I sat entranced in utter fascination as I watched the secretive decorated warrior gaze absently at a hypnotizing sunset. He gave the carved ivory pipe he was nursing another healthy puff, closing his eyes to savor the flavorful nicotine fumes. The man was intense, yet completely relaxed — a sage — a legend.

Perched atop the hilly countryside of rural NH, it felt like we had the world at our feet. At 5,800 SQ ft, Kelly’s colonial summer house was a spectacle to behold. It was unassuming yet in a way, quite regal. We sat on the deck and I was really struggling not to be distracted by the breathtaking scenery. This was going to be the interview of my life — a notch in the ol’ belt. The country thought Trump could hire someone to inhibit him and I was going to get to the bottom of it. The whole premise of it seemed so unlikely, but I was willing to keep an open mind.

Meanwhile, 65 miles south in Boston, his hometown, tens of thousands gathered to protest Donald Trump and disrupt a Far Right event.

It turned out that I was to get way more than I bargained for. A story. A most compelling one indeed.

Breaking the people’s hearts — a shocking revelation in Kelly’s own words:

People think that I’m thoughtful and rational. I’m afraid they’re gravely mistaken. I just want to come clean and not keep giving the world false hope. You’ll notice that whenever I’m around Trump, I look forlorn and aloof — as though I have a wishbone stuck in my throat and don’t want to ask for assistance. This is what the public sees and wantonly misconstrues as maturity. It’s something to do with a strange ailment I’ve been hiding. Sometimes, I’ll be in my bedroom reminiscing different events from the past. Suddenly, I’ll start contorting my face every which way, then blink rapidly with my mouth wide open — all in quick succession. Next thing you know, I’m hunched over drifting in and out of consciousness…with drool all over my shirt.

A life changing excursion

I began coming to terms with my condition in the early 80’s when the intensity of the symptoms progressed. At first, I was really scared because doctors couldn’t get to the root of the problem. I even tried some underground therapies in Argentina. The doctors there were nice. They told me they had come from Germany some 30 years before, at the behest of a dictato…strong leader who saw their talent. Unfortunately, their work had bumped into numerous financial obstacles because they conducted “unethical and immoral” experiments on the native Mexicans; Political correctness will be our ultimate demise I tell you. It turns out there are lots of Mexicans in Argentina. Who knew.. this far from the southern border? Nothing surprises me anymore.

I can’t get into the details of the therapy they recommended due to potential legal issues..involving murder and human plasma. Anyway, I was to keep going back to a secret ‘warehouse’ in Buenos Aires twice a month for a year. After a number of trips with no notable change, I grew weary. The therapy did little to allay my malady and I eventually gave up.

Lt. Benji Peterson, a fighter pilot buddy of mine from Desert Storm, encouraged me to give this medicine man in Central Africa a chance. It turns out the guy was located in some remote, virtually inaccessible hermit — go figure. We had to hire a helicopter and dodge flak from some goddamn rebels who mistook us for government forces. Luckily, Benji pulled us through and we arrived at the village unscathed. I was looking around hoping and praying someone in this godforsaken hellhole spoke English. But alas! When the chief (also coincidentally the medicine man) opened his mouth to speak, all I could hear was a cacophonous bzzzzzzz..and a lot of spitting..oh, the spitting! It was like trying to talk to a bee that had sucked too much Sake thinking it was nectar.

To my amazement, Benji started bzzzz-ing back at the guy. I later learnt that they were speaking French..which doesn’t exactly make it better. We were ushered into a mud hut where the ‘doctor’ performed a series of tests on me. It involved getting swatted on my bare chest with a whisk soaked in monkey blood. To this day, I still don’t know how I didn’t shoot him right there. Shortly after, Dr.What-the-fuck bzzzz-ed back and forth with Benji and we were quickly ushered back to our helicopter. Ostensibly, the voodoo merchant who couldn’t speak a word of English, decided I had been cursed by some fuckwad god of Compassion at some point in my life. This supposedly left me with about the same amount of empathy as a mentally unstable Burmese python. I guess that’s why we were hurried on out of there..not that I have any qualms about that.

So, any time I’m around misery and turmoil, my brain releases too much serotonin and all my pleasure receptors go wild. There’s no cure for it, and I have to confess it’s immensely pleasurable..and addictive. The only way to get the next fix is to be a complete jackass to others. Back when I was Secretary of Homeland Security, I used to just lock myself in my office perusing through all the reports about broken families. I’d be lying to you if I told you I didn’t go a step further than just drooling. I ejaculated on myself. Ha! Imagine that. A full grown man waiting for everyone to go home so they wouldn’t think he pissed himself. I’d have to shoot someone if they caught me. (Sigh) Those were the days.

I have to say, being Chief of Staff is not half as bad. I‘m constantly in the President’s ear and can crank up unprecedented assholery in a moment’s notice when I’m feeling sad. The President and I complete each other, but not in a gay way. We are both apex alpha males. You see, whenever fake news breaks a story about the Russians or Wikileaks, I can always pull some strings to divert their attention. That way, I get sexually gratified and Trump’s eventual impeachment and/ or imprisonment is swept under the carpet where no one will bother look. We are in this for the long run. As if two birds are not enough, we have a third: the base. They laud our efforts to purify the country and keep that scoundrel, Mueller at bay. I swear there’ll be another civil war if he tries something ridiculous.

This bores me. You take care now. Just follow the serpentine track back through the woods and bear right at both forks. That’ll take you all the way to I-95 and you’re home free. Make sure you edit out the part about me cumming on myself. If you don’t, I’ll find you and make you pay. I have my ways.