Work Text:
Damn it.
Damn it!
Trump slammed his fist into the table, sweat dripping down his temple.
It wasn’t fair— it wasn’t alright.
Just a moment ago, he was alive, he was well. Sitting in his chair, preparing to give his next answer before—
BAM!
Nothing.
He placed a hand over his head, his breath quickly rising.
The executives in the room silently murmured, grief filling their spirits. For even they weren’t aware of the deep relation between the pair.
—
The questionnaire had finished, placing down his mic to allow the activist to speak.
Charlie sighed, preparing to spew another rant conceived of hatred and bigotry. “Counting or not counting gang violence?” He questioned, his insinuations clear.
It hadn’t even been a minute.
Or even a few seconds.
He set his mic down, his thoughts shifting to the next category.
Just like that, in the flash of an eye everything suddenly banged. Nothing he could even process, it had happened so quick.
Perhaps the lingering feeling of something prodding his neck, even then, his body went numb, went limp.
Blood spewed from his neck, his body nearly shriveling like a raisin. Was it the crowd he heard, for the few moments he was alive.
Did he care?
Charlie fell back, a pitiful gurgle arising from his severed throat.
Who—
there was something.
Something lingering in his mind, a distant thought he couldn’t seem to grasp.
The blond hair that swayed in the winds, the contrasting orange that exemplified his subjectively beautiful features.
Trump.
Donald Trump.
His one and only love.
“CHARLIE!”
Just like that, with the individual on his mind, his brain went blank— descending into nothing but silence.