Donald Trump's soul sits in a tiny apartment in the basement of an old condo development in the Bronx. Pelham Bay, to be exact. It's a decent enough joint. It's not like Donald Trump's soul needs much space. Every day, he grows just a little smaller, and he knows it's just a matter of time before he disappears completely, when demon thugs, probably with Russian accents for the joke of it, will come to take him down to where he's going to stay for all eternity.
When Trump made his deal with the Devil back in the mid-1970s, he was very specific. Yes, he was selling his soul for the ability to make people believe whatever he wanted them to believe, but he wanted his soul out of his body for the duration. "Put it somewhere it won't ever bother me again," Trump negotiated with Lucifer.
The Devil was impressed that Trump hadn't asked for riches outright. "Most of you human cocksuckers want everything easy. You're willing to give it all away for a few piles of cash, but you?" Satan said, pointing at Trump, "You're something special. You're gonna go places. And, man, I'm gonna enjoy reaming you out with a ram's horn when you finally give up the ghost. Gonna twist the fucker all the way in."
Trump had stopped listening by this point. Once a deal was made, he was finished. Later, he would tell his bodyguard, "It's the greatest deal anyone ever made with the Devil. I mean, I can say whatever the hell I want and a whole lot of people will think it's fantastic and smart and they'll give me money for it. What could be better than that? The best part is that my soul, that pussy, it's gonna be far, far away from me. I'm free."
Donald Trump's soul watches his body on television all the time. He reads about the ways in which his body is squandering the coming damnation. Being a soul, he is capable of human empathy, something that Trump hasn't experience in all these decades. But Donald Trump's soul knows that Trump is unhappy, floundering, burdened, flailing about, looking for ways to make everything right before the body expires.
He wishes he could get free of this basement apartment, with its cabinets and appliances never updated, the wallpaper with its orange pattern that is fading now, stuck in the past. Donald Trump's soul wishes he could go to Trump, to the shell that was never really a full man, but at least once had the hope of redemption, just to tell him that he needs to unburden himself, that to truly have the freedom he believed he could have he should just go to Robert Mueller or Nancy Pelosi and reveal it all, all the dirty laundry, from the semen-stained underwear to the blood-stained jackets, all of it, all the mobsters, all the dirty deals, all the bribes and graft, all the ways in which he dicked over people. Here, take the taxes and the bank records and the emails and everything. Use the power the Devil gave him for good. It might mean that his damned children take the fall with him, but that is the price for believing in a soulless man, even if that man is your father.
Right now, this existence that Trump has is no existence at all. Donald Trump's soul has read about Trump raging about feeling disrespected by other world leaders, about how no one appreciates the things he's done, about his own appointees being incompetent or criminal or, worst of all, independent, about the elections he can't control, about the rallies that amounted to so few victories, about a Congress that's about to start probing every part of his life, about the Republicans who can barely stand his presence, about his constant errors which he can't bring himself to see as errors, his failures that he knows are failures but refuses to acknowledge that he has failed. It makes Donald Trump's soul weep, mostly alone, in the Bronx.
Lucifer comes by the apartment sometimes. Usually it's to taunt Donald Trump's soul with various implements that he'll be sodomized with: golf clubs, rolled-up Time magazines, Ivanka's tibia. But occasionally Lucifer just wants to chat. "You can have the entire world at your feet and can still feel the walls closing in and the floor give way," Lucifer said the other day, talking like a being who knows from great falls. "I said people would believe him. I didn't say they'd all love him. Gotta think these things through, right?" Donald Trump's soul was downcast. That made Lucifer laugh. "You think shit's bad now? You think he's upset? Don't you know him? He's gonna lose his fucking mind when he realizes how trapped he is. He's gonna try to take everyone down with him. I'd give you odds that he'll start a war before the end of 2019, but, shit, you've got nothing to bet that I don't already have."
Donald Trump's soul does know Trump. He just tries not to think about how much worse things will get, how we're just in the prelude to genuine Hell.
