| General Fiction posted February 16, 2025 | Chapters: |
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I woke up one morning feeling ...
A chapter in the book No - Say It Ain't So!
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.
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.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 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.
Artwork by nikman at FanArtReview.com
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© Copyright 2025. Wayne Fowler All rights reserved.
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