Trump shivers. He's cold.
The A/C is on, and it's December.
"Why is the fucking A/C on?!" Trump yells at the top of his lungs. "Who turned it on?"
His shouts go unanswered.
He twiddles his thumbs and looks at his phone. It's 4:16 a.m. He thinks about nuking someone, anyone. He has the codes.
But maybe he's the culprit for the A/C himself. Trump realizes he can't remember what he's been doing for the last four hours. At midnight, he was watching CNN. That's it. Drawing a complete blank after that.
He notices a puddle of sweat and drool in front of him on his desk. "I don't think I've ever been this high," he mutters. He has a dim recollection of smoking some meth and trying to insert a 10-inch screwdriver into one of his bodily orifices, but he can't be sure. His memory has been getting spotty lately.