The President of the United States idly swiveled around in his executive office chair. The Resolute Desk was littered with sheets upon sheets of printer paper as well as a colorful assortment of Crayola crayons. It would be a pain to put all of them back into the box in the right order, he thought to himself. Then again, he could always call in one of his sons to do it for him later.

He paused in his idle fidgeting in order to admire his most recent creation: a mess of mostly orange and yellow scribbles which came together to resemble, as one might generously describe it, a portrait of the entire Trump family: Ivanka, Melania, his sons, and of course, most important of all, he himself. It was almost sweet in an innocent, childlike sort of way—that is, if you could overlook the care with which he'd drawn the details of his daughter's chest.

Suddenly, the deafening sound of a window shattering filled the Oval Office. Trump rushed to his feet, knocking over his seat and sending papers flying into the air and crayons scattering to the floor. Fearing an attempt on his life, he was about to shout for help, but the breath caught in his lungs as he took in the bizzare image in front of him.

There, kneeling amongst the wreckage of what used to be his window, was the famous senator from Vermont himself, Bernie Sanders. He straightened, making a show of dusting bits of dust and glass from his lapels before finally turning to face him.

"You pathetic little pissbaby." Sanders growled in that distinctive, Jewy Brooklyn accent of his. He took a menacing step forward, then another, and then before he could fully process what was happening, he found himself being backed up and caged against the Resolute Desk with an arm on either side of him. Sanders was up in his personal space. He could feel the warmth blowing across his face as Sanders exhaled from his flared nostrils.

Trump let out an unmanly shriek as a knee jabbed sharply into his groin. For a moment, the pain was blinding, but then the knee pressed harder still, crushing Donald Jr. so far beyond the point of comfort that it must have crossed the wires in his brain, awakening something hidden deep within the recesses of his warped and broken mind. He was embarrassed to find tears welling in his eyes.

“Gonna cry?” Sanders jeered, grinding into him hard. “Gonna piss your pants, maybe? Maybe shit and cum? Just like those bankers on Wall Street?”

Then he relented, shifting his knee out of the way so he could reach for the front of his pants. If there were ever an opportunity to try and escape, it would have been at that exact moment, but Trump instead found that he was frozen firmly in place. The belt around his waist was undone, his frumpy trousers fell to the ground.

Before he could even blink, a hand was gripping his little Donald so hard that it wrenched a sob from his throat.

“The top 1% is stealing all the piss and shit and cum from middle class working people,” Sanders explained, jabbing his thumbnail painfully into the slit at the very tip where yellow and sometimes white pee comes out. Trump felt as if his legs would collapse out from under him at any second. “And if no one else has the balls to do it, then I'll take it upon myself to seize the means of production one and for all.”

I stopped writing at this point because I already came.