Doniella

A fable inspired by “A Quality of Mercy,” episode 80 of “The Twilight Zone,” December 29, 1961. [A bigoted American soldier is transformed into a Japanese soldier in a besieged platoon.]

“Who are you, and where is President Trump?” demanded the Secret Service agent.

“Come on, Bill, I’m Donald Trump! What the hell is going on here?”

The sound of his voice startled him. The pitch was too high, and where did the Spanish accent come from? He was still wearing his pajamas and his plush robe with the gold embroidered DJT. “Well, what’s going on? I…I!” He fell silent.

Bill laughed out loud. “Who did you say you are, again?”

“Donald J. Trump. President of the United States of America. I made America great again. For Pete’s sake, Bill!”

“Nice try, Doniella,” Bill snapped back sarcastically. “Have a look in the mirror, sweetheart.”

Donald…Doniella stood up and walked over to the gold-framed full-length mirror. He felt faint. His legs wobbled. He blinked his eyes. Shook his head. Waved his arms. In the mirror was a middle-aged Latina, wearing his clothes, doing everything exactly as he did. She looks like a mom, he thought. Very fit, though. Pretty hair. Nice knock…wait… He slapped himself to snap out of it. Doniella did likewise. Oh. My. God. What the hell happened to me?

It’s not every day an old white man with thinning hair wakes up to discover he’s been transformed into a raven-haired, middle-aged Latina. Everyone could see he was not Donald, but Doniella, origin unknown, unable to convince anyone he was a man trapped in a woman’s body, powerless to explain where the POTUS was or how she ended up in his room and in his pajamas. The more Doniella tried to tell them about her intimate knowledge of Donald Trump and his family, the more the agents believed he, or rather she, was a kidnapper or an assassin. Doniella soon found herself under arrest.

—-

At the reception the night before, a weather-beaten old man in a rented tuxedo approached the President in the receiving line. As he took Mr. Trump’s hand in both of his, the old man looked him straight in the eye and calmly whispered, “You killed my granddaughter. I curse you. May you live the life of one you do not value.”

As the man disappeared into the night, the President remarked, “What a nut job!” Then, he demanded, “How did he get in here?”

“He had a personal invitation from you, Sir.”

No one gave the old man’s “curse” a second thought. The Secret Service didn’t even follow up on the granddaughter. What were they supposed to do? After all, people accuse presidents of lots of things. How could any president possibly know about every death on his watch? Too bad about sons killed in war zones. “He knew what he was getting into,” Mr. Trump once said. Too bad about daughters whose attackers “vehemently deny” their accusations of sexual assault. Too bad about all the innocent children who are shot each year, and the grandchildren who are killed after being deported.

—-

Interrogation Room, Miami Federal Detention Center, The next day.

“Alright…Doniella. Tell me, just how did you get into the President’s Suite?”

“I told you already. I walked in my room as the one and only Donald J. Trump. I said good night to Ted. The next thing I know, Bill arrested me. That’s all I can remember.”

“What did you do with Mr. Trump? How did you get him out of the building? Who helped you? Who are you working for?”

“No. No. No! I didn’t do anything. Nobody helped me. I am the real Donald J. Trump, and I can prove it!”

“How can you prove it? You are a woman. You are here illegally. You have no driver’s license, no passport, no green card, and no one at Mar-a-Lago knows who the hell you are. How could you possibly believe you are the President? It sure looks like you have committed a serious crime.”

“Get Ivanka and Jared. Get Melania. I know things only they would know. Let me convince them I’m telling the truth.”

“Right. And I’m Vladimir Putin, and this here is Kim Jong Un,” The FBI agent chuckled and pointed to his colleague.

“Come on. Give me a chance,” Doniella begged.

“Look, what am I supposed to believe? A Latina who mysteriously shows up in the President’s Suite and claims to be Donald Trump, or that you are a well-briefed kidnapper or assassin and the President is missing or dead? Let me get to the point. Did you kill the President?”

“How could I kill him? Believe me. He is not missing. He is not dead. I am him!” Doniella began to sob.

“I give you points for sticking to your story, Doniella. But, unless you play ball with us, this will not end well for you.”

“Please, call Ivanka and Jared…they will know I’m telling the truth.”

“I’ve heard enough, Doniella. If you’re not going to help me, how can I help you?”

—-

After about a week in Miami, Doniella was sick of orange outfits. She also had to suffer the indignity of female inmates grabbing her by her private parts after they heard about her fantastic story. At one point, she almost confessed, just to put a stop to the humiliation. If only it was that easy.

Ivanka visited. Once. And remarked to the prosecutor, “She’s good. I don’t know how she got all that information, but she’s extremely good. I almost believed her for a second.”

Melania refused to visit.

Doniella stuck to her story, hoping an insanity defense might help her case. Nevertheless, she was an illegal immigrant. No one knew how she got into Mar-a-Lago. No one had seen her before the night Donald Trump disappeared. And there was no evidence of foul play. The former POTUS was not found, dead or alive. However, according to some conspiracy theorists, the search was hampered by the deep state.

ICE deported Doniella to Mexico. In time, there were unconfirmed sightings of a demented old gringo in tattered clothes who resembled the former US President, but these were dismissed as “fake news.”

The old man smiled.