enough to check on the guard shack.

    “Hey, Bud. Bring more oranges?” the guard asked.

    “Nah. My boss got his fruits mixed up. Don’t know oranges from bananas. I held up a bunch of green-tinted bananas. “Any chance I could see him? Give the boss a positive report?” I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask, feel the guy out, see what he’d say.

    “Sorry man. Protocol.”

    “Yeah, protocol. Well, then. Guess I don’t need to go on. Unless you want me to.”

    “I'll take ‘em in. Need a stretch anyway.”

    “Help yourself to a couple. It’s a big bunch. Or call to him and make a trade for oranges.” I laughed, still trying to figure him out. My guess at that point was that he wasn’t on duty the day the two Schlapes showed up.

    “So, you’re here 24/7. Day and night, day after day?”

“Nah, twelve on, twelve off. And only six days a week. Be nice, though, if it was the same day each week. They slipped around and changed it up this week. Gave me my day off when my wife had to work.”

    “That’s management for ya,” I commiserated. That answered that. The replacement guard trick.

    I called Phil to give him what I’d learned. I was going to hike in from the back the first chance I got to stash a flashlight and a compass. And to give him an analysis of the hike he would face.

    Then I hightailed it to the White House to read Trump to sleep. Let him know how Bilbo would fare against trolls.

    Throughout his reading, I wondered what would be the outcome if I renamed Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of the dwarves, Robert Schlape, or something extremely close – Roberlin Schlapekenshield. Could I get Trump to open up? Would it be worth the risk? Might Trump demand to see the coincidentally similar name in the book himself?
No way. Not worth the risk.

I was more able to get into the book by the time the Bilbo troop reached the singing elves in the Misty Mountains.
 
+++
 
    My phone vibrated just as I reached my car – Hakeem.

    “Tom. Bad news. But it could be worse. Schlape or somebody found out where our friend was hidden.”

    I froze. No! I’d just talked to him two hours ago.

    “The safe house was raided two nights ago. But our friend escaped.”

    “Hold up, Mister… Hakeem. You have old news. Today, I found out that Phil deceived the raiders and avoided them. He’s safe back in the safe house.”

    Hakeem was silent for a moment. I was hoping he wasn’t mad that he hadn’t heard the news earlier.

    “Well, your good news is better than my good news, that they didn’t get him. We were using Allied Security, the same company that has the contract on the DC Federal buildings. We’ll change that. And change where we put them.”

    “That’s a shame. It seemed ideal. Keeping our friend under wraps when he’s the other guy is a challenge.”

    “Do you think it’s workable if the switch happened tonight?” Hakeem asked. “It would be a lot smoother with our good friend.”

    “I’ll do what I can to make it so,” I said.
 
+++
 
    “Phil. Hope I didn’t wake you. You have to obscure your attic hideout. I was just talking with Hakeem and he’s working on getting you to a different place with a different set of guards. But if Trump comes back while you’re in the attic, it would be a problem.”

    “Hmmm. I should have done a little more thinking myself. What if the switch happened while I was in the attic? Trump could get me killed getting out of here!”

    I had to chuckle at that scene.

    Phil continued. “Glad you guys are a step ahead. I need to relock the back door, as well.”

    I’d already told him about the bananas and the garage door to be opened for him. I also told him about my recon work in the woods when I called him earlier. It was getting complicated. But I’m sure Phil would trade my complications for his freedom in a stroke.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)
Jeffrey McKnight: Mar-a-Lago member who owns a yacht
Sarah Huckabee Sanders: Governor of Arkansas
Tom Cotton: Senator from Arkansas


Chapter 17
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 23

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Phil escaped capture by parties unknown by sneaking into the attic. In the darkness of the next night, Phil secured the cell phone that Tom had hidden in the garage. Phil and Tom caught up with events. They agreed that the safe house would be his best hideout.
Tom told Hakeem of the attempted abduction, but that Phil was back in the safe house. Hakeem had learned that Allied Security couldn’t be trusted and promised a new situation, one that could contain Phil while he was Trump. Tom continued to ease Trump’s mental state.
 
Chapter Twenty-three
Phil
(safe house)
 
    It was dusk. Some might call it twilight. I thought I heard a hound, but wasn’t real sure. The lights were off, so I chanced a look out the front window – nothing. Then the area toward the road lit up with gunfire, the muzzle flashes, and the unmistakable crack of rifle fire. I don’t know how I maintained my composure, but I patted my trousers pocket to ensure where the lock pick kit was. In less than a minute, I had the back door open. A minute after that, I was on the roof. I heard men’s voices. They were too animated to make out words. I didn’t use the rope to get off the roof to the outside of the cinder block wall. I used a leap and the good old combat roll that every red-blooded American kid, at least in my neighborhood, learned by the time he was ten or eleven years old.

    I dashed around back and headed for the largest tree I could make out – nothing. Hopping to the next tree, I found the compass and flashlight that Tom staged for me. With my back to the house, I took off as fast as my bare feet could take me, wishing with every step I had my shoes on, but knowing that I had made the right decision. I could easily be a bullet-riddled corpse donning a nice pair of Wolverines.

    Not until I was sure that I would be out of range of the brightest flashlight, did I stop to check the compass and scope out the immediate area with my light.

    I determined north and made my best speed, using the light and checking the compass every hundred steps. My feet were just beginning to kill me. Until then, I was running pretty much on adrenaline. Since there was nothing I could do about my feet, more than likely cut, scraped, and bloody, I kept going. I was really wishing, though. That I had grabbed my shirt. That wouldn’t have taken two seconds. Instead, I was sweating, in the freezing Maryland wind. Maybe not below 32 degrees, but I was shivering. If I’d let them, my teeth would be chattering. I only then remembered to call Tom.

    Only Tom didn’t answer. That meant he was with the President. I thought it might be too early for him to be reading him to sleep, but what did I know? I left no message. After all, what if the phone was taken from him for whatever reason and my message was picked up by someone else? Tom would see that I’d called and return the call when he could.

I was beginning to feel like Trisha in Stephen King’s The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. Every sound was the bear on her tail as she fled through the woods.

    Eventually, I made it to a dirt road. But there was no way to know on which side of Tom’s pick-up point I was. He said he’d put a water jug at the base of a tree. The biggest trouble was the first several minutes that I ran without checking the compass. I could have veered either way – north or south.

    My feet were really throbbing and stinging at that point. Since I didn’t need the water, I decided that we could connect with our telephones and flashlight. I decided to break some boughs off some of the pine trees and make some sort of shelter. Between protection from the wind and jumping jacks… no, make that sit-ups because of my feet, I could stay warm enough.

    When my phone finally rang, my fingers barely worked well enough to press the green button. By the time I did, the call ended. Then it rang again and despite my chattering teeth, Tom understood my plight. He knew to call again when he reached the dirt road. The problem was when he cautioned me not to fall asleep… in case Trump switched back.

    Staying both awake and not killing my feet, or freezing to death, I did what I should have thought of earlier, I used my skivvies to clean and doctor my feet, as best I could. Of course, that meant stripping and then putting my pants back on. But the effort occupied me. And the working of my feet both warmed them, and each spark of pain awakened me. My mind was wreaking havoc. I imagined Tom’s car, him driving, but with a gun in his ribs. I imagined a Sonny Corleone scene where he was Tommy-gunned to shreds.

    Finally, Tom called me. I was beginning to think I was on the wrong road… or Tom was lost himself. I was to wait until I saw headlights and flash my light in circles. If the headlights didn’t go off and on twice, I was to douse my light and get into the woods. I know, regular cloak-and-dagger stuff. I should write a book.

    We connected and before Tom drove away with me, he got out and took off his coat, giving it to me. That, already warmed by his body and the car’s heater helped. I told him the story.

    At first, he missed his Y, but we were on track after backing up to find it. Tom chose a motel that promised both comfort and privacy. He checked in as himself while I stayed out of sight in the car.

    “Okay, Phil. I paid for two nights. I’ll go get you some clothes and supplies – something for your feet. Then I’ll go in to work tomorrow. There’s just no way Schlape can find you here… right?” Tom said.

    “I don’t know how. Unless his men check every logical motel for any single, white male who checked in after dark.”

Tom’s shoulders involuntarily slumped.

    “We have to risk it,” I said.

    “Okay. I’ll go back to that convenience store we passed and get you some coffee. You can reheat it in the microwave. And if you put the TV on something really stupid…”

    “That won’t be hard.”

    “It’s… geez. It’s 12:40. If you can stay awake until I get here… I’ll try to make it by seven?” I gave it the teenage upward lilt.

    “I can do it. Tom, I’ll never be able to repay you for what you’re doing.”

    “Brother, what you’re doing yourself is more than payment.”

    “Go on then, and try to get a few hours of sleep.”

    “Or I could stay and keep you awake? We just can’t have Trump waking up as you right here.”

    “Nah. You have a job to go to tomorrow – an important job.”

    Tom nodded and left me. I’m sure he was hoping that I was still me, Phil, and not Trump when he returned. I seriously debated calling Hakeem. But then, the man was the Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States of America, second in line to be the President. And he was currently in the fight of a politician’s life dealing with lunatic changes to the Constitutional Republic. No, I would not call him in the middle of the night over something that needed no immediate attention. Morning would be soon enough.
 
+++

Tom
 
    “No sir, Mr. Speaker. That’s right. We don’t know that anyone stormed the house. We don’t know if the guard was hurt, or if he was in on it. All I know is that the other night two men made it into the house. Last night there was gunfire in front of the house, and I have Phil, who as of last night was still himself, hidden out. But the place is only temporary. I have to move him soon.”

    Hakeem replied with a concern of Trump being himself, signing Executive Order after Executive Order, dismantling a functioning government.

    “Yes, sir, that means that the other is himself, and we need to get our guy in a condition receptive to another switch.”

    “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I understand. A Mr. Dundee. A man named Dundee will call me on this phone. Thank you, sir… Hakeem.”
 
+++
 
    “Mr. Dundee, you said?” I could barely make out his voice with the traffic noise around me. Additionally, it sounded like he had his hand over the microphone of his cell. “Yes sir, I’m Tom McQuin.”

    “Look, my guy was out there. It was deer hunters. Came through the forest at 6:02. It’s in the guard’s log. I can send you a photo of the entry. 6:02 – dog. deer. hunters. 4 shots fired. 2 hunters. The next entry was an hour later when the hunters returned to load the carcass.”

