"Troglodyte Power"

"Troglodyte Power" 

By Gavarre Ben

SETTING: The lobby and Suite 47 of the "Potomac Dreams Motel". It’s the kind of place that was built to look patriotic in 1974 but now just looks suspicious. The carpets have faded stars that look like stains, and the fake wood walls emit a faint scent of lemon wax and Cold War secrets.

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SCENE I: The Strategy of the Absurd

(Motel lobby. DONALD is holding a scented envelope with a pair of surgical tweezers. ELON is floating next to him, hovering three inches off the floor thanks to his "Founder Edition" jet boots).

DONALD: (With the gravity of a man facing a nuclear crisis) Look at this, Elon. It’s a perfect envelope. The paper is heavy, the ink is dark, and the calligraphy is almost… professional. But the content is a disaster for the administration. They’ve summoned me here, to this suburban hole. It’s either a media hit job or a very low-budget coup d’état.

ELON: (Scanning the envelope with a laser coming out of his wrist) My proprietary fluid-analysis algorithm has detected high concentrations of "Spousal Resentment" and "Legal Retribution." There is a 99.8% probability that Mel is currently in Suite 47, sitting on a polyester bedspread, waiting to execute a mass-divorce protocol.

DONALD: Impossible! Mel is currently in Mar-a-Lago, engaged in the high-stakes task of counting palm trees. Camilo, check the electronic ledger!

CAMILO: (He presses a button on a small black box hanging from his neck; a robotic, glitchy voice emerges) "THE MADAM IS CURRENTLY ON A CLANDESTINE RECONNAISSANCE MISSION AT THE CRYSTAL CITY MALL. SHE REQUESTS NO INTERRUPTIONS UNLESS THE BUILDING IS ON FIRE."

DONALD: You see? It’s a trap. A classic decoy. Elon, you’re a man of science and questionable ethics. You go. If it’s a beautiful woman with a recording device, tell her I’m a very busy leader but I can offer her an under-secretary position in the Department of Energy. If it’s Mel, tell her I’m currently on Mars, and that the reception is terrible.

ELON: (Adjusting his titanium-rimmed glasses) I’ll go. I’ll activate my "Venture Capitalist" stealth mode. No one notices a billionaire in a motel; they just think it’s a glitch in the simulation.

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SCENE II: The Bellboy and the Bureaucrat

(Elon enters Suite 47. DONALD hides behind a noisy ice machine. PELEÓN enters, dragging RONNIE by the collar. Ronnie is identical to Donald, but he’s wearing a stained red uniform and a look of profound, alcoholic resignation).

PELEÓN: Ronnie! I’ve told you a thousand times: if I catch you drinking industrial-grade mezcal behind the front desk again, I’m deporting you to the suburbs! We have important guests! People with high credit limits and low moral standards!

RONNIE: (Squinting at Donald, who is peaking out from behind the ice machine) Boss, that guy over there looks exactly like the man I see in my nightmares. Only his tie is longer and his skin is the color of a sunset in a polluted city.

PELEÓN: Shut up! It’s just the lighting. Take these towels up to Suite 47. And for the love of the Marine Corps, don’t breathe on the guests. Your breath could melt a presidential seal.

(Ronnie stumbles into Suite 47. MEL is there, wearing a trench coat and a dark veil. Seeing Ronnie, she leaps from the chair).

MEL: Donald! I caught you! I knew your curiosity was the only thing bigger than your ego. You actually came to this dump!

RONNIE: (Struggling to keep his balance while holding four stiff towels) Whoa, take it easy, lady! Don’t grab the lapels, this uniform is held together by hope and old starch. My name isn’t Donald, it’s Ronnie, and I’m just here to provide the minimal level of hospitality required by law.

MEL: (Backing away, disgusted) Donald? Why are you speaking like a man who has lost his dignity and his dental insurance? And why do you smell like a gas station fire?

(ELON floats into the room, looking disappointed).

ELON: Donald! You’re an analog liar! You told me you were too busy for this. And Mel… I see you’ve adopted the "Spy Chic" look. But I’m afraid my AI has determined this man is a low-resolution copy of your husband. He’s a glitch.

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SCENE III: The Nixon Wall

(Suddenly, GENERAL Z bursts into the lobby, waving a gold-plated pistol and shouting at the ceiling).

GENERAL Z: I know you’re in here! I can smell the aroma of democratic hypocrisy and cheap sándalo! Donald, come out and face me like a man, or I will use this gold-plated artifact to renegotiate our trade deficit!

DONALD: (Sprinting out from behind the ice machine) Peace, General! Peace! It’s a misunderstanding of galactic proportions! The man inside is not me; he’s a production error, a biological prototype gone wrong!

(General Z kicks open the door to Suite 47. He sees Ronnie cowering under the bed).

GENERAL Z: Wretch! I told you not to touch my offshore accounts! (He aims at Ronnie’s rear end).

PELEÓN: (Entering with a whistle) Nobody move! This is a regulated establishment! (He slams a red button on the wall labeled EMERGENCY ESCAPE).

(The bed begins to rotate with a screeching, metallic sound that suggests it hasn’t been oiled since the Ford administration. The mechanism jams halfway through. Donald, who was trying to crawl through a service hatch, gets caught in the turning wall: his head is in the suite, his legs are in the hallway).

DONALD: (Screaming) Elon! Do something! The architecture of this motel is violating my civil liberties! It’s crushing my lower back!

ELON: (Calmly taking high-resolution photos with his watch) Donald, don’t move. The lighting is cinematic. It’s perfect for a post about "The Weight of the State." I’m going to buy this motel and turn it into a museum of political failure.

GENERAL Z: (Looking at Donald’s head protruding from the wall) Ah! It’s a hydra! You cut off one tax break, and another one appears with a red tie!

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EPILOGUE: THE REPUBLIC OF THE EMPTY BOTTLE

(Two hours later. The Motel Bar. It is dark and smells like 1974. RONNIE and GENERAL Z are sitting at the bar. Three empty bottles of mezcal sit between them. The General has taken off his medals; Ronnie is wearing Donald’s discarded red tie as a headband).

GENERAL Z: (Hugging Ronnie like a brother) You’re the only one who understands, Ronnie. You’re not like those politicians who talk about "synergy" and "leverage." You’re a man of liquid substance.

RONNIE: Exactly, General. In this bar, we are all equal before the pour. Donald is still upstairs, stuck in the wall waiting for the fire department to arrive with the Jaws of Life, but we… we have found a new sovereignty.

GENERAL Z: (Banging the bar with his gold pistol) Ronnie! I have a vision! This bar is a neutral zone. It’s not D.C., it’s not my country. Let’s declare independence!

RONNIE: (Grinning) I love it. We’ll call it "The Republic of the Empty Bottle." Our national anthem will be a rhythmic hiccup and our flag will be a stained tablecloth.

GENERAL Z: (Standing up with drunken solemnity) I shall be the Minister of Defense and the Guard of the Snacks! You shall be the President of Long Naps! Here, there are no walls that turn, only glasses that refill!

RONNIE: (Raising his glass) To the Republic, General! And if McSwindle tries to invade, we’ll tell him we’re out of office. Permanently.

(ELON walks in with a sleek metal briefcase).

ELON: Gentlemen, I’ve just registered your new country’s domain name on my satellite network. I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you a licensing fee for the air you’re breathing. It’s the market rate.

RONNIE: (To Elon) We don’t accept tech-bro credit. We only accept corks and honesty. Get out of our airspace, space man!

(Camilo enters, presses a button on his synthesizer, and a loud, upbeat tropical rumba fills the room as the lights fade to black).

CURTAIN.