It was the night of the last debate.
Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump had been campaigning for months and now it was down to the home stretch.
Hillary, the overwhelming favorite coming out of the conventions, had seen the race tighten over the months, as she and her campaign staff stuck to their strategy of "taking the high road" and not responding to Donald Trump's attacks. And Trump had taken full advantage of this turn-the-other-cheek approach by constantly finding new Clinton cheeks to attack.
The Clinton campaign focused entirely on their focus groups and their polls, believing that Trump's negatives were too high to ever turn around, and that if they simply ran out the clock, they would win. But Trump's open tap of tabloid sewage - eagerly lapped-up by a ratings-thirsty media - was a form of Chinese water torture, drip-drip-dripping on Hillary, til she was as deep in the gutter as Trump was.
But the gutter was Trump's home turf. He was like a crocodile: once he had his prey in the mud, it was all over but the thrashing.
Trump dug up every allegation that had ever been leveled against the Clintons, and wrapped them all up in a bow called "Crooked Hillary." Whether he was claiming Bill wasn't Chelsea's father, or talking about how Hillary had enabled Bill's predatory sex romps, or listing her failures in Benghazi, it all fed into Trump’s over-arching Wrestlemania narrative: He was The Golden Billionaire and she was Crooked Hillary.
The stage of the Auditorium Theater in Chicago had been converted to resemble the gaudy red, white and blue TV studios the public had come to expect for debates televised on the cable news channels during the endless primary season. But the historic Auditorium Theater, with its gold-carved proscenium arch and curved mezzanines covered with patriotic bunting, gave the setting a historical feel. If it weren't for the bright lights, TV cameras and spaghetti tangles of electrical wires, you could just about imagine Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas strolling across the stage to debate The Westward Expansion of Slave and Free States.
Also, it was colder than a witch’s tit, Hillary thought, as her name was announced by CNN's Anderson Cooper and she took her place behind the blue podium with the presidential seal. She had never
thought to ask why TV studios had to be kept so cold, but they always were, and it felt weird to stand under such hot lights and feel so ice cold.
Cooper introduced Donald Trump and he lumbered onstage, clutching his hands over his head like a prizefighter. His hair and make-up looked even more over-the-top than usual under the hot lights and the Beaux-Arts decorations, a Frankenstein-cross between superhero and circus clown. His hair was golden, fluffy, perfectly tacked in place. His face was tinted bright orange and his teeth gleamed with unnatural whiteness. His navy-blue power suit screamed money; the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a major-league paunch and a bright red tie so long it covered his fly.
"I'll bet this prima donna takes longer to get his make-up on than I do," Hillary thought. All of a sudden it occurred to her what he looked like: a lion tamer.
"You're gonna wish you brought your whip when you see what I've got in store for you tonight, Donald," she thought, and smiled an unnaturally natural smile. She exuded a strange calm as she arranged her water bottle and her Prada handbag on the podium in front of her. Anderson Cooper explained the rules of the evening's debate.
"Mrs. Clinton, you will go first," said Anderson Cooper. "Please make your opening statement."
"Thank you, Anderson. It is a pleasure to be back in my hometown of Chicago, in this beautiful, historic setting, to make my closing argument to the American people about why I should have the honor of serving as your president."
"As you know, it has been my intention to stick to the issues that face our great country in this campaign. But Mr. Trump makes that very difficult, with his childish name-calling. When he ran against Jeb Bush, he called him 'low-energy.' When he turned his attention to Carly Fiorina, he made fun of her looks. He mocked Rand Paul's height; he called Marco Rubio "Little Marco. He made fun of
how John Kasich looks when he eats. And, of course he called Senator Ted Cruz "Lyin' Ted."
Hillary looked out at the audience, past the blinding TV lights, and found her husband’s face looking up at her adoringly.
"Every time Mr. Trump competes with somebody, he calls them a name. He's a bully. He called Rosie O'Donnell a pig."
The audience ah’d and ooh’d and shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This was not what they'd come expect from a Hillary Clinton debate performance.
"He calls me 'Crooked Hillary.'" She said.
She glanced at Trump across the stage. He was smirking like a giant 12 year-old kid.
"That's right, isn't it, Donald?" She said.
Trump shrugged, grinned and held his palms out to the audience, as if to say, "If the shoe fits..."
Hillary smiled back at him. The audience tittered nervously.
"Well, tonight it ends," said Hillary.
Her flat Midwestern accent gave a blunt edge to her words.
The Auditorium Theater went silent.
"You're not going to going to call me 'Crooked Hillary' EVER again, you got that, you bloated circus
act?"
Maybe it was the sudden brass in her voice, but the Chicago crowd ignited. They yelled and hooted like they were at a Blackhawks game.