    I thanked him and told him that the occupant of the house would be pleased to hear the report, that he would be inside resting more peacefully that night.

    “You mean…?”

    “Yes sir. Tonight the occupant will be comfortably ensconced.” I didn’t know what he thought of my language, but I guess I was really into the spy stuff.

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)
Jeffrey McKnight: Mar-a-Lago member who owns a yacht
Sarah Huckabee Sanders: Governor of Arkansas
Tom Cotton: Senator from Arkansas


Chapter 18
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 24

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Phil heard gunshots and saw the muzzle blasts toward the guard shack. He escaped barefoot and shirtless, running through the cold woods, finally picked up by Tom. It was a harrowing experience. Tom called Hakeem. The next morning Tom learned that the shooting was deer hunters.
Chapter Twenty-four
 
Tom
 
    “That’s right, Phil. Deer hunters.”

    “I can’t believe it. Deer hunters!”

    Phil was shaking his head. He looked like hell, but who wouldn’t? “How’re your feet?”

    “Better. Could use some gauze, or bandaging, though. Maybe some kind of ointment.”

    Almost as an afterthought, I pointed at the bags I’d set on the motel table.

    Phil glanced that way. “Biggest aggravation is that I might’ve been President right now.”

    I nodded. “But then he would be here and I doubt I could get him back into the safe house.”

    “I meant the deer hunters…”

    I nodded understanding. We agreed that I would be back at suppertime and we would get him back into the safe house, to reverse his trek through the woods. In the meanwhile, he would take a hot shower, treat his feet, and sleep. I had to get to the White House.
 
+++
 
    “You are lucky, Thomas. I don’t understand what’s going on. Maybe I don’t want to know. But you are on thin ice, Thomas. Thin ice. All I can say is that you had better not lose that man’s favor.”

    Benjamin didn’t need to say it again – I was on thin ice.

    I’d called him the minute I knew what time I expected to report to work. He told me to proceed directly to the Oval Office, to report to Betty first.

    Hell or high water, I had to get to Tom before dark.
 
+++
 
    “Mr. McQuin,” Betty said, pointing to a chair at the side of her desk. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you do seem to have a calming effect on the President.

    “I’m told you are nearly a constant companion, but that the schedule is erratic. I want the story. Have you and the President known one another from the past, New York City, Mar-a-Lago, the film industry?”

    Her eyes bore into mine, her BS detector engaged.

    “No, Ma’am. Never before here.” So far, so good. Hadn’t had to lie yet. Her slight nod told me she’d accepted my answer as truthful. No doubt she’d had me investigated. I might be the most vetted person in the White House. I wasn’t crazy about being the focus of so much attention.

    She asked me to detail my first meeting with the President and then to explain the vagaries of the schedule – sometimes very early coffee, sometimes late evening reading to him. She knew more than I’d given her credit for. Why The Hobbit, she wanted to know. What did we discuss in early mornings? Why didn’t I report that government secrets were topics of discussion? Didn’t I know that I needed a security clearance? “Which I’m not giving you,” she was quick to inject.

    “Just being friendly, Ma’am. Trying to accommodate all my bosses.” I threw that out there to include her. I’m sure she caught it. “And try to squeeze my own life in between the cracks.”

    “You’re not trying to influence him to any particular philosophy?”

    “Ma’am? I haven’t even voted in a while.”

    She nodded as if she was aware of that. Her lips moved as if to pursue that line, but she stopped, pinching them.

    “The early-rising President is different from the late-rising one. Have you noticed that?”

    “How could I not?” I figured any other response would set off her alarms. “Imagine how hard it’s been to anticipate.”

    “I do. Trust me on that.”

    “Do you have a theory? How to predict. Anticipate?”

    “No, Ma’am. This is all flying blind.”

    She nodded. “Well, be that as it may.”

    I wondered how people who had never been exposed to society’s clichés got by.

    “I have some forms for you to sign for your security clearance. And an NDA.” She gave a studied glare as if I might object to a non-disclosure agreement.

I didn’t. Finally, she led me to the President.

    “Thomas. You look like hell!”

    “Thank you, sir.”

    He laughed. “Thank you, Betty, for finding my friend.”

    The President sounded like a seven-year-old.

    “Would you like a photo of us, Thomas? Everybody likes a photo. Some call them selfies. Do you take selfies? Betty, send the Crane in here. I call our photographer the Crane.”

    Betty had been lingering at the door, attempting, no doubt, to analyze our relationship, the President’s and mine. She left to find the Crane.

    “She wants to be involved in everything,” Trump said after she’d gone. “I’m wondering how I can cut the Congressional staff of the blue members but leave the red members alone. Do you know they have two dozen staffers… each? What if I eliminated all the blue ones? Executive Orders. I love those things. Works of art. Collector’s items with my signature. I could get you one. You could, you know, frame it. Be worth a lot of money someday. I’ll ask Elon. Thomas, how can I get Elon back here? He has some great ideas.”

    “Mr. President, you have the great ideas. Elon is just repeating them back to you.”

    “He is, isn’t he. I like that. I like you. I’m going to call you McGyver. You know? The movie star?”

    “Yes, sir. That would be fine. But you might get my attention better with Thomas.”

    “I like you, Thomas. What are we having for lunch? Do you think you could get me a Big Mac? The chef, he tries to make them but he can’t get it right. I think it’s the patent McDonalds had.”

    “Yes, sir. I can do that.”

    “Have my drivers take you. It would be fun. They can block off the whole road, you know. All the way there and back.”

    “Yes, sir. When would you be ready for it?”

    “Noon. Lunch is supposed to be eaten at noon. Don’t you think so, Thomas?”

    “Yes, sir. I think that’s why they call it noon because that’s lunchtime.”

    He had called someone, but I insisted that the motorcade remain at the White House, allowing only a single driver to transport me. I was a bit amazed at the power I suddenly wielded. After returning with the Big Mac meal, I briefly thought of what might be the response if I substituted the chef’s version for the restaurant’s but served it in the paper box?

    “Sir?” I dared. “Might it be all right if I took care of some personal affairs this afternoon?”

    He gave me a sad-eyed puppy-dog look. “You’ll be back, though, right?”

    “Of course, sir.”

    “Good. I want to know how Bilbo gets back with his dwarf friends.”

    At that moment, a female aide walked into the West Wing lunch room, her hands and mouth moving as if to speak.

    “Melissa,” Trump said, stopping her short. “Did you know that people who sing all have elf DNA? That’s where singing comes from. I might have some elf DNA. And there are some very fine people with dwarf DNA. Some very fine people. Loyal.”

    Melissa looked at me with questioning eyes.

I shrugged, leaving them to figure out who had elf or dwarf DNA.
 
+++
 
    After a stop at a Walmart, I had what I hoped I needed to get Phil back to the safe house, including two pairs of cheap tennis shoes, a size ten and an eleven. I didn’t know how gauzed up his feet would be.

    “Hey, Tom,” he said, nearly as glad to see me as the President had been. I wondered what I would do if he fawned the way Trump had.

    “Get any sleep?” I asked.

    “Not as much as I expected to, but yeah. I’m fine. What’s our plan? Hear from Hakeem?”

    “Nothing from Hakeem yet, or a man going by Dundee, I’m sure not his real name. We need to get you back to the safe house, though. And it wouldn’t do to let Allied security know you’ve been out strolling through the woods.”

    Phil smiled. “So, we go back in from the dirt road.”

    “You up for it?” I asked.

    “As long as one of those pairs of shoes fit.”

    I smiled. “Let’s get you a hamburger and get it done.”

    “Fish sandwich would be better.”

    “Fish, it is.”

    Our hike led us to the safe house road, not to the back of the safe house. I let Phil rest while I hiked the edge of the forest for a way to where I thought the safe house should be. Nope, it was the other direction. Phil and I returned to the woods, hiking the other way as quietly as we could. It was dusk before we saw the solid outline of the cinder block wall. I helped him up the knotted rope to the rooftop. After that, he was on his own.

    I had to hike back to my car without a flashlight. At least I had shoes, unlike Tom on his escape from the deer hunters. Man, what a twenty-four hours! I went home, showered, had a bite to eat, and returned to the White House, allowing Trump to learn of Goblins, Gandalf’s powers, and the fighting abilities of his dwarves. Trump considered the dwarves his own, not Bilbo’s.

    An early night was not to be with Trump interested in the wargs, monster-size eagles, more goblins, and especially the magical ring that Bilbo was mastering.

     Trump had a hundred questions of who Gollum might be and what if he, himself, had such a ring.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)
Jeffrey McKnight: Mar-a-Lago member who owns a yacht
Sarah Huckabee Sanders: Governor of Arkansas
Tom Cotton: Senator from Arkansas
NDA: Non-Disclosure Agreement


Chapter 19
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 25

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Tom learns that the shooters were mere deer hunters, shooting a deer that their dog had chased. Tom pacified Trump and helped Phil return to the safe house.
 
Chapter Twenty-five
 
Tom
 
    That evening, Trump was more immersed than ever in Bilbo. I couldn’t believe it. Trump was as excited as a six-year-old on Christmas Eve. I felt like he would jump on my lap for that night’s reading, which began before seven and didn’t end until almost eleven.

    Bilbo went from Beorn the Bear to the Mirkwood Forest, which gave me jitters of coincidentalism. Trump didn’t like the spider web trap but enjoyed the river floating. He wondered if he should tell his Secretary of Defense about hiding men in whiskey barrels; the special forces might be able to use that trick. Trump was concerned about Smaug the dragon, wondering if he was from Iran.
 
+++
Phil

(White House)
 
    I woke at four and phoned Tom. As long as it took for him to respond, I was afraid he had a short night and I was disturbing very much-needed rest. Too late now. Hanging up would only make it worse.

    “Good morning, Phil. Using this number can only mean you are in the White House.”

    “That’s right, Tom. We switched. You need more sleep?”

    “Nah. I’m awake now. You need me to come in right away?”

    “Not necessary. Whenever you’d like. I won’t go to the Oval until eight.”

    “I’ll be in your residence by five,” Tom said.

    “’Preciate it. See ya.”

    We disconnected, and I went to the White House kitchen to make coffee. Not long after shaving, showering, and getting dressed, all orange in the face and hair duly sprayed, Tom arrived.

    We had a quick cup of coffee, and I suggested we go outside for a stroll. I remember Nixon used to walk the grounds with Henry Kissinger for privacy. It was still a little cool, but we had jackets. The walk did me good in this heavy frame. 
 
A Secret Service agent knew to stay out of range of listening.

    “Wonder what he thinks of his aching feet?” I asked, smiling to myself. “This whole thing is so weird. Why me, I keep wondering. And what stops Trump from suddenly switching into someone else?”

Of course, I had no answers.

    “I think that after a few days, when the switch might happen again, shouldn’t we go back to Hawaii or somewhere? But what if he switched into someone else? Then what? Did we just get lucky the last time?”

    “No knowing, Mr. President,” Tom said. “But I’m thinking we just do the best we can with what we have. Hawaii was a good idea at the time. And it might have worked; maybe it did. We’ll never know. I’m not opposed to travel whenever you think… sense the necessity.”

    I nodded and looked at Tom hard. “I don’t know what it is, but don’t let me have any hamburgers. Can you hear me farting?”

    Tom laughed. “Yes, Mr. President. I do.”

    We both laughed.

    “I’m gonna get the ball in the lane today. Send it to the pins.”

    It was a bowling metaphor. “I hope you have time for more than two turns with the ball. Because you have more than ten pins.”

    I nodded. “Then let’s get to it. We turned around and headed directly toward the West Wing.

+++
 
“Betty. Good morning. Today, I want to see the Vice President. When you send for him, tell him to bring his report, complete or not. Oh, and Elon Musk. He’s still denied entry, correct?”

“Yesterday, you sent for him, Mr. President.”

“Well, I’m not ready for him yet. Keep him outside. He can cool his jets.”

Betty was not smiling. She was unhappy, I’m sure, that she was not included in treating Elon that way and also being kept out of my project with the Vice President. From all I understood, my bargain with Betty was that she would run the White House. I guess she included the Oval Office in the White House. Too bad. She looked at me as if I was responsible for all her anxieties.

    She looked at Tom as if they were co-conspirators. I wondered but quickly dismissed the notion.

    It turned out that Trump spent most of the previous day on the phone with some of his nominees and GOP senators and after hours on the phone with Elon Musk, who was returning to DC.

+++
 
    “Good. Here, I’ll take that,” I said.

    The Vice President reluctantly handed over two lawyer-size court case satchels. I imagined Trump had seen plenty of them in his day.

    “You say you haven’t finished the John Roberts investigation yet. Fine. Might as well get on it.” I stood to usher him out. Tom was on the couch in Kelly Ann Conway’s place. I’m sure he felt the daggers shoot from the Vice President’s eyes.

    As much as I know Tom wanted to see what he’d put together on Clarence Thomas and Bret Kavanaugh, he stayed back, letting me peruse it on my own. Protocol and propriety, as it were. I dismissed the V.P.
 
+++
 
    “Hah!” I pulled thirty or forty pages from the report. “Tom? I need you to do me a favor. I need these taken to Hakeem’s office, handed to him personally. Let me get them in an envelope. Must be one around here somewhere.” 
 
Opening drawers, I noticed one with some Executive Orders folders. I made a mental note to check those.

    “Would you call him on your phone?” Tom did, handing the cell phone to me.

    “Hello. Do you recognize my voice?”

    “Yes, I do, Mr. President.”

    “Our friend is bringing you a packet, an impeachment packet. You might wish to consider immediate action.”

    “Thank you, Mr. President,” Hakeem said.

Tom and I weren’t able to talk privately until reading time that evening. It was hilarious, me walking into the President’s bedroom as if to read for Trump. But it was a good way to talk privately and perfectly within our routine.
I let him go early, before nine, knowing that he would be here shortly after three the next morning. The man deserved a medal.
 
+++  
 
    We were being more careful these days. Feathers were getting riled. There was too great a risk that kitchen conversation would be overheard or surveilled. We kept it light, with only extremely subtle hints of actual plans, mostly getting to know one another. Of course, I had to be careful of talking very much about my real life, Phil’s that is.

At about seven, we left the residence to stroll the grounds.

Later that morning, Betty charged in. “Mr. President! Impeachment charges have been filed in the House Judiciary Committee; Thomas and Kavanaugh!”

Before she could continue, I asked her for a copy of the charges. I had them in eighteen minutes. With her watching me, I underlined several lines on different pages. I didn’t care that she thought it peculiar that I could read quickly.

“Get me Justice Thomas on the phone,” I said. Seeing her brows lift, I told her that I didn’t care what it looked like.

“Clarence? You recognize my voice, right?... Good. You know what’s going on in the House, right?... Good… Well, you were going to retire this term… my term. So I could appoint your replacement. I know that you were. I mean, why wouldn’t you? You’re a smart man. Look. They’re going to get it done. And I see charges afterward. Tax fraud, perhaps. Fines and restitution. Look. I can make it go away. All of it. And a Freedom Award for you. But it would have to be before they start calling witnesses, depositions, and all that. Today would be best… Charges for certain. I happen to know it… Good. Copy Betty, and we’ll set it up.”

I hung up. The entire conversation was staccato, rapid-fire. I didn’t give him a chance to drawl on.

Betty had been on an extension, privy to the call. “Get Kavanaugh, would you please, Betty?” Her face was ashen. “Mr. President…?”

“I’m ready to talk to him now, Betty.” Just for the fun of it, I gave her Trump’s felon face. She didn’t deserve it, but the gravity of the moment required her to be an employee, not the queen of the roost.

Kavanaugh knew the score. He’d gotten wind of the Judiciary Committee’s actions and a copy of their impeachment charges. The Vice President had ferreted out the sources of the monies in question. Wanted a face-to-face meeting. Fine. He declined the Oval Office. Neither did he want me going to his. We agreed on his suggestion of a conference room in the Library of Congress. We could both get there by way of the tunnel connecting various government buildings.
 
+++
 
    Kavanaugh insisted on privacy, just he and I. He started in on how I could make them, the Judiciary Committee, stop.

    I ignored the notion, of course. “Bret, I heard it straight from an inside source.” I named three payers of the money. I knew that at least one of them had ownership of a company that had had a Supreme Court case heard.

    “They’re going to subpoena over a thousand women. A thousand. Gonna send U. S. Attorneys and their teams around the country. Gonna run them through like a machine gun. It’s gonna be a slaughtering house, and you’re the only target.”

    I gave him the same offer I’d given Thomas, with the same ceremony promise. “Gotta be today,” I said. “I can’t stop the depositions after today. We are fortunate that it all came out now. You would want me to be the one to name your replacement, right? Am I right? Come on, stay with me.

“I brought a letter already typed out. It isn’t on your letterhead, but that doesn’t matter. Here. You have a pen? Just hang on a second.”

I opened the conference room door and asked the two Secret Service agents in. “Bret, these gentlemen will witness your signature.”

Bret signed.

“Betty will advise you of the ceremony. And get you a copy of this.” I took it from him and placed it into the folder that I’d brought with me. He remained seated in the conference room as I left. My letter to the Senate Judiciary Committee was in my office waiting for me to sign.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)
Jeffrey McKnight: Mar-a-Lago member who owns a yacht
Sarah Huckabee Sanders: Governor of Arkansas
Tom Cotton: Senator from Arkansas


Chapter 20
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 26-27

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Phil, as President, received the Vice President’s report on the Supreme Court Justices. He received both Thomas and Kavanaugh’s resignations.
 
Chapter Twenty-six
Phil
(White House)
 
    I had Betty prepare two nominating letters, having given her the names.

    “Mr. President, there is no hurry on this.”

    Oh, what she didn’t know! What if Trump came back tonight? Who might he nominate? Steve Bannon and Tucker Carlson? Don Junior and Paté?

    I made one in the Vice President’s name using her template.

    I asked Betty to send for the Vice President, arguing against waiting until after lunch.

    A few minutes later, he was in the Oval Office.

    “You remember our conversation about your future?” I asked. Without giving him a chance to respond, I handed him his resignation letter. “Things moved a bit faster than I expected. You heard about the House Judiciary Committee? Well, with Jeffries in there so fast…”

    I let the Vice President begin to speak and then cut him off.

    “No. It’s not going to take weeks or months.” I handed him a copy of Thomas’s resignation. He didn’t need to know more than that at the moment, Kavanaugh’s would only confuse him, get his wheels turning.

    “Before the talking heads over on the networks start in, or anyone starts speculating about what black man should replace him. I want it done. You can be in a robe tomorrow.” I’d never in my life told such a boldfaced lie.

    “But the Senate…”

    “Is mine. I own the Senate, remember? I already called Thune and McConnell, both. A Senate rules variance, and it’ll be fait accompli today. Boom.” Another lie.

    The Vice President gaped at me like I was speaking as someone else. I imagined him trying to decide if I was someone else. I sucked air between my teeth to bolster his confidence that I was me.

    “Just remember, the people… they are not going to support you for anything. Not even dog-catcher. Forty-four years old. You’ll have to move to India.” That was cruel, probably not called for, but I think it turned the trick. He signed.

    “Who will you replace me with? I know you’ve thought about it.” His tone had an edge to it, like he knew he was talking to someone who was not the old Donald Trump.

    “Honestly, I do not have a single name on a single list. I have not thought about anyone at all." It was true. I was not going to name a Vice President. Hakeem Jeffries could be the President tomorrow.

    We shook hands, his eyes burrowing holes into mine. I was getting used to it and made certain that I did not blink.

I ordered total distribution of the resignation, including the press.

    I had Betty send for the leader of the Senate, John Thune, as well as any of his leadership he’d care to bring.
 
+++
 
    “Senators,” I said, greeting them. “Amazing turn of events. Startling, really,” I said. I let Thune restate the affairs, checking to see whether he might imply any involvement on my part, not that it would matter.

    He probably already had it, but I handed Thune copies of both Justice resignations.

    “The Senate Judiciary has names of possible nominees,” Thune said.

    I held up my hand. “I’m sure they do. And they should keep that list. But I have already made my choices.”

    I saw expressions of horror. They probably expected Ann Coulter and Sean Hannity. I handed over my nominating letters, the two names supplied by Jeffries, two centrist appellate court judges.

    “Mr. President,” Thune began, “where’d you get these names? Are you sure you…”

    “Not who you thought?” I smiled. “Were you expecting a couple Proud Boys?” I couldn’t help myself from playing a little bit. “I'm just thinking about my legacy. I’m not here all that long, and these appointments will outlive me. Besides. If I named extremists, what would the other side do in ’28?”

    “A court of thirteen and they would appoint all four,” Majority whip John Barrasso said.

    I nodded to him. “I need this expedited. Confirmation this week.”

    “Afraid that‘s just not possible,” Senator Tom Cotton said.

    “Look, Cotton. Just because you’re taller than me doesn’t make you smarter than me. One more election and you think you can be President. In ’26 you’re up for re-election. I can have you primaried. I can give Sarah your seat. And you know it.

    “John Barrasso. How well do you think you’ll do when Wyoming farmers and ranchers lose the subsidies that Elon Musk has planned? We’re going to get the tax cuts one way or another. How about when all your poor people lose their Section 8 and SNAP benefits? You think they might be motivated to vote?

    “Now, how impossible is it?”

    John Thune spoke up. “Mr. President, we can get these names through the Senate Judiciary Committee on Monday. I’ll declare an emergency session for the members – if you can have them there for a hearing. The full Senate can vote for confirmation on Tuesday. There’ll be hell to pay, but I’ll pay it.”

    I nodded. No one seemed interested in discussing the Vice President position.
 
+++
 
    I told Betty to get the two judges to Senator Thune’s office pronto. Then I told her that I wanted to go to Mar-a-Lago the next day, leaving early. “I’ll…”

    “Mr. President.”

    She sounded serious. Blow-up serious. “You have to… You have commitments. And Elon Musk has been waiting in the Lincoln room.”

    “I thought I…”

    “Yes. Mr. President, but he’s not in the West Wing. And the Lincoln room is actually part of the public tour.”

    “Which we no longer have. Am I right?”

    “Yes, Mr. President., but…”

    I started to say something, but Betty overrode me.

    “Elon Musk did more than spend the better part of a billion dollars in your campaign. He…”

    She had my attention.

    “Sir… Elon has certain rights. And bona fide expectations.”

    I nodded. “Okay, you sit down with him. Get all his wishes and personnel appointments down. He’ll get his bona fides.” I left the Wing with no clue exactly what I meant.

    “Tom? Where’s Tom?”

    “Right here, sir,” Tom said, coming out of the lunch area next to the Oval Office.

    “Tom! I need you by me. I’ve said that. By me! I want to take a walk. Maybe to the Mall. See where they can place a Donald Trump Monument. Did you know they’re adding me to Mount Rushmore? It’s in the budget. Wonderfine," I finally mouthed.

    Tom finally got the message. I could see his jaw relaxing. Up until that moment, he might’ve thought I’d switched, or worse, that the position had gotten to me.
 
+++
 
“Have to admit, I was concerned for a minute,” Tom said to my prodding.

We were weaving around the ellipse. The Secret Service detail was nervously anticipating our turns. I kept waving them off. I brought Tom up to speed, repeating some things I’m sure he knew, but had to get them in the air just to keep the sequence in my head. I told him about the House impeachment proceedings, that I’d squelched as soon as I got the two Justices to resign. Then the Vice President’s resignation, then the nominations. And then the Senate schedule changed for the two confirmation hearings.

“And once they’re confirmed, Mr. President?”

“I resign. I make a convincing scene, sufficient that no one wants to talk me out of it.”

“And just walk away from all this power?”

He was joking. I could see it in his eyes, Tom wanted to make me laugh out loud. I could tell it was all he could do not to laugh first. “I could have you in Guantanamo getting your ass waterboarded before supper.”

I won. He laughed first.

Then we got serious. Tom opened it up. “We absolutely have to prevent a switch before the confirmation vote and their being sworn in.”

“I’m going to Mar-a-Lago tomorrow morning.”

“And we hope that’s far enough away.”

“Then we could send Phil to Guantanamo, but not for waterboarding. I’m fond of that guy.” I couldn’t help but grin.

Tom said that he did, too, like the guy. “Tonight, I’ll keep Trump, Phil, awake.”

I nodded. “If you can do that until three. Better make that 3:30. I’ll set my alarm and get up. He can go ahead and sleep when I’m awake. One of us had to be awake, Trump in my body, or me, as the President.”

“Do you want me to go to Mar-a-Lago with you as your butler or be here to tend to Trump, you?”

I thought about it.

“I’m thinking I’d better stay here,” Tom said. “We don’t know what else Schlape has planned. And Trump won’t be hiding in the attic.”

I agreed.
 
Chapter Twenty-seven
 
Tom
 
    I called Hakeem to let him in on our progress, Phil’s and mine, and to learn what was being done to protect Phil’s person from Schlape.

    Trusted Capitol Police would pick him up tomorrow at noon by ambulance. I advised Hakeem that if they came closer to nine, he would be more likely to be asleep for easier sedation and transport.

     At 10:30 PM, as I neared the guard shack of the safe house in a non-descript rental car sans license plates, I blared two Walmart air horns. I drove slowly enough, not figuring to get shot. The noise should make an impact. A stocking cap pulled over my face and a hoody disguised me.  About twenty minutes later, I came by from the other direction with an O’Reilly ship foghorn blast, again driving by slowly. That should have rattled Phil’s windows.

    If the air horns didn’t cause the guard to call in to his boss, the fog horns probably did. A fifteen-minute drive got me to my water jug, still positioned at the base of the oak. Practicing all the stealth I’d learned in the various movies over the past decades, I made it to the side of the house nearest Phil’s bedroom. I tossed a lit 300-pack of ladyfingers over the wall. Onto the roof, I tossed a lit string of cherry bombs on a fuse that should take at least ten minutes. All told that should provide for an hour of adrenaline rush excitement.

    I got out of there, hightailing it back to my car. Using GPS, I managed to get to the safe house road from the opposite direction. By then, it was 12:55. I stopped short of the safe house a couple hundred yards, having coasted the last few without lights to get there. I turned it around as slowly and cautiously as I could. Staying in the trees, I got within range of the house with my Remington 870. I sent a slug into the front picture window that shattered it. Even before hearing glass break, I was sprinting to the car, driving off at breakneck speed, unsure whether Allied might have been sent back up.

    I had one more trick. About a quarter mile from the safe house, on the opposite side of the road, I started a fire. It was a pretty good one, a white man’s fire, a fire that no right-thinking Indian would approve – too wasteful of firewood. As soon as it was lit, I scattered it into leaves and downfall. I got in my car and drove past the guard shack at a pretty good clip. There were three vehicles where there’d previously been only one.

    I lit another fire a quarter mile or so on the other side of the safe house, again on the opposite side. With a burner phone that would never see the light of day, I called 911, reporting the two fires. I expected that sirens from one direction or the other would keep Trump too nervous to sleep for a while.

    At 2:30, I drove up to the safe house in my own car. “Hey, Bud.”

    “Hey. My boss called me an hour after I got to sleep.” I made myself sound exasperated. “He said something was going on out here, and I had to come out and check on our boy.” I sighed big.

    “Yeah, well, he was right. Been a pretty crazy night. But the place was never breached. Your man’s fine.”

    “Well, let me put eyes on him, and I’m gone. Probably no more sleep, though.”

    The guard hesitated, reluctant to take any initiative.

    “Look, send one of your guys in with me. You can stay on your post. I look at him. Say hi. That’s it. Tell your man to haul my butt out after one minute.”

    He agreed.

    “You awake?” I shouted as soon as we entered the inner garage door. I didn’t call his name, knowing that he wouldn’t respond to Phil. “Hey man! You all right?”

    “I’m President Trump. You have to get me out of here. Take me to the White House. They’ll tell you. Call Paté! I’m the President. Tell them that they’re all trying to kill me!”

    “Okay, Mr. President. I will. Just hang tight. They’re on the way. Won’t be long now.” The biggest lies of my life.

    My escort gave me a snide look, like he thought it was funny that I toyed with him, Trump. I’d already turned to leave, figuring that oughta keep the President awake until well after three.

    Now, if I could make it home, a shower and some shut-eye myself.
 
+++
 
    By seven, I was up. Phil was supposed to go to Mar-a-Lago, but I figured he hadn’t left yet. I called him. He didn’t pick up, but returned my call ten minutes later. “Sorry, I was on the phone… a real phone with one of my Supreme Court nominees. He thanked me and said he would make me proud of him. I just hope he wasn’t, you know…”

    “Overly grateful to you in his decisions?”

    “Yeah. How’d your night go?”

    “Air horn, fog horn, fireworks, more fireworks, shotgun, and fire trucks, and a personal visit.”

    “Geez. And you didn’t get arrested? Remind me not to play with you.”

    I laughed. “Our Congressional friend said you would be moved at nine this morning.”

    “I was thinking,” Phil said. “He’s seen you or heard your voice a couple times, hasn’t he?”

    “Only once outside the White House. And that was last night. He didn’t act like he recognized me.”

    “But it’ll probably come to him,” Phil said. “You know what they say…”

    “In for a dollar, in for a dime?”

    “Something like that. If this works, you and I will be long gone.”

    “But he’ll know my name, Tom McQuin. When I suddenly don’t work at the White House anymore. Benjamin will give it up anyway. I just don’t think… with all that’s gone on, Hakeem can keep me around. And I don’t think Benjamin would anyway.”

    “And… they already have my name, from Trump having seen my driver’s license.”

    “We’re both gonna have to disappear,” I said. I could hear Phil nodding. “So what are you suggesting?”

    “Okay, but that’s long term. For tomorrow night…? One of us call our Congressional friend and get you into the new safe house as a minder. We impress our Congressional friend how important it is to prevent the man from sleeping during the night hours. And you are assigned as the First Reader, finish the Hobbit and move on to Frodo if it takes that long – Monday night. We need through Monday night.”

    “We just need our friend’s approval and a copy of my photo for me to be admitted,” I answered.

    Phil completed the scenario. “You need to know where, is all. And then after keeping him up all night, you can leave for the daytime hours as soon as he gets to sleep.”

    “You going to call him, then?”

    “Probably ought to. And get a copy of your photo to his office.”

    I agreed, and we agreed that Phil should call me, not me him.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)
Jeffrey McKnight: Mar-a-Lago member who owns a yacht
Sarah Huckabee Sanders: Governor of Arkansas, former Trump press secretary
Tom Cotton: Senator from Arkansas


Chapter 21
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 28

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Phil, as Trump, got the Vice President’s resignation. Phil then presented the Senate leadership with his nominations and convinced them to expedite the confirmations. Tom and Phil plotted how to prevent a premature ‘switch’.
Tom spent the night keeping Phil (Trump) awake. Tom and Phil worked out the rest of the plan.
 
Chapter Twenty-eight
Tom
 
    “Tom, am I glad to see you! You know I’m the President, right?” Phil’s whine sounded pitiful. Imagining it in Trump’s voice helped a little. “How did they let you in? They won’t let Paté in. Anyone, really. I’ve been trying, but there’s no one to even ask. I’m just here by myself. They have bars on the outside of all the windows. It’s like I’m in jail. Do you know where we are? Why do I look like this man?”

    We were in a small community north of Arlington, Virginia, Walker Chapel. I didn’t know who owned the small, split level three-bedroom, two-bath house situated on a cul-de-sac. I didn’t need to know. It was furnished for adults, not a family. One of the bedrooms was an office, and another office was set up on the ground floor sharing open space with a laundry area. Considering that there was only one entry/egress road, I don’t think the design was to use it as a safe house, more like just a house, maybe picked up by the government some decades past for the use of important refugees, like the Shah of Iran, or a deposed King of the Congo.

    There were two cars parked on the street, facing opposite directions, both occupied by armed Capitol policemen.

    I showed up just after nine. Trump was trying to get Fox on the television, not knowing that it had been parentally blocked.

    “Do you know what they’ve done to our country, Tom? I have to get back there, to the White House. Can you get me back there?”

    “Wouldn’t it be something if you had Bilbo’s Ring of Power?” I asked. “You could just walk out of here and straight into the Oval Office. How about if we check on our friend, Bilbo. Maybe we can learn. And then in the morning…”

    “You think, Tom? In the morning? I’m really tired. Maybe if I just went to sleep and woke up in the White House…”

    “That’s probably not a good idea, not without Bilbo’s ring. And we don’t have any idea how to use it.”

    “You just take it out of your pocket and put it on.”

    “Oh, but the inscription inside." I tried to distract him “Which way to turn it? Do you have to recite the words? But what language are they written in? Elven? Some lost Middle Earth tome? Do we even know the simplest thing that Bilbo knew naturally? Like which finger to put the ring on? What if instead of making you invisible, it made you bald… and ugly, and screechy, like an old hag of a woman?”

     Trump, in Phil’s frame, shuddered.

    “Maybe we should. You know, check in on Bilbo,” Trump said. “I could lie in bed like at the White House.”

    “There’s no chair in there,” I countered, not knowing whether there was or not. “And the overhead light wouldn’t be good for either one of us.” I desperately needed him not to be in a position to nod off.

    Phil’s head nodded, his lower lip sagging.

    We were on chapter eleven. Trump latched onto the part about the secret key Gandalf provided to get into the mountain using the hidden keyhole. I let him get carried away with a comparison to the tunnels beneath the White House.

    I emphasized the treasure under the mountain and the corresponding threat of Smaug.

    “You know,” Trump said, “there’s rooms in the basement they wouldn’t let me in. They wouldn’t tell me what was in them. And I think one of them, there was heat coming through the door. I could feel it. I knew there was something. Do you think I should have opened it?” Trump asked.

    I ignored the question and continued reading about the dwarves being trapped in darkness.

“That’s like me,” Trump interjected.

I didn’t stop, only six or seven hours to go.

 Trump became obsessed with who the five armies might be, and whether there were good people on both sides. Even though the story progressed through many scenes, he continually posited various countries as aligned with and against one another, comprising the five armies. Some of his alignments would be laughable had they not come from the brain of the leader of the free world, the most powerful man in the world.

The closer it got to the witching hour, midnight, the more animated I got. As Trump's eyelids began to flutter, I stood and circled the room while reading. Injecting as much excitement as I could. Finally, after zooming to the end of a chapter, for which reason, I could only ascribe to my proclivity to job completion, something inherent in task-oriented people, I suggested a snack and drink break. Before resuming my reading, I managed to get him to drink an entire can of Diet Coke and half another one, enlisting the aid of his bladder to keep him awake.

We’d barely started chapter eighteen where unconscious Bilbo, injured in battle, is taken to King Thorin, who died in battle. I was glancing to the end of the book, only pages away with hours to go, when Trump snapped alert. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

I had, but hadn’t. I should have. Should have been paying more attention. The back fence was a friendly neighbor fence, constructed of cheap, rough-cut one-by-twelves horizontally woven about four-by-four posts. The fence looked the same on both sides with no front and no back – friendly neighbor. It was a favorite when neighbors shared the cost.

The drawbacks were that they were easily scaled, and after not too much time, inherently flimsy. The boards popped off with the slightest pressure.

One of them did just that. I ran to the back door, a sliding glass door. It had no bars and the locks were notoriously ill-suited for security. Most people placed a piece of wood, or a cut-to-size broomstick in the bottom track, preventing the door’s sliding. Such was the case here. Had Trump the least familiarity with the door, he could have escaped.

The backyard was lit only by a large security light favored by those in more rural areas on a power pole down the block, but there was light enough to see that a fence board was missing in one section. Someone wanted in. In the middle of the night. Probably Schlape’s people.

After making sure that both Trump and I had shoes on, I pulled him up from the couch, telling him it was time. We had to save Bilbo!

I flashed the front porch light switch on and off several times. I thought about dot-dot-dot Morse coding S-O-S, but had no confidence that it would be properly read. And it would take too much time. Most everyone knew that sliding glass doors could be quickly lifted right off their tracks and removed entirely. Boom-botta-bing.

Somebody would not be happy with me, but I threw a dining room chair into the living room picture window. I guess you could say I was making a habit of breaking those things. This time, I wouldn’t if I had the Remington.

The chair didn’t go all the way through, held in place by the outside bars, but it had the desired effect of gaining a guard’s attention. One in the driver’s side of the nearest car opened his door, taking his sweet time about getting out of the car. “Intruders in the backyard!” I shouted. “Get us out!”

The guard got on a walkie-talkie device, presumably to speak to a guard in the other car. No one exited the other car, probably watching to see if whatever it was I was hollering about was a diversion.

The guard whose attention I’d gotten drew his sidearm. I’d rather he’d drawn the house key. “Get us out before the shooting starts,” I yelled through the broken glass.

Nothing. The man sauntered around to the side of the house as if to check out the backyard. At this rate, he would get around in time to walk in the hole in the back of the house to either get shot himself or to watch over my corpse after Trump had been whisked through a busted-down back fence, not that I imagined the worst.

“Come on! Follow me!” I shouted to Trump. “I had to repeat it, adding that we were escaping to get him to move. The door to the garage locked from the inside. It felt and sounded like there might be a padlocked hasp on the garage side. Wrestling my way around a prancing Phil/ Trump, I shot to the kitchen in hopes of a hammer and a screwdriver. Thank goodness both were near the top of the junk drawer.

The first of the three hinge pins was a challenge, but using the extracted pin, I got the other two out without much trouble. Swinging the door contrary to its design busted the hasp loose. We were in the garage. The electric garage door opener worked. Yay! We were outside, me urging Trump to the back door of the nearest car, the one formerly occupied by a guard.

 Trump/Phil actually, in the back seat, I tried to start the car. The FOB must have been in the guard’s pocket. It wouldn’t start.

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)
walkie-talkie: two way radio


Chapter 22
No! Say It Ain't So! Ch 29-30

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter, Tom was admitted to Trump’s new safe house. He attempted to keep Trump awake by reading The Hobbit. Just after midnight intruders broke a board off the back fence in their effort to gain entry. Tom managed to get a guard’s attention and then to break out of the house with Trump (Phil). They got into the guard’s car, but he had the FOB in his pocket.
 
Chapter Twenty-nine
 
Tom
 
    “GET DOWN!” I shouted. “PUT ON THE RING!” That did the trick. Trump scrunched down. We avoided being seen by the occupants of the sudden oncoming car. I chastised myself for not calling 911 earlier.

    “What’s your emergency?”

    “Intruders!” I shouted. “Then I racked my brain trying to remember the address “Cypress Court! Uh… Willard Chapel… I mean Walker Chapel. Hurry! The Pre…” I don’t know what possessed me to nearly blurt out that the President needed immediate rescue. Stupid. I resolved not to tell anyone, not even Phil… the real Phil.

    Finally, the other guard got out of his car, drawing his weapon. He was fully out just in time to get blasted. The way he was slammed into his car door, it looked like a hit to his chest.

    The shot had come from the on-coming car which whizzed on past. Not very smart. It was a cul-de-sac, after all. No doubt afraid of fire from the car we were in. Maybe he just overshot his goal. He was then deep into the bubble, too late to simply turn around. With other cars parked in the street, he had to make a seven or eight-point turn.

    “GET TO THE OTHER CAR! HURRY!”

    Suddenly Trump had command of Phil’s more lithe and limber body. He was in the back seat of the injured guard’s car before I rounded ours. The guard, I could tell, was wearing a bullet-proof vest. Good for him. I helped him get into the backseat with the President as I heard shots from the shooter’s car window – the car had almost fully turned around by then – I had our car started and in gear. I didn’t peel rubber, but not from the lack of trying. The back glass shattered from a gunshot. My own car was one of the ones the other guy was squirreling around.

    The chase was on. I was driving like a man on fire would run. My phone wouldn’t work.

    “How is he?” I asked Trump. There was no response. I briefly wondered if he’d been shot. “Are you hit?” I yelled, sliding around a bend in the road. The car behind was not gaining, but I wasn’t losing him either. I was one sloppy curve away from getting T-boned and then shot to pieces.

    “Are you hit?” I repeated.

    “Uh, yeah. Uh, no.”

    Preferring the second answer, I took it. “How’s the guard?”

    I heard a deep, sucking sound… the guard sucking the wind that had been knocked out of him.

    “Can you call for help?” I asked. “We’re on 120 north of Walker Chapel.”

    I heard the guard’s call.

    “Can you shoot at them?” I asked. “Get them to back off some before I get us killed?”

    At least this was keeping Trump from falling asleep, I thought, nearly buying a steel guardrail. The guard had a window down as far as it would go, which wasn’t low enough for him to properly aim. After he fired off a couple of rounds, I started to ask his name, but feared that the natural follow-on would be to identify ourselves – Tom and my friend, Donald Trump.

