Donald Trump strode onto the stage, spotlight bouncing off his golden hair like molten metal. The crimson carpet seemed to pulse beneath his polished shoes. Fans waved flags, cheered, chanted.
Then—a faint rustling, like dry leaves brushing together—sent a ripple of murmurs through the crowd.
At first imperceptibly, the tips of his fingers elongated, splitting into twisting branches. Tiny red oak leaves unfurled from his knuckles, shimmering like stained glass. Bark crept up his wrists, gnarled and knotty. The podium groaned, as if welcoming roots, and his shoes seemed to merge slightly with the stage floor.
“I—I assure you, this is fake news!” he barked, his voice hollow, like traveling through wood.
A chickadee hopped onto his shoulder, pecking curiously at a leaf, sending fiery-orange leaf tips fluttering like confetti.
In the background: a fan mistook a falling leaf for a souvenir and tucked it into their pocket. A photographer fainted dramatically onto a scooter. A stagehand tried to take soil samples from the carpet just in case. Somewhere, a squirrel climbed the podium, apparently lobbying to be Trump’s campaign manager.
Cameras whirred, reporters gasped. Somewhere, a fog machine hissed unnecessarily, amplifying the drama.
Miles leaned into his microphone, studio cluttered with tangled wires, half-empty coffee cups, and a potted ficus for “evidence purposes.”
“Listen carefully, patriots!” he hissed. “Yes, they want you to believe Trump is an oak tree—but that’s their lie! The Democrats? Magnolia! Fig! Hiding in plain sight! And the media—oh, the media!”
He slammed his fist on the desk. Papers flew like autumn leaves. One even landed in a half-eaten sandwich, which he waved at the camera dramatically.
“You want to listen to the mainstream media? What’s a stream anyway? That’s where you find trees! These arborists on CNN with their leafy mouths and lenticel eyes, pointing their twig fingers in denial… those are the real trees running things! They want you scared of Trump being human! But Trump? Tremendous human! Standing tall against their leafy deception!”
“Climate change? Not what they told you! Hurricanes, wildfires, tornadoes—they’re weaponized weather machines! Reality is filtered through their ideology, spun like silk into a pack of lies! But Trump? Untouchable. Human. Standing firm!”
A ficus on his desk drooped dramatically for emphasis. A squirrel ran across the studio floor, almost tripping the audio mixer. The camera caught a tiny leaf falling onto his microphone, perfectly timed to underscore his point.
Trump called into the podcast. Instead of speech, the line carried gentle leaf rustling, bird chirps, and the subtle creak of bark stretching.
Miles coughed nervously. “Uh… Mr. Trump, are you saying—”
Leaves fluttered audibly.
“Folks! Tremendous human! He’s not a tree! Believe me!” Miles shouted.
“But don’t be fooled! Everything you see—leaves, branches, birds—is their cover! They want you to panic! And the Democrats? Magnolia and fig infiltrators, pruning your freedoms while smiling with bark-covered faces!”
A cardinal perched on a studio lamp, looking judgmental. A squirrel balanced on the microphone cord, twitching as if nodding in agreement.
Reality is their tool! Trump is the only human in the room! The rest? Trees disguised as humans, spinning lies through your senses!
By morning, the White House lawn had transformed. Rare warblers, orioles, and tanagers nested in the red oak that had sprung up overnight. The leaves glowed molten orange, shimmering like a wildfire frozen in time.
Photographers whispered reverently, cameras clicking in sync with birds’ calls. Gardeners and Secret Service agents tiptoed, unsure whether to water him, prune him, or bow. Sap glimmered along trunk-shaped legs.
In the background: a reporter mistook a branch for a walking stick and tried to lean on it. Another agent attempted to measure leaf length with a tape measure. Squirrels held what appeared to be “campaign strategy meetings” in the lower branches.
Miles spun it on air: “Yes, birds! Yes, orange leaves! But it’s a coordinated operation to make you believe Trump is a tree! Reality is weaponized! Only Trump, human as ever, stands immune!”
A visiting botanist squinted at the bark and branches. “That… that’s a juniper, isn’t it?”
The crowd erupted. Secret Service agents nearly dropped their coffee. Reporters gasped.
“A JUNIPER!?!” someone shouted. “Do you know your trees!? What’s wrong with you?!”
Miles leaned into the mic, voice boiling: “A juniper?! Don’t insult Americans with that nonsense! Red oak—fiery leaves, gnarled bark, grandeur! Only a juniper could lie like that! And pomologists—pomologists! What do pomologists know about politics? Nothing! They grow fruit, count apples, and lecture us about governance? Absurd!”
Nearby squirrels chittered indignantly, and a cardinal trilled like a moderator: Red oak! Red oak!
“Don’t fall for it, patriots! Trump is human! The rest? Trees! Hiding! Spinning lies!”
Meanwhile: a photographer accidentally stepped on a leaf, slipped, and rolled dramatically into a hedge, becoming part of the “background chaos tableau.”
In a swirl of alien light, a perfect human suit arrived. Trump emