See, I made my billions on Wall Street, but I was already rich.
But I realized, life isn’t just about making money and fucking women. Well, that’s good, but there’s more. I already did the Army after college. But I wanted to give back.
I could run my own charity, or I could actually help people by running for office. Because sure as hell I could see that ordinary Americans were getting shafted by the system. No one was listening to their voices.
It was time to change that.
I promised to bring back jobs to America. To make opportunities come to every American again - not just the token few or well connected.
How can you be against that? How can you be against a President who gets shit done?
I try to discreetly exit the hotel, but with the Secret Service in tow, how discreet can you be? It's like trying to leave this place undetected with bells on my shoes.
So despite my best efforts, as soon as I exit out the back of the building, the press is all over me.
And watch. This is where it’s gonna start.
The flash of lights is everywhere and I pull a pair of dark-shaded sunglasses over my eyes, waving off reporters.
"Mr. President, is it true you're having sexual relations with a South Korean ambassador?" asks one red-faced reporter.
Another reporter jumps in, "Could I please have a moment? The people would like to know what exactly you were doing at the Sofitel Hotel. I'm guessing more than work."
I keep walking, looking straight ahead and ignore the question.
Then another reporter jumps forward, waving her arms, "Mr. President! Over here! Just one question—I—"
But Secret Service agents are all around me, and they don't let her finish. Their arms are outstretched, "Step aside," they say. "No questions. Give the President some space."
Just as I'm about to step inside of my limo, a scrawny reporter as thick as a licorice stick manages to weave his way through the crowd and in between the Secret Service agents. He has a microphone in his fist and he's pushing it in my face.
"How does it feel to know you're being dubbed, 'President Player'?" he asks.
President Player? Now he's gone too far. There's only so much slander I can take before I snap, and his comment is the final straw.
I feel my pulse kick into high gear. Who does this scrawny bastard think he is? I love this country, and I work hard.
Enough is enough. I have the urge to put my fist right into the middle of his face.
"Is that what you fucking think of me?" I say, feeling heat building under my shirt collar.
I reach over and try to grab hold of his coat, but two Secret Service agents hold me back. I'm trying to break free of their hold, but they urge me to stop.
"Sir, get in the car," one agent says, guiding me into the limo. "He isn't worth it."
I decide that they're right. These reporters aren't worth it, so I quickly slide into the cool, black leather seats of the limo and slam the door shut behind me.
I try to slow my breathing, as I lean into the seat, remove my glasses, and look up at the roof of the car. But there's no denying it.
I loosen the knot of my tie. As much as I try to shake this feeling, I'm frustrated.
Don't people understand how Washington, DC works?
They want results … I'm getting results.
God fucking dammit. This deal with the South Koreans will bring back at least fifty thousand good paying manufacturing jobs back to America.
But the media?