Chapter Text
It was an arrow, he thought. Then time stood still. He barely registered the sudden pain in his right ear. The sun was setting, just in time for the presidential candidate to glimpse the darting shadow of his would-be-assassin. His blood boiled, trickled down his face. It was an arrow.
“Mr. President, are you all right?”
He blinked. The sunset peered through the curtains of the Oval Office. It’s over. It’s all over, isn’t it? The attacker had promptly been shot and killed. Some nondescript, older man named Robert Hood. But even still, he could see the arrow’s point peering from the glare of the sun’s rays. Instinctively, he touched his right ear. The wound had long healed since then.
“Yes. Yes, of course. You are dismissed.” With a sigh, President Donald J. Trump reclined in his seat—another day as one of the most powerful men in the world.
***
Trump couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Overtaken by a feverish sweat, he jolted out of bed.
“Dear?” His wife, Melania, mumbled next to him.
“Just one of my nightmares again,” he lied.
“I keep telling you, the woke mob isn’t going to infect you. You can’t be gay, you’re Donald Trump! My heterosexual, red-blooded American.”
“Right. Thanks, babe.” Trump adjusted the sheets and tried to fall back to sleep.
Tap, tap, tap. He slowly opened his eyes. What time was it? And what was making that god awful tapping noise? Groaning as he rose, back issues be damned, he slowly shifted out of bed so as to not disturb his wife and waddled over to the window. Tap, tap, tap. He wasn’t crazy after all; something–or someone–was tapping on the glass. In one swift motion, he drew back the curtains. In front of him stood a man dressed in the most ridiculous outfit he had ever seen. If anything, his strikingly handsome face made up for it. Who was this guy, some sort of medieval cosplayer? His gaze wandered to the quiver of arrows attached to his hip. Arrows? He stumbled back. No, it couldn’t be: Robert Hood had somehow risen from the dead. He watched in horror as Robert Hood clicked open the window and stepped into his bedroom. Shaking with rage, Trump immediately grabbed the shotgun he hid under his bed for this express purpose.
“Get away from me, you bastard!” He roared, pointing the gun at Hood’s face.
The man merely raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“I just wanted to talk,” he calmly said. His voice was so mild, Trump fought the urge to lower the gun. “At least take this somewhere else.” Warily, Trump followed Hood outside the room, gun pressed to his back. Hood seemed wholly unfazed.