Donald Trump Does The Hood: A Halloween Horror Story


He had been warned about this.

His adult children, Ivanka, Eric, Donald Jr, and even the one no one gives a shit about, tried to reason with him, sharing horror stories about what they’ve heard about the hood, complete with anecdotes about deadly and sarcastic bodega cats and Ivanka’s own first-hand experience with mysterious and gangly tree-ridden mutattos with detachable penises. There he would find no solace, no safety, no hope, and nowhere to tan.


Sensing that their dad was unmoved by their scare tactics, they called Kellyanne Conway. Who, after unsuccessfully attempting to convince the Trumps they actually called Pizza Hut and not her, grudgingly stopped updating her LinkedIn page and texted Donald, saying “Please don’t be a fucking idiot. Or do. It’s whatever. I really don’t care anymore.”

Even Melania eventually weighed in with a printed out powerpoint package of the dangers of the inner-city. Sure, the powerpoint was actually just an old Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church pamphlet, accidently left in their Maybach by their driver. Which explained why the Ebenezer emblem was crudely etched out, with “Love Always, Melania” superimposed on top of it. And also explained why bullets about the church fund and an upcoming potato salad potluck fundraiser and the need for prayer warriors for Sister Esther Johnson were included in her presentation. But, as always, her heart was in the right place. Bless Melania’s heart, really. She, like everyone else, just wanted to protect her Donald.

But his mind was made up. He had grown tired of just talking about The Blacks and the dystopian hellscapes they existed in, of speaking of them in abstract terms. He’d said enough during his campaign about the roving gangs on each block — marauding and murdering and raping and pillaging and even occasionally going to grocery stores to stand in the eight items or less aisle with like 17 items. He had no more words about the hundreds of thousands of The Blacks milling aimlessly about in the street, since there were literally zero jobs in the inner cities. And not even any streets or buildings. Or grass. Or ground. Just air. These Blacks just floated around all day like Black-ass balloons. He was fed up with the abject hopelessness plaguing The Blacks and even the elbowlessness of the thousands afflicted with the deadly strain of the flu that left entire communities of The Blacks without elbows.

He had to see for himself. He had to spend a day in the hood. By himself.

For his journey, he chose the darkest, deepest, and most dangerous part of the inner-city. Carrying only a musket and a canteen filled with milk, The Donald began at dawn, hoping to catch one of The Blacks in their natural habitat: napping or robbing a store of their entire stock of Cheetos.

15 minutes into his walk, he heard footsteps approaching. Fast footsteps. Quick and rhythmic footsteps only an African American rapist could make.

Pa-Pat. Pa-Pat. Pa-Pat. Pa-Pat. Pa-Pat. Pa-Pat.

He braced himself for a confrontation. “This” he told himself “is why I watched all those Crossfit DVDs on my iPad. I’m ready.” He turned to face the Black Beast. And was nearly bumped into the street by a young White woman in yoga pants and New Balance crosstrainers; who screamed “Stop hogging the damn sidewalk!” as she sped by.


Donald’s adrenaline began to spike. “She’s running from someone” he thought to himself, stupidly. “Probably The Blacks. Definitely The Blacks. The Blacks must be near.”

He sat on the stoop of the nearest building to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. He’d still seen nary a Black. No gangs. No guns. And definitely no mulattos. But he still was confident he would eventually.


As he sat, he felt the door behind him open. Slowly and cautiously, the old door creaked like an uncle getting out of a chair to do a chore he really doesn’t want to do. The wind from the just-opened door hit Donald’s neck, startling and scaring him. He felt the presumably African-American heat of the person who opened this door now standing behind him. And Donald sat paralyzed. “Those clever African Americans” he thought to himself, extra stupidly “they knew I’d be here and waited to plan their attack. And I fell into their trap.

He knew this would be his last minute, his last seconds, as he felt the mysterious figure approaching, surely about to straight blast his mark ass. So he took a moment to reflect on his life; his regrets (none) his great loves (none) his most treasured friends (none) his good deeds (none) and the faces he’d love to remember one last time (none but his own).


And then the guy behind him —- a Black, at last — offered him a free plate of muffin tops. “Hey, I’m Raheem” the Black said to a still stunned Donald, “please take these. I thought it was awesome you love our muffin tops so much that you’d sit here in the cold and wait for us to open, so here’s some free samples.

Confused, Donald looked up at the storefront window. The sign on it read “Raheem’s House of Amazing and Delicious Muffin Tops.” He looked back at Raheem, who was still smiling and offering presumably amazing and delicious muffin tops.


What Donald hadn’t yet realized was that the darkest, deepest, and most dangerous part of the inner-city was actually the darkest, deepest, and most dangerous part of the inner city…in 1991. Which happened to be the last time Donald actually read a newspaper. Now it’s just arbitrarily aggressive White women jogging and boutiques for useless and expensive food.

Still, traversing the post-dawn block on the hunt for The African Americans made Donald quite hungry, so he took Raheem’s offer and bit a muffin top. It was amazing and delicious, just like the sign said.


Wow Raheem! These are great!"

"Thank you, Mr Trump."

"So, you just make whole muffins, cut the tops off of them, and sell them?"

"Yes, that's what we do here."

"And what do you do with the rest of the muffin."

"We donate them to a food bank."

"Well that's fantastic. The best thing I've ever heard. You know, if you’re ever looking for a job, Melania's shih tzu's doghouse needs an assistant chef and…


And then, out of nowhere, Donald started to choke and gasp for air. Like a 70-year-old Joffrey Baratheon.

Help!!!” he whispered to Raheem with his last dying breath.

To Donald’s horror, Raheem began to smirk.

“I hope you enjoy those cyanide-laced muffin tops, Donald. Courtesy of The African Americans.”


And then Donald died all dead and shit.

And then Raheem went back into the store. And took his Raheem mask off to reveal that it was really Thandie Newton. Who then took the Thandie Newton mask off to reveal that it was really Chance The Rapper.


The end.

Damon Young is the editor-in-chief of VSB, a contributing opinion writer for The New York Times, and the author of What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Blacker (Ecco/HarperCollins)




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