Scene One: The King's Private chamber, garish, tacky and gaudy. It is the dead of night, MacTrump sits up in bed, tweeting like crazy.
I'll fix their asses with a witty hashtag.
(Tosses I-phone onto the bedstand.)
This tree-like Comey invades my thoughts like a giant ghost
The bastard is too tall by half, thinks he can hide amidst my draperies
I shall contrive to have him removed ere he can pin a scandal on my royal head
But how without appearing craven and afrighted?
For MacTrump must never appear weak, low, or unsure like mere mortals.
(Picks up his phone again and scrolls through his cabinet list)
Sessions, that Southern Keebler elf
Will provide cover for my royal self.
I'll call him on the morrow
To relieve me of my Comey-caused sorrow.
And now to bed. But first a visit to mine Queen. She owes me one.
(Exits and re-enters another bedchamber on the other side of the stage. He rouses Queen Melania, sleeping)
Wake, wake, Oh queen, tis time for thy royal duty.
I got thee out of Slavic lands for thy beauty.
Repay my treasure--
Queen Melania (awakes): Too heavy a measure.
We agreed once a month once the boy was born.
Isn't it enough that I finally moved into this shit-hole of a White House
After staying in your Manhattan Ivory Tower?
I thought my path as thy third bride wouldst be strewn with gold-trimmed rose petals
Stead of hostile press, afternoon teas, and inspirational speeches.
My state and mind are not at peace, husband.
King MacTrump: Why you ungrateful slut, I gave you all.
Thinkst what thou wert before I plucked thee from Eastern Europe.
Queen Melania: Yea, a top model.
When we travelled in separate spheres
Only joining for parties and the occasional copulation
We were much happier. I was much happier, I mean.
One can never tell with thee.
But I had your son and Vogue Magazine to pass the idle hours.
Now I must attend garden parties, prayer breakfasts, lectures on cyber-bullying.
Tis too much. Leave me in my sorrow. (She goes to the wash basin, obsessively washes her hands)
Not all the perfumes of Arabia and my own line
Shall wash clean this little hand where I touched you.
King MacTrump: I noticed thou jerkst away from me when we landed in Europe--twice!
Queen Melania: I pray you, my lord, excuse my revulsion.
I am weary of thee and crave the balm of sleep. Come to me tomorrow night
So I may prepare myself for thy onslaught.
King MacTrump: Fie, my lady, I'll not be thwarted (He advances to her. Suddenly a window slams open and the ghost of Roy Cohn appears.)
Ghost of Roy Cohn: Donnie!
King MacTrump: What the hell!
Queen Melania: What is't that frights thee.
|Robin Bartlett as Ethel Rosenberg and Frank Wood as Roy Cohn|
in the Off-Broadway revival of Angels in America
Credit: Joan Marcus
Ghost: Hey, you're no Robert Redford yourself.
Queen Melania: There is nothing there. Aye, he's mad. I always knew it.
King MacTrump: Roy Cohn, my mentor, you've left this mortal coil
And now seeks me out in the halls of power. Why?
Ghost: That queer Tony Kushner had Ethel Rosenberg haunt me in his lousy play.
Now I haunt you in this two-bit blog post.
Thou hast no soul, Donnie. I nurtured thee and intervened in that discrimination housing suit for thee.
But when I contracted this dread disease, ya dropped me like a hot rock.
King MacTrump: Thou hast the gay plague!
Ghost: Fuck you, Donny! I pronounce this curse on thee--
Never shalt thee receive unalloyed praise
Forever shalt be criticized all your days
Thy fame impinged, thy status reviled
In caricature and on late night TV shall thy image be styled
And like a twisted, blighted stump
Throughout history shall be hated the name of MacTrump!
(Lighting and thunder flashes in a climate-change storm. The Ghost disappears and MacTrump falls to the floor in terror. The Queen stands apart, shaking)
Queen Melania: How ist with thee, my lord?
Thou shakest like a very branch in the storm which wracks our noble house.
Floods, tornadoes, tsunamis, heat waves, forest fires
Do beset our poor planet
And these do portend a general unrest within the people
Mirroring the outer strife.
King MacTrump (rises from the floor): Shut up with that climate-change crap!
Tis nothing but a hoax invented by the Chinese.
I'll not allow a pock-marked ghost to a-fright me
They can all be damned, I am king and shall not yield.
The people love me and my Tweets are a shield!
(He hold up a Smart phone like a torch and stomps out. Thunder and lightning crash as Queen Melania cowers in her bed and the three witches appear and cackle.)