Dear Leader joins a traffic stop

by David Benjamin

“We CANNOT give up one of I.C.E.’s most important and effective Crime Fighting tools, THE TRAFFIC STOP! Once we do, we are playing right into the criminal’s hands.” — Donald Trump

The presidential helicopter rests in the village common, one of its wheels in a sandbox from which several terrified children had fled in the nick of time, another huge copter tire crushing the rose bushes planted a hundred years before by the Daughters of the American Revolution. Accompanied by seventeen masked federal agents in bulletproof vests bearing various labels—“POLICE,” “AGENT,” “H.I.S.”, etc.—the Dear Leader glares through the window of a four-door sedan that had been forced to the curb on Maple Street by three unmarked black vans.

The Dear Leader, on route to the White House after winning his 230th consecutive golf tournament, had spotted the traffic stop from the copter’s window. He ordered it to land. “I don’t just talk the talk, sweet-cheeks,” he had said to press-barbie Karoline Leavitt. “Watch me, honey. Here’s where I walk the walk.”

The car’s doors are locked. The driver appears paralyzed with fear.

Group Captain Melvin “Rock” Heydrich, regional Immigration and Customs Enforcement commander, speaks to the Dear Leader.

HEYDRICH: (Voice muffled by his mask) He won’t come out, your majesty.

DEAR LEADER: Tell ’im who I am. Tell ’im I’m The Commander in Chief.

HEYDRICH: (After trying this and eliciting no response) He doesn’t seem to care who you are, sir. He won’t budge.

DEAR LEADER: (Scowling photogenically for his personal CBS film crew) Well, go in and get the little scumwad. Bust the windows. Drag ’im out.

HEYDRICH: We could do that, your holiness. But one of us might get hurt. The guy might be a biter. You know how bite wounds can get infected.

DEAR LEADER: Oh yeah, I hate that. Okay, well then, shoot ’im.

HEYDRICH: (Unholstering a 9mm Glock) Good idea, your grace.

DEAR LEADER: Wait, wait. Ooh. Can I?

HEYDRICH: Sir, do I understand correctly that you want to shoot the suspected narcoterrorist trapped inside the car, without warning, without identifying yourself as a law enforcement officer, without informing him of his rights, without a shred of human feeling? You wanna just blow him away?

DEAR LEADER: Sure! Why not? I’m above the law. Everybody knows that. Ask Justice Roberts.

HEYDRICH: Okay then. Cool!

Heydrich hands his gun to the Dear Leader, who instantly points it at the car.

DEAR LEADER: (Struck by a thought) Hey, Just wondering. This guy. Wha’d he do? Why am I shooting ’im.

HEYDRICH: Take a look, your grace. He’s brown in a town that’s pretty much all white. Nobody but the Burger King manager where he works cares what happens to him, and even there, he’s easily replaced. He’s expendable, he looks foreign, which makes him easy to spot. And we have a quota. We have to round up a hundred more just like him in the next six hours. He’s nameless, faceless.

DEAR LEADER: Actually, I can see his face.

HEYDRICH: Good. That’s what you should aim at. Fire away.

DEAR LEADER: Yippee ki-yay!

GUN: CLICK!

DEAR LEADER: What the f—

HEYDRICH: Oopsie-daisy! Looks like you didn’t chamber a round, sir.

DEAR LEADER: I didn’t what a what?

HEYDRICH: You didn’t chamber a round, your orangeness.

DEAR LEADER: What the hell’s a chamber?

HEYDRICH: (Indicating the location on the gun and talking slowly in words of one syllable) Right here, sir. You slide this thing back. See? And there’s the chamber. You can’t shoot if there’s no round there, in the chamber. You see? Sir.

DEAR LEADER: Round? What the fuck’s a round?

HEYDRICH: (Concealing a sigh). It’s a bullet, your opulence.

DEAR LEADER: A bullet. Why the hell didn’tcha say so?

HEYDRICH: (Chambering a round and, helpfully, cocking the gun) Sorry, sir.

DEAR LEADER: Are we done? Can I shoot the illegal son of a bitch now?

HEYDRICH: Well, technically, your holiness, we’re not sure if he’s illeg—

Ignoring this, the Dear Leader snaps the trigger. The gun roars. The recoil knocks the Dear Leader on his ass. Glass shatters. The driver screams.

DEAR LEADER: (As the ICE team helps him up) Did I hit ’im? Is he down?

HEYDRICH: Well, you managed to break the window.

The driver can be heard sobbing uncontrollably.

HEYDRICH: Can I ask a question, your dearness?

DEAR LEADER: Not if it’s a stupid question. I hate stupid questions. That bitch from ABC, she asks the stupidest goddamn—

HEYDRICH: (Sensing the start of an incoherent rant, interrupting) Sir, you’re famous for talking about how you could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue.

DEAR LEADER: Yeah, damn right! And I wouldn’t lose one voter, ’cause y’know why? They all love me! Everybody loves me! I’m the most loved—

HEYDRICH: We sure do, your effulgence. But you didn’t seem to know … I mean, you never actually shot anyone on Fifth Avenue. Was this your first time?

DEAR LEADER: (Poking Heydrich’s chest) Listen, dickhead. I am the most powerful genius ever in the history of the world! Aren’t I?

HEYDRICH: Um … well …

DEAR LEADER: I AM! Y’know what that means? It means I don’t shoot guns. Guns are dirty and loud. I have thousands—millions—of people—LIKE YOU! To shoot guns, missiles, little brown men, for me. I don’t drive! I don’t read. I don’t answer the phone or tug my pants when they get wedged in the crack of my ass. I have people to tug my trousers, to cook my burgers and set ’em front of me—hot and juicy!. I’ve got people to make my bed, write my speeches, hang Mike Pence, prosecute my enemies and carry my golf bag. Oh, hey, wait, yeah, there’s one thing I do for myself, kissing strange women and grabbing ’em by the pussy. I mean, where’s the fun in watching JD or bug-eyed Kash do my ass-grabbing for me? Huh?

This soliloquy is interrupted. The driver of the car has leaned toward the shattered window, holding out what might be a wallet. The Dear Leader sees this.

DEAR LEADER: He’s got a gun. He’s gonna shoot me! Fight fight FIGHT!

A hail of rounds from seventeen ICE agents turns the driver into mincemeat.

Through the smoke, Heydrich peers inside the car.

HEYDRICH: Oh my God. There’s a baby—in the back seat.

DEAR LEADER: A baby? Is it alive?

HEYDRICH: Oh yes. She’s crying, and hugging a little pink stuffed bunny.

DEAR LEADER: Ah, good. I won’t miss this time. I’ll aim at the bunny.

HEYDRICH: Hm. Your magnificence, I wouldn’t. I mean. this won’t look good. She’s barely six weeks old. She was born in the USA. She’s … well, legal.

DEAR LEADER: Oh yeah? More legal than ME? I’m the PRESIDENT! I’ve got an Article 2 and I can do any goddamn thing I want. Ask George Washington.

He pushes aside the ICE officer and points the Glock at the back seat. He nods to the film crew. They spring into action. The camera whirs.

DEAR LEADER: (Closing an eye, leveling the gun). Awright, you stinkin’ little worst of the worst. Go ahead. Make my … DAY.