"Oh, no?" Said Trump, clutching the podium, the flesh of his face going from orange to red.
"No," said Hillary. "You're not going to pick on me anymore."
Trump's jaw clenched in a bull-dog grimace and he tried to let out a laugh. It came out like the yip of a Chihuahua. "Well, I guess now I know how Bill feels when you roll up a newspaper and tell him he’s a bad boy," he said, flashing his teeth, playing to the crowd.
But he'd lost them. They booed and hissed. There were catcalls.
"Go ahead. Call me ‘Crooked Hillary' one more time," Hillary said. Calmly and carefully, she re-
arranged her handbag and her bottle of Evian on the podium.
Trump adjusted his mic with a flourish, leaned into it and said, "Crooked. Crooked. Crooked.
Very, very, VERY crooked....Hillary."
Hillary reached into her handbag, pulled out a replica .50 caliber Desert Eagle semi-automatic hand gun, and pointed it at Trump's head.
She held it expertly, one hand propping up the other, just like the Secret Service agents assigned to her detail had taught her to do. She looked as badass as a lady cop on TV. She stared at Trump down the barrel of the gun, and focused a bright red laser beam on the middle of his forehead. A gasp went through the crowd when they saw it.
"Go ahead,” said Hillary Clinton. "Make my day."
Trump froze, the red dot burning into his forehead, and he began wildly gestculating for his security team to rush the stage.
The thirty-or-so Secret Service agents scattered through the theater snapped to attention.
"Unh-uh," said Hillary. "Anybody moves - and the circus clown gets it."
Nobody moved. Anderson Cooper began to stutter something about proper debate etiquette.
"Shut up, Anderson," said Hillary. "This is between me and Goldilocks."
"Apologize, Goldilocks," said Hillary.
For a moment, it seemed that everyone on planet earth stopped breathing.
"F*ck you, you crooked bitch!" Trump yelled.
Hillary pulled the trigger, and a stream of water worthy of a Three Stooges’ seltzer bottle doused the tycoon's face and head.
All hell broke loose. Security and Secret Service agents and Chicago cops all flooded the stage. Trump looked like a wild beast as he thrashed and flailed. His security team held him back but they couldn’t stop his sopping wet coiffure from melting all over his face. What a weird sight it was to see that famous helmet of spun gold turn into a stringy, wet mop. Where once the proud mane had flowed, there was now a raw patch of pink baldness. The fine strands of hair fell past his chin, turning The Donald into some kind of monstrous sea creature, his puffy pink face covered with seaweed, his mouth twitching like a fish with a hook in its throat.
Hillary laughed and took a long, triumphant swig of water from the tip of her fabulous squirt gun before Secret Service agents grabbed it away from her. She found herself inside a delicious scrum of black -suited men who hustled her out of the theater. She could no longer see Trump, but she could hear his Bronx accent booming above the roar of the crowd, threatening to sue everybody in The City of Chicago.
Suddenly, thankfully, Bill was there, his arms around her, protecting her from the chaos that enveloped them.
“Are you alright?” he asked in that familiar raspy voice.
“Never better,” whipered Hillary.
Bill barked at the Secret Service agents to give them some room, and they were escorted out of the hall and into their waiting limo.
In the background, above the cacophony of voices, Hillary could still hear Trump's phumphering.
"I will sue you you! I will sue you! I will sue ALL of you! You’ll wish you were never BORN!”
A cheering crowd flooded Congress Street, as the limo slowly made its way east towards Lake Shore Drive. People in Cubs and White Sox caps pounded on the windows of the limo, grinning, giving Hillary and Bill the thumbs up sign. Hillary felt a sense of satisfaction she'd never known in politics before.
“This must be what Obama felt,” she thought. “This must be what it’s like to Feel The Bern!”
There in Bill's arms, in the back of the limo, she suddenly felt safe, warm and sure of her calling in life. She turned on her phone and checked her Twitter feed. Picture after marvelous picture flashed on the screen of the flailing sea monster Trump.
"Look at that hair!" She giggled. "He melted just like the Wicked Witch of the West!"
“They always do,” Bill said, kissing his wife on the forehead. "Proud of you, Honey," he muttered into her hair.
A text came from Chelsea, saying how proud she was of her mother.
Hashtag #ThisIsBetweenMeAndGoldilocks.
As the limo driver snaked the long, black car onto the Northbound lanes of Lake Shore Drive, the lights of The City of Big Shoulders glittered all around the once and future First Couple.
"It’s like I always say,” said Bill. “There's only one way to deal with a bully.”
“You gotta go right at him?" Said Hillary.
“You gotta go right at him,” said Bill.
"Oh, honey," Hillary purred, cuddling into her man's arms. "You are so right. You are so very right."