I was on Trump’s case way back in 1992, when my Tom Bethany mystery, Strangle Hold, was published. You’ll notice that in the excerpt below I felt no need to explain who he was. Even then any reader who wasn’t one himself knew Fat Donny was a ridiculous asshole.
Ned got back out on stage, then, and talked about the troupe, and about the nature of improvisational comedy. And then he introduced our own special little number. “Okay,” Ned said, “what we’re going to stage here is a holdup. And what you folks are going to do is tell us what to hold up. What about it? Who’s been stuck up?”
“A pizza parlor.”
“A topless bar...”
“A sperm bank,” someone shouted. Three or four other suggestions came from the audience, and then the players huddled off to one side as if they were discussing which one to build on. Then a frizzy-haired blonde left the huddle with a chair in hand, and sat down facing us. She made as if she were working at an imaginary desk, while an actor named Harvey came through an imaginary door and stood in front of her. It was all going according to the script:
TRUMP: This the First National Sperm Bank?
NURSE: You the ten o’clock? (Looking down at schedule) The Donald?
TRUMP nods. NURSE drains the last of an imaginary coffee cup and hands it to him.
NURSE: Fill ’er up.
TRUMP: Right here?
NURSE: Go ahead and whip it out. I’m a nurse.
TRUMP starts to do so, when ROBBER bursts in and grabs him around the neck while threatening the NURSE with an imaginary gun.
ROBBER: Stick ’em up!
NURSE and TRUMP obey, although TRUMP is in obvious distress from the strangle hold the ROBBER has on him. As the other two speak, he fights silently for breath and his hands lower slowly to his sides.
NURSE: Are you crazy? This is the First National sperm bank!
ROBBER: I don’t give a rat’s ass what you call it, sister. Hand the dough over in unmarked tens and twenties or this guy gets it. (Holds gun to TRUMP’S head.)
NURSE: You can’t kill that man!
ROBBER: Why not?
NURSE: He’s already dead.
ROBBER notices this is so, and lets TRUMP fall to the floor.
ROBBER: Shit, what am I supposed to do for a hostage?
NURSE: You idiot! You’ve killed the most brilliant businessman in America. His sperm was worth a fortune.
ROBBER: Huh? Who is he?
NURSE: Donald Trump. He used to get two million bucks a wad.
ROBBER: Jeez, what kind of broad would pay that kind of money for somebody else’s sperm?
NURSE: Women married to rich morons. Oh, shit, here comes Mrs. Quayle now.
MRS. QUAYLE: Hi. I’ve come to pick up my order of Trump sperm.
Wait a minute. Isn’t that The Donald on the floor?
ROBBER: He’s just resting. (Aside to NURSE) Keep your mouth shut, sister, and I’ll split with you fifty-fifty. (Back to MRS. QUAYLE) If you could just step into the other room with my nurse for a minute, give Mr. Trump a little privacy...
MRS. QUAYLE: Of course. (They turn their backs while the ROBBER retrieves the fallen coffee cup from the floor, turns away from the audience, and goes to work.)
ROBBER: Okay, ladies. All set. (They turn around again.)
NURSE: Sorry to interrupt your nap, Mr. Trump. Mr. Trump?
ROBBER: He went right back to sleep, I’m afraid. It took a lot out of him.
MRS. QUAYLE: (Looking into the cup the ROBBER has handed her.) Doesn’t look like much to me.
NURSE: Hey, you know what they say about the Donald, don’t you?
MRS. QUAYLE: No, what?
NURSE: (Breaking into the old Brylcreem song...) Trumpcreem, a little dab’ll do ya. Trumpcreem, a little dabbledo...
ROBBER: Yeah, I know it don’t look like much, but there’s millions of them little suckers in there. So if you’ll just hand over the dough...
MRS. QUAYLE: Not so fast. I’ve got to have it checked first.
ROBBER: (Looking into the cup) Looks okay to me.
MARILYN: (Shoving an imaginary purse protectively under her arm.) Yeah, well, you’re not getting my wad till I’m sure this is The Donald’s wad. I’m taking it to the Cambridge police for a DNA test.
ROBBER: Okay, lady, have it your own way.
(He shoots MRS. QUAYLE dead and grabs her purse as she crumples, then he shoots the NURSE dead, and shakes the purse upside down. Empty. He shoots himself dead.)
And that was the end of our skit. All four players popped back up to their feet, bowed, and exited to applause that did my producer’s heart good. “My God, Bethany,” Hope said. “A little dabbledo ya? Have you no shame?”