    “Any ideas?” I asked.

    “Turn right on something big…Military Road or George Washington. Turn in when you see a sign for Arlington Cemetery or the Pentagon.”

    Neither sounded good to me. The U.S. military and me with a man who, given the right ears, could convince someone he either was the President or enough inside information to be held by the authorities. Either way, he’d be sleeping soundly tonight and most likely switching, ending every effort Phil and I had worked for.

    I felt, more than heard, the next set of shots. The car had been hit. I had no idea how badly. What I didn’t want was a tire blown out. Then it happened. A tire was blown out. “Both of you slide to the high side,” I shouted. They did, but not without a wrestling match as the guard climbed over Phil to shoot out the window.

    I saw a sign that said Zachary Taylor Park. We weren’t far from my own house!

    I knew of a weird residential street named North Stafford that resembled a lollipop, a stick with a loop something like an oval race track. I was going into it to try to lose our pursuer. The guard was reloading.

    The smart move would be for me to let the other two roll out of the car, hidden by cars parked on the street. But then I would lose control of my charge. So I did the dumb thing – I told our guard to get ready to scramble out the door and up to the driver’s seat, that I was going to take our guest to freedom. Trump liked that. I could hear him smile.

    Before the guard could object, I was in the oval on the side of the road. Our pursuit shot past us. “NOW!”

    It was as if it were choreographed. Driving on three wheels, the front wheel car perfectly balanced, the guard pulled a Dale Earnhart move, kissing the formerly pursuing car’s bumper and speeding by. Trump and I were legging it through unfenced backyards toward my place. I was hanging on to one of his arms and fishing my truck key out of my pocket with the other.

    Suddenly, Trump was done. “Where are we going? This isn’t right. We should go to the Pentagon.”

    “Bilbo! The Goblins are between us and the Pentagon. Hurry! Put on your ring!”

    He did, once again loping beside me. Once in my truck, we were on our way. Good luck to the guard. I wished him the best.

    “Are we going to the Pentagon?” Trump asked.

    My response was non-committal. “Watch for the Goblins,” I ordered. “Do you have Sting?” Sting was the name of Bilbo’s sword, of course. That diverted Trump’s consciousness for a few minutes. It was after one in the morning. I didn’t know how many more tricks I had.

    “It must be in the other car!” Trump sounded frantic. “I don’t have it!”

    I’d almost forgotten that I told him to look for his sword, Bilbo’s sword. I had to pay attention. I didn’t want to go slow enough that Trump decided he could jump out, and not so fast that we got pulled over. I nearly had a stroke when I glanced over and Trump was falling asleep.

    “HEY! Bilbo!”

    “Who?” he asked.

    “President Trump.”

    “Yes? Where are we? I’m tired. I’d like to go to sleep now.”

    “How about a Big Mac?” I asked, knowing we couldn’t get one, that I wouldn’t dare stop. By then I made a left and Trump recognized that I was crossing the Potomac.

    “Oh, good. Does Paté know that we’re coming in late?”

    “I think so,” I said. But I was not going to the White House. And Paté was nowhere near, states away. We were going to the safe house. Where, no doubt, Allied Security was done, nobody to guard. Schlape would certainly go to Phil’s house. And possibly to mine, as well, since his people might have seen me. And by now might have run the cars parked on the cul-de-sac.

    Motels were risky. A twenty-dollar bill would make most people a snitch. And I had no doubt that Schlape’s people passed out Benjamin Franklins. Besides, I seriously doubted my ability to constrain Trump at this point.

    When I turned away from the government building section of DC, Trump began to get agitated. “Where are we going?”

    “Didn’t you see them?” I asked. “The five armies. They’re here.”

    “Here?”

    “Yes. We have to flank them.”

     Trump nodded furiously. Then he looked at me intently. “Bilbo was injured.”

    “But not seriously. He was a hero!”

     Trump nodded.
 
Chapter Thirty
 
Tom
 
    “Watch for the five armies,” I said. We were leaving DC and headed for the forest preserve safe house. The picture window had at least a shotgun blast hole in it. I hoped it wasn’t completely shattered like the one we’d just escaped from. I was rough on picture windows.

    “I don’t like this place,” Trump said as I pulled to the house, past the vacant guard shack.

    “This is the Keep,” I declared, almost losing my temper for no good reason. Call it tired. Call it tired of babysitting Trump. All I knew was that I had another hour, at least, to be safe. “How about a Diet Coke?” I prayed that there was at least one in the fridge.

    “Why are we going around here?” Trump asked as I led him toward my rope at the side of the house.

    “The Taliban might be inside. I have to sneak in to destroy them.” I had no idea why I switched from Goblins and five armies to the Taliban, no idea whatsoever. It’s just what came to me. We went around to the rope because my lock-pick kit was in my car back in Walker Chapel.

    With all my might, I tried to climb the knotted rope. I just didn’t have it. I could get to the roof to touch it, but not far enough to hoist my body over the edge. Finally, I came back down, my hands killing me.

    “Mr. President, I need you. You know that you are in another body, right?”

    He looked at himself up and down. “It confuses me,” he replied.

“I know, sir. It’s very confusing. But I need you to use that other man’s body. It’s his body and we need to use it, okay? 
 
See this block wall?”

He said that he did.

“I need you to lean against it and stand very strong. The body you are in is a good, strong one. It’s not as tall as yours, but it is strong. I’m going to climb up your back and get the Gob… the Taliban.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes sir. I’m trained to do this.”

He did. And I did, grabbing one of the vertical pipes that supported the two feet of razor wire. There’s a reason that it’s called razor wire. Most of my shirt and some of my skin stayed on the top strand. If I’d gone to the ER, they would have sewn stitches, or at least Superglue or butterfly bandages. Some of the cuts bled for a while, streaming down my stomach.

Seeing my knotted rope hanging from the roof once I got to my feet, I tossed it up onto the roof. A portion hung over, but that was of no consequence.

 Trump was still where I’d left him when I opened the front door and came around for him. Thirty more minutes, at least.

“I have to pee. Real bad,” he said.

“Go ahead. I won’t look.”

“Outside? I’ve never done it outside.”

I believed him. “Then come on. Follow me. I got us in.”

“I don’t think I can walk. I’ll pee my pants.”

“Then pull it out and pee! The person whose body you’re in does it all the time.”

Finally, he did. But he didn’t sound happy about it.

Diet Cokes. Two left. Yay!

“I’m going to sleep now.”

“Mr. President!” He turned to me straightening his back and shoulders. “We have to finish The Hobbit. We have to get Bilbo home. Did you finish that Coke? There’s another.”

“This one’s enough.”

“Here. Have a seat and it won’t be long. We’ll get Bilbo home together.” I looked around only to discover that I didn’t have a copy of it. I snatched another book from a shelf and pretended to read. “Bilbo gained consciousness and was carried to the dying Thorin by Bard. Up the winding stairs, a hundred and seventy-seven of them, Bard carried Bilbo without a flinch. One excruciating step after another, ever onward. They were in Elrond, the elven city of fame. The city of refuge and song.” I thought about making up a diddy but quickly nixed the notion.

“Destroyed were the five armies amassed against civilization. But alas…”

I was faking it the best I could.

“Mr. President? Your soda. You’re about to spill it.” He wasn’t but it stirred him.

“Side by side, Bilbo and Gandalf trekked the road to the Shire.”

“Bilbo’s home,” Trump said.

I nodded and continued. “Gandalf allowed Bilbo’s entry into the Shire alone, the triumphant return. Oh, my! What is happening? The dastardly Underhills, who had always wanted his beautiful house had managed to declare Bilbo deceased and were at that very moment auctioning off his home. ‘Hold on, now’ Bilbo commanded. ‘I’ve been There and Back Again.’ Bilbo that very moment decided to write his memoirs and call it just that: There and Back Again.

“And order was once again restored to the Shire.”

I looked at my watch – 3:17. Good enough. Mr. President, if you wish, you can get ready for bed. It’s in there.” I pointed to his previous room. It was well past 3:30 before I heard the sound of his sleeping.
 
+++
 
    I called Phil, figuring that with Trump asleep, he may as well be awake, just to be safe. He picked up right away.

    “How’s it going?” he asked.

    “Where do I start? As far as I know, no one was killed, but only thanks to a bullet-proof vest.” I told him all the details. We had one more night. I waited until after six to call Hakeem.

    “Tom,” Hakeem said, “my brother Hasan’s son is staying with me to go to the university. He will bring you what you need, and stay there as long as you need him to. I’ll give him the address and the coordinates. And on my word, we will tell no one where you are.”

    “Thank you, sir. If you would, sir, have your nephew call me, and I’ll give him a list of a few items the… Phil will need, mainly Diet Coke. Then I’ll go home, shower and eat and sleep a few hours. Your nephew can stay in the guard shack and our friend will never see him.”

    I could tell that hadn’t been a concern, but I provided relief, in any case.

    “And sir… it would be better for your nephew if he didn’t know who he was guarding. Even fifty years from now it might damage your legacy… history.”

    I could hear the wheels turning.

    “You’re right. If he happened to see the man by accident, all he would ever be able to know would be Phil. Thank you for what you’re doing, Tom. The nation thanks you.”

“At least those who work for a living.” I hoped I didn’t insult him, make him think I’d placed him in the trough with those who did not work for a living. “Sir, if we don’t speak again, thank you for who you are and all you’ve done.”

“Oh, we’ll speak again. Rest assured. You and Phil.”
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)

Benjamin Franklins: hundred-dollar bills
cul-de-sac: dead-end road with a widened end for u-turning


Chapter 23
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 31

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapters, Tom and Trump (Phil) made their escape from Schlape’s people.
Tom rescues Trump (Phil) from Schlape’s pursuit and sets him up back in the first safe house.
 
Chapter Thirty-one
 Trump (Phil)
(Friday morning in Mar-a-Lago)
 
“Why are-rent there reds?”

“Sir?” The Mar-a-Lago facilities manager who met Trump’s entourage had not the faintest clue.

“I want red flags, red carpets, red trash cans with red liners. Reds. Everybody on the grounds wears red hats. See to it.”

“But sir. Those are white MAGA hats. Much more stately, don’t you think? These people don’t…”

I gave him my felon look.

“I’ll put out a memorandum,” the man said.

“What’s on the menu today?”

The manager appeared perplexed. “Sir, it’s the standard menu. It hasn’t changed in over a year, but we can accommodate any taste, sir. Is there something you would like them to prepare?”

“Yes, there is, as a matter of fact. I want a roasted pig. With an apple in it’s mouth. A red one.”

The manager looked like he would explode. He was turning red. “Sir, perhaps tomorrow the chef can arrange something on that order.”

I felt like he was hoping I would forget such a ridiculous request of Mar-a-Lago chefs.

“See, cooking time alone makes that an impossibility. Sir, it would take most of the morning to procure such a beast.”

“Then Big Macs for everyone.” At that I made a hard right walking away from him fast enough that I might fall. I made sure to make some sort of silly or stupid face to everyone who made signs of familiarity. Eventually, I made it to my suite. Where I made all the attendants leave. No one bothered me.

Don Junior called and wanted to come over to talk to me about what had happened in DC. I told him that I wouldn’t let him in unless he was prepared to take a drug test, that if a drug test was good enough for Hunter Biden, it was good enough for him. I ranted on about how much better we are than the Bidens and that we would pass drug tests every day. 
 
I yelled that he should keep his brother away, too. Then I started all over until I was sure he’d hung up.

I found a news channel that wasn’t FOX. The reporters tried to be nice when speaking of me, but they were having quite a time of it. When a report from the Senate Judiciary Committee came up, there wasn’t a single Senator with anything negative to say about my two nominees to the Supreme Court. There were what I’d call hardball legal questions, but nothing the two couldn’t field. Hakeem did well putting them on top of the list.

Believe it or not. I found the cartoon version of The Hobbit, the Rankin-Bass adaptation. Should anyone gain entry, or discover what I’d watched, this could go a long way toward Tom’s and my plan. But on a personal note, I thought it was very entertaining. It had been a long time since I’d read the book.

I asked for my hamburger to be sent to the suite. And then the same for supper. After the movie I managed a five-minute nap. I really would have liked to have had a longer nap but since Tom was going to try to make the real Trump stay awake as far into the night as possible, I went to bed early, setting my alarm for two AM. I was sure Tom could make it that long. I’d do better Saturday night.

I was glad that I’d brought a couple novels. There was nothing in the suite. And quality reading was contrary to the message I wanted to leave among the Mar-a-Lago crowd. The night was not fun. I managed to wait until six to order breakfast sent to the suite – porridge and a boiled potato. No one would believe the exchange that that entailed.

“Porridge, sir? Do you mean oatmeal?”

“Does oatmeal sound anything like porridge?”

“Would the President prefer Malto Meal, or the Cream of Wheat variety?”

“Por-ridge!”

“And the baked potato sir? Anythi…”

“Boiled potato! Bo-iled. The size of a baseball. In fact, carve baseball stitching on it.” That was when I hung up. I’m sure that story would make the rounds.

I stopped drinking coffee when Tom called, so after my horrible breakfast, I was ready for a real nap. Golf on TV helped.
 
+++
 
 Trump (Phil)
(Saturday afternoon)
 
Lunch was special. I had a bite of several entrees and sent them back, vociferously. Everyone who fawned over me got a goofy grin and something or other that agreed how good I was. Unless they were female, they only got the clown face. I waited until someone approached who I’m certain was close with the real Trump who was long-winded. Mid-sentence I suddenly stood, tipping over a water glass, and then turned away, walking off.

While still in the dining area, loud enough to be heard by everyone, I called for Jeremy, the manager. I only wanted him for my next project, but allowed the diners to believe I was going to complain.

“Jeremy, I want to go out and look at the grounds over by the tennis courts.”

“The tennis courts, sir?”

It had gotten to be a routine. Every outrageous thing I said was repeated back to me as a question. That told me I was on the right track.

“Your cart. Sir?”

“I want to walk.”

What I hoped to convey was that I’d gone off the deep end, and that was what could explain my aberrant political behavior that they’d heard about in the news.

“I don’t like tennis, Jeremy. Back and forth, back and forth. And it’s not a good sport for me. Never was. Except when I was in college. Then I could play. The girls, you know. That was their sport. But I don’t like tennis. All this land. You see all this land over there?” I pointed to the clear lawns to the north of the tennis courts.

“I would like to have a Disneyland here for our members. You know Disneyland? Very popular. But our kind of people can’t go to Disneyland. There are too many of their kind of people. Did you know that you have to wait all day long to go on one ride? We wouldn’t have that. Two minutes. That’s it. People don’t like to wait more than two minutes. Many people are saying that. They want a Disneyland that they can take their grandchildren to. Did you know that my own grandchildren have never been to Disneyland? So we can tear out the tennis courts. I don’t like tennis.” I gave Jeremy an opening as I sucked air between my teeth.

“Mr. President, I can certainly take it up with the board.”

“The board?” I let it drop after that. I’d made my point. “Where’s my cart? I always drive my cart.”

“Here you are, sir.” A Secret Service agent ushered me to a golf cart.

“Take me to a jewelry store.”

“Sir, that takes coordination with the Secret Service adjutant as well as the local police. And we would need to vet the jeweler first.”

It sounded plausible. I considered bucking the entire system, but if I got out there and got myself shot, the courts and Congress and the entire press community would support the former Vice President revoking his resignation.

“Fine! Send me a jeweler with a sampling of gold bands. I’ll be in my suite.” But I didn’t immediately return to my suite.
 
+++
 
Once back at the main building, I announced that I wanted a boat ride. An attendant… one that I suppose was assigned to see that I was never without one, must have been new.

“Are you sure, sir? The last time…”

He caught himself but it was too late. “Who said I threw up? I didn’t throw up. Who said that I threw up?” Those people lingering roundabout, wanting to be proximate to power, all edged back. There was a circle of void around me.

I looked around at them. Most averted their eyes at the last moment. “I’m going to be the first Mars immigrant. Elon said so.” That ought to get their tongues wagging. I couldn’t help but smile. I was the only one.

I spied a bouquet on a side table. It was actually beautiful… until I pulled a wad of the blooms from the middle and crammed the stems into my suit jacket pocket. I worked at them long enough to make a spectacle of myself doing it, as well as a clown walking around with the mess sticking out of my pocket. I walked all over the building looking like that, offering a variety of faces, speaking to no one.

It worked out that I was in my suite when the jeweler arrived. I picked out a very nice quarter-inch band with a glittery, geometric polished finish. I ordered him to inscribe at least twelve Middle Earth Rune shapes, I didn’t care which or any particular order, for him to just make the lettering attractive. He sized the middle finger of my right hand and promised Monday delivery.

Just before the dinner hour, I called Jeremy’s number and asked for a plate of cheeses and a jar of pickled beets brought to my suite. I sent the beets back down with the attendant, telling him that I had not ordered them. I ate some of the cheese and went to bed to read, again with my alarm set for two.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader,
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)

2 more posts to end this tale


Chapter 24
NO! Say It Ain't So! Ch 32

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Trump (Phil) made a baffoon of himself at Mar-a-Lago, convincing staff and members of his insanity.
    
Chapter Thirty-two
 Trump (Phil)
 
“Hello, Tom?”

“Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”

“As well as could be expected. How’s our friend? How’s he treating my body?”

Tom laughed. “’Fraid you’re gonna have to go on a diet and do some serious exercising, pal.”

“Arghhh. You’re killin’ me. And here, I have his body losing weight. I get cheated on both ends!”

Tom laughed. I’ve finished The Hobbit. He was really into it. I mean really!”

“Hah!” Phil spat. “That’s funny. ‘Cause I got him, well it’ll be delivered tomorrow, a Lord of the Rings ring!”

I described the clown I was making of Trump and Tom told me of the harrowing escape and Hakeem’s help. And all this time, I thought I had the lion’s share of difficulty. We agreed that tomorrow would be tough… for the both of us. Tom had to keep my body from being kidnapped or killed, and I had to continue the farce and façade a whole day. There were any of a thousand ways that I could be stumped and not behave, or not know someone that Trump knows, and mess things up.

Someone who knows someone who knows someone could put things together and cause real grief. It would not do to have Trump – me – picked up and grilled by a psychiatrist, especially one who knows Trump. I want to make him appear crazy, but not too crazy.

Tom and I agreed that tonight, I would stay awake until after three, letting Tom have a little rest. Tom would read to him only until he tired. He would wake my body at three.

Tuesday, I planned to fly back to DC, arriving just after the vote, or at least after it was too late to stop the Senate vote confirming the two judges. I wanted to witness the swearing-in by Chief Justice Roberts.

Tomorrow, Monday, I would sleep in, not leaving my rooms until afternoon. I managed to find a copy of Stephen King’s The Dark Half, a macabre story related closely enough to what Tom and I were experiencing to be interesting. I planned to read, with the Tv volume on high, until three and sleep only after the Trump, in my body, was awake.
 
+++
 
My phone rang. It was just after eleven Monday morning. I’d been awake a couple hours, but holding to my plan to make no appearance until afternoon. I finally acquiesced and answered the phone.

“Fine. Send him up… Wait. Give him a tour and send him up in fifteen minutes.”  It was the jeweler. He was quite prompt, probably hoping for the future sale of something nice for Paté, or Melania. I needed the fifteen minutes to spray my face and hair.

“Excellent,” I said, taking it from him before he could show me the inscriptions. I put it on and made a show – “Can you see me?” My question’s intent was that this would be another story making the news in coming days.

He looked confused, blinking hard. “Uh, yes, sir.” His confusion was blaring.

“Here, sir, uh, let me…”

It was all he could do to keep from grabbing my hand to pull the ring off. I could read the old guy’s mind, he was so anxious to show and tell the engraving. I finally took it off and looked at it: ϏɭϪ¥ÉÂ…ЖÕ.

“Roughly, it reads: Ring of Mystery.” He beamed.

I nodded and frowned, guessing at Trump’s negotiating style. “How much?”

He began to stammer.

I gave him my felonious look.

“Mr. President, let this be our establishment’s gift, a token of our appreciation of a, hopefully, continuing relationship.”

    I smiled and snatched the ring from his fingers, quickly sliding it on my finger. I then offered him my most photogenic smile. “Would you like a photo with me?”

    How could he refuse? We went down and Jeremy clicked a photo with the jeweler’s phone. After the old codger left I instructed Jeremy to send him a check for $500. I knew the ring listed for about $300 without the engraving.

“Would you like to visit the dining room, Mr. President?” Jeremy looked like he’d rather avoid me, probably terrified that I would ask about our Disneyland.

“I don’t know, Jeremy, has the chef learned how to cook a Big Mac yet?”

He tried his best not to frown. His smile looked like a cross-section of a wavy potato chip.

I smiled. “How about a rib eye?” I asked.

“Your usual sides, sir?”

“No. Applesauce and pickled beets.”

All efforts toward a smile evaporated. “Yes sir. I’ll tell the chef.”

Jeremy did a pretty good impression of Flash Gordon.

I have to admit, the steak was fantastic. I saw an attendant give me a quizzical look – I figured I was eating the steak differently than Trump usually does, or it was the applesauce and pickled beets. Or the staff was waiting for one of the displays I’d put on the last couple days.

Wishing I’d had a baked potato, but not wanting to appear too normal, I finished the meal and put on the famous Trump slouch, slothing my way back to my rooms where I stayed until flight time Tuesday morning.
 
+++
 
Tom
 
With Hakeem’s nephew in the guard shack at the first safe house, I could get some sleep and take care of business. I gave the young man a tour of the place, without him being seen and told him to simply watch to make sure our visitor remained in the house, or backyard since he couldn’t get out. If the visitor got out, he was to call me and then stay in sight of him. He might walk the road, but not far. Should a vehicle arrive without me in it, he was to remain hidden from view, but to call me. He was not to engage with them under any circumstances, even if they forcibly removed our guest.

I would have been overjoyed if he resisted and chased off bad guys, but I would die if the young man was hurt.

One of the first orders of business was to get a friend to help me get my car back. Driving my truck, my friend let me out near my car which was still on the cul-de-sac street. There was yellow police tape surrounding the safe house and yard, but no police. Yay!

Just a quick shopping stop, then home to clean up, patch me up, and sleep – finally.
 
+++
 
I relieved Hakeem’s nephew that evening, thanking him for a job well done.

That night I only managed the first two chapters of The Fellowship of the Ring, the first of the trilogy of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

Trump was saddened when Bilbo gave up the ring, but delighted to learn that Frodo not only inherited it but was deserving. And though he was 47 when he began his quest, he only looked 30. That point seemed to please Trump.

Right away Frodo is threatened by eerie Black Riders but is saved by elves. Trump trembled at the descriptions of the dark forest and the trees that don’t seem to like people. Deep in the heart of the Forest, the valley of the Withywindle was where Trump fell asleep.

I made a pot of coffee and waited for three o’clock before I felt comfortable enough to doze off. At three twenty-five, I heard a car door close. Ever so quietly, I stole from the living room couch to a corner behind the front door, kicking myself for leaving my shotgun in the car that I’d hidden behind the block fence around to the farthest point behind the backyard. I left it on purpose, thinking it a bad idea to have a shotgun where Trump, even if he was in Phil’s body, might get it.

I listened as two men approached the house, Schlape's men, no doubt looking for Phil. I heard them try the entry door to the garage and then attempt to lift the garage door itself. A moment later one of them tried the lock on the front door. One of them walked around the side of the house where the knotted rope hung, the one I couldn’t climb. A few minutes later I heard that one come back. I didn’t know whether he’d tried climbing it or not.

The two had never said a word the whole time. Eventually, they walked back to their car. Had either seen the shot-gunned hole in the picture window, they might have busted it out completely, gaining entry.

I was grateful that Phil did not snore, alerting the two to our presence.

As it was, I believe they left to report to their boss that the place was empty.
 

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman
The rune characters were really cool in Word.

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)

Only 1 more post in this tale.


Chapter 25
NO! Say It Ain't So!, Ch 33-34

By Wayne Fowler

In the last chapter Trump (Phil) continues to confound people at Mar-a-Lago. Trump (Phil) gets a ring that might resemble the Hobbit’s ring of power. Phil and Tom manage to prevent, or simply avoid, a switching back of Trump into his own body.
 
Chapter Thirty-three
 Trump (Phil)
White House
 
Without speaking to anyone, I proceed directly to the residence on the third floor. The first thing I notice is that there’s no Tom. Of course not. He’s with Trump who is presently in my body, guarding him at the safe house.

It was 11:12 AM, Tuesday morning. I turned the television on to see that the Senate was voting on confirming one of the judges. I don’t know which one, or if it was the first or the second. The vote was going quickly. The count on the screen was awesome – only four against. Schumer and Hakeem got the word out. Of course, only Hakeem knew the whole story. 
 
Schumer told his people that they would not get better nominees.

I took the time to take a quick shower and fix myself up. I would soon be on National TV. No point in giving anyone wiggle room about the state of my health, mental or otherwise. It was nearly noon when I told my Secret Service detail to take me to the Capital Building, to the rotunda where Chief Justice Roberts was prepared to swear in the two new Justices. I stopped in the Oval Office, first greeting Betty. ‘I, Donald J. Trump...’ On White House letterhead, I scribbled and scrawled the resignation letter, Betty and two Secret Service agents as witnesses. The agents obliged my request that they print and sign their names. I didn’t bother with Betty who was screeching and squalling. One of the agents restrained her. I ignored everything.

“Fifty copies, please,” I said to an aide, handing her the resignation letter upside down. She and everyone in the wing heard Betty hollering that I couldn’t do that. It was only a moment later that the aide handed me a stack of copies. I pointed toward the original still in the copy machine. “Make more copies and pass them all around the West Wing, especially the press room. And hold on to the original with your life. What’s your name, dear?" 
 
"Angela.” 
 
I nodded, offering her as friendly a smile as Trump’s face was capable.

“Let’s go,” I ordered the Secret Service agents who stared, but never said a word.

It was a very short drive to the Capital, but somehow, I managed to lean back and take the tiniest power nap in history.
 
+++

(3rd person, omniscient)
 
At the same moment as Phil, in Trump’s body, had his tiny power nap, Trump, in Phil’s body, briefly nodded off on his feet, perfectly balanced. Tom never saw it happen.

 Trump and his entourage were admitted into the rotunda, the large area under the Capitol dome. Trump recognized everyone there, everyone but the two men standing before Roberts with their right arms raised. Trump heard them repeating their pledges and stood by solemnly. When he saw them shaking hands, he strode toward them, the stack of copies in his left hand. Instead of shaking hands, he handed the copies to one of the two new Justices who, after a quick glance, began distributing them to everyone. All the while, he shouted “I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire under the hill, I have inherited from Bilbo Baggins who went there and back again.” His hands empty, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the ring. “What does he have in his pocket?” he asked, mimicking Gollum’s voice. “He has my Precious!” 
 
Trump made a scene of slipping the gold ring onto his finger. “I’m invisible. You can’t see me!” Trump pranced about the room. “Merrie, Pippin, let’s go!” The two Secret Service agents followed him out the door.

During Trump’s display, mumbling quieted and then ceased. Everyone in the room had read a copy of the one-sentence resignation. Everyone in the room knew that even without the letter, Trump would be President no longer.

Hakeem pulled a small cell phone from his pocket, turning away from the crowd. “Hello?”  “Wait. You’re both there? You and Phil, the real Phil?” “Then the Trump here… He is the real Trump?” Hakeem ended the call as Chief Justice Roberts approached.

“Mr. President,” Chief Justice Roberts said to Hakeem. “Please place your left hand on this Bible, raise your right hand, and repeat after me.”
 
Chapter Thirty-four
 
Tom and Phil
(in Tahiti)
 
Tom
 
“Well, Phil. Looks like our new identities have come through, by the expression on that kid’s face.”

“He’ll be expecting a big tip, the way we’ve been hounding him the past few days.”

I watched as the resort’s bellhop made a huge presentation of handing Phil his large envelope first, then mine after having run through the sandy beach. We had been carrying twenty-dollar bills around with us just for this occasion.

“Open yours first, Tom,” Phil said. “You deserve it.”

We’d been through this more than once, recounting how President Trump suddenly appeared to occupy Phil’s body, and I, as the President’s butler, had the pleasure of befriending Phil in Trump’s body. We agreed that our result, Trump out of office and replaced by the Speaker of the House, who had only been the leader of the minority party, could never have happened without both of us playing our parts to perfection.

I opened my packet: “Bob Thayer,” I said. “Maybe it’ll grow on me. Got to admit, though, I like Tom McQuin better.” I showed Phil my passport, already stamped with trips to Canada, Japan, and Tahiti.

“Bill Johnson. Huh.”

“Not very creative: Phil Jansen – Bill Johnson.” I said, gazing at his similarly stamped passport. “Wonder how much money is in these accounts,” I mused, shuffling the credit cards and membership cards. The driver’s license says San Jose, California. I bet it’s an address between two houses.”

“I’m from Las Vegas,” Phil said. “Never wanted to go there. Probably won’t now, either.”

“You ever decide where it was you did want to go?” I asked.

“Not exactly. I’ve toured all over the Rockies. Maybe the Alps. After meeting my kids somewhere.”

I sighed deeply.

“You haven’t backed off Alaska?” Phil asked. 
 
“Nope. After what we’ve been through, shaking hands with a grizzly won’t be nothin’.”

We didn’t care who saw what, we hugged like brothers, congratulating one another.
 
+++
 
I was in a rented log cabin on Denali National Park, surprised that I had cell phone reception, more surprised that I got a call from Phil so soon. It’d been less than a week. I would have thought he was tired of me after three weeks in Tahiti.

“Hey man,” I answered. “You…” I’d started to make some smart-aleck response but was cut short.

“Tom! Can you get to Rome? I… I think I’m the Pope.”

Author Notes photo from FanArtReview: FamousHouse!20 by nikman

Phil Jansen: woke up one day as Donald Trump
Donald Trump: woke up one day as Phil
Tom McQuin: White House butler
Betty Goodman: White House Chief of Staff
Dr. Schweitz: White House doctor
Hakeem Jeffries: as himself, House minority leader
Kirsten: Trump press secretary
Pate': 3rd daughter of the President
Robert Schlape: fixit man for Trump (using his real name, even here in FanStory, could be fatal)

In the U.S., the Speaker of the House of Representatives is next in line to the Presidency after the Vice President. As it happens in this text, the V.P. position is vacant. (smiley face here)

Watch for more Tom and Phil adventures. (stand alone stories)

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