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The Adventures of Hobo Trump (Episode 1: Pigeons)

The year is 2021. After a crippling stock market crash caused by President Trump’s failed economic policies, he filed for bankruptcy and returns defeated to his hometown of Queens. Living out of a cardboard box on a crowded street corner, he was forced to pick up the pieces of his shattered existence.

Melania had left him years earlier, having been tired of being shut away in Trump Tower like a prisoner. Upon securing a considerable divorce settlement, she returned with her lover to his native Mexico, where she converted to Islam.

“This is all the Democrats’ fault! They wouldn’t work with me! Sad!” Hobo Trump shouted at the heavens.

For the first time, however, no one was listening. His disheveled hair and tattered clothes rendered him completely indistinguishable from the myriads of glassy-eyed ruffians roaming the crowded city. He was a nobody, and his former self seemed to him only a distant memory.

As the days wore on, Hobo Trump grew ravenous with hunger. His only choice was to panhandle for some pocket change. The former real estate mogul and President of the United States was at the mercy of an unforgiving public.

It quickly became clear, however, that he did not possess the requisite humility needed to panhandle. His status in the public eye had fallen considerably, but his insatiable thirst for adulation remained thoroughly intact.

“Hey, you! Give me some money!” he arrogantly shouted at a passerby, who was innocently walking around his cardboard box, which locals had sardonically nicknamed “Trump Tower.”

“Why the fuck should I?” The man shouted. He was neatly dressed in a navy blue suit and black tie, with shiny new black loafers. He was the epitome of everything that Hobo Trump had lost.

“I’m the President of the United States!” Hobo Trump shouted indignantly, as foamed at the mouth.
“Not anymore, dipshit!” the suave man replied dismissively, augmenting his insult with a single finger salute.

“Whatever, loser!” Hobo Trump bellowed, attempting in futility to retain what was left of his shattered pride.

Deep down, however, he knew that he was, in fact, the loser. He had lost everything. He had grown tired of losing.

At that moment, a pigeon appeared, devouring some birdseed left on the ground by an elderly lady on a park bench.

“Hey, little guy! Want to sit here and read a Breitbart article with me?” Hobo Trump asked, affecting an uncharacteristically soft, cordial tone.

The bird flew toward Hobo Trump, and a large, white droplet of excrement cascaded downward, hitting him in the eye.

“Fake poos!” Trump roared furiously.

 

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