The Final Days of Donald Trump
By 2027, Donald J. Trump—a former president, real estate mogul, and TV loudmouth turned Leavenworth inmate—had solidified his unglamorous new gig: top hoarder of prison Jell-O. Occupying Cell 45B, his twenty-two year sentence stemmed from the infamous "Blue State Clearance Crisis," where, as alleged, he’d tried to auction off liberal strongholds (my occasional NYC hangouts included) to none other than Putin—all for a lifetime supply of some bizarre golden-gloss vodka. The details only got messier—or perhaps just funnier—or even sadder over time...
Once upon a time... In the dimly lit confines of Cell 45B at Leavenworth Federal Prison, Donald J. Trump—former President, real estate mogul, reality TV star, and self-proclaimed "best dealmaker in history"—sat on a bunk that squeaked each time he shifted his considerable weight. It was 2027, two years into his sentence for what historians would later call "The Great Blue State Sell-Off." The charge? Selling all the blue states to Vladimir Putin in exchange for a lifetime supply of Trump Vodka (which no one drank) and a dacha on the Black Sea (which he never got to use).
Trump, however, had his own version of events: "It was the greatest deal ever made. Tremendous. Everyone was saying so. I mean, who really needs California? All those liberals with their Teslas and kale smoothies. And New York? Overrated. Sad!"
His cellmate, Carl "The Hammer" Jenkins, a burly man with tattoos of questionable spelling choices, rolled his eyes for the fifth time that morning. "Donny, you’ve been saying that for two years. Give it a rest. We’ve got bigger problems—like how to smuggle an extra Jell-O cup from the cafeteria without getting shanked."
But Trump wasn’t listening. He was too busy dictating his memoirs to an imaginary ghostwriter. "Call it *The Art of the Steal*. No, wait—*The Art of the Comeback: Prison Edition*. Or maybe *How to Win Bigly Even When They’re Totally Unfair to You*. What do you think, Hammer?"
"The Hammer thinks you should shut up before I use this spoon for something other than eating," Carl grumbled.
Unfazed, Trump continued. He had a captive audience (literally), and he wasn’t about to waste it. "You know, they said I couldn’t do it. They said I couldn’t sell Oregon to Putin. But I did. And it was beautiful. The best sale in history. Better than Louisiana Purchase—way better. Jefferson? Amateur hour compared to me."
Carl sighed deeply and turned his attention back to his crossword puzzle, which he had been working on for three days because "spelling is hard."
Meanwhile, across the prison yard, a group of inmates were huddled around a makeshift chessboard fashioned out of cardboard and bottle caps. They called themselves "The Blue State Survivors," a coalition of former Californians, New Yorkers, and Oregonians who had been particularly peeved about the whole "selling their states to a foreign autocrat" thing.
"Did you hear?" one of them whispered. "Trump’s planning to run for Warden in the next prison election."
"Of course he is," another replied. "He’s already calling it 'Stop the Shank.' Claims the cafeteria meatloaf is rigged."
Back in Cell 45B, Trump was deep into his afternoon routine: writing letters to world leaders who had long since stopped responding. "Dear Kim Jong-un," he scribbled on a piece of toilet paper (the only stationary available after the prison banned him from office supplies). "Remember when we fell in love? I could really use some help here. Maybe send Dennis Rodman with a file baked into a cake? Best regards, your favorite American."
At 3 p.m., it was time for his daily press conference—a tradition he had started on Day One of his incarceration. Standing on an overturned mop bucket in the corner of the yard, Trump addressed an audience of three disinterested pigeons and one guy named Larry who only showed up because he thought there might be snacks.
"Folks, let me tell you," Trump began, gesturing wildly with his hands. "This prison is a disaster. The walls? Weak. The food? Terrible! The warden? Total loser. If I were in charge, we’d have gold-plated bars and steak dinners every night. Believe me."
Larry raised his hand. "Uh, Mr. Trump, you *are* in prison because you sold half the country to Russia."
"Fake news!" Trump shot back. "I didn’t sell half the country—I sold *all* the blue states! And they were failing anyway. I saved America billions by getting rid of them! You should be thanking me."
The pigeons cooed in what could only be interpreted as mild disdain. Larry wandered off in search of a vending machine that didn’t exist.
As evening fell over Leavenworth, Trump retreated to his cell to watch reruns of *The Apprentice* on a contraband DVD player smuggled in by Carl (who had connections). "You’re fired," Trump muttered nostalgically as he watched himself dismiss another hapless contestant on screen.
Carl shook his head and climbed onto the top bunk. "You know, Donny, for a guy who claims to be the greatest at everything, you sure ended up here like the rest of us schmucks."
Trump smiled smugly. "That’s where you’re wrong, Hammer. I’m not like the rest of you schmucks—I’m a political prisoner! A martyr for freedom! The greatest martyr since...well, probably ever."
Carl snorted. "Yeah, okay, Donny. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
And as the lights dimmed in Cell 45B, Trump drifted off to sleep dreaming of gold-plated toilets, adoring crowds chanting his name, and a future where he would once again Make Prison Great Again.
Somewhere in Moscow, Vladimir Putin sipped vodka from a crystal glass and chuckled as he gazed at a map of his newly expanded empire. "Best deal I ever made," he murmured to himself before turning back to his game of chess with Dennis Rodman.
The Final Days of Donald Trump: Hunter Biden's Account
By 2027, Donald J. Trump—a former president, real estate mogul, and TV loudmouth turned Leavenworth inmate—had solidified his unglamorous new gig: top hoarder of prison Jell-O. Occupying Cell 45B, his twenty-two year sentence stemmed from the infamous "Blue State Clearance Crisis,"
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