As a way to earn money for school, I took a job watching a glass box in an industrial-looking New York room. Inside the box I found this memo from former FBI director, Jim Comey. I have every reason to believe this is genuine.
To: Myself in the Future (Jim Comey)
From: Myself Right Now (also Jim Comey)
On Feb 5 I met with President Donald Trump in the Oval Office. The first thing he told me was that he anticipated having a lot of free time as POTUS and would like to get started on preserving his legacy through books. In short order this legacy would apparently begin with a Russia-themed Eye-Spy book.
Trump then removed a few crumpled pieces of paper from his back pocket and handed them to me. At first glance they looked like pages from a coloring book. Trump told me he cannot actually read or write anything other than his own name, and must convey his ideas in crude sketches or elaborate hand gestures. These pages in particularly resembled blind contour drawings of disfigured farm animals.
“This is going to be the greatest book ever,” Trump said while waving his tiny hands like wobbly pool noodles. “I know it. You know it.”
I did not know it.
So I peered over the “treatment.” From what I could discern, page one was meant to portray a shirtless Vladimir Putin on a Russia beach, arranged like Rose from the Titanic. The caption reads: “Draw me like one of your French girls, Don.”
Page two: Michael Flynn’s Russian emails hidden in Russian Nesting Dolls. The smallest nesting doll is full scale version of Kellyanne Conway’s brain, about the size of an almond.
Page three is Sean Spicer in an incredibly messy 1950’s kitchen. He’s donning a dirty apron and hunched over a mixing bowl. The remnants of egg shells, measuring cups, flour, etc. are strewn all over the counter and walls. There’s a window along the back wall that shows a massive nuclear mushroom cloud, presumably from a Russian warhead. The caption for this whole scene reads: “Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire with Sean Spicer.”
At this point I had “read” enough. I told Trump I thought this was a terrible idea and a tremendous waste of time and energy for the President of the United States. To which he told me I better hope there are no “tapes” of our talk. He put his tiny fingers in air quotes for the word tapes. To cap of the most bizarre encounter I’ve ever had with any political figure, Trump tried to kiss me.
He was showing me to the door, but right before opening it, puckered his lips and leaned into me. But because I’m 6’8” and he’s about 5’4” he could only reach my right nipple. Which he kissed anyway, because his eyes were closed. Then—as if this otherworldly incident could actually be forgotten—he whispered to me: “I hope you can let this go.”
Kevin Sterne is a writer and journalist based in Chicago, the editor of LeFawn Magazine. Apart from Shuga Records, he’s written about beer and music for Mash Tun Journal, The Tangential and Substream Magazine. His creative fiction has appeared in Drunk Monkeys, Potluck Mag, Defenestration, Praxis Magazine, Down in the Dirt Magazine, and Word Eater, among many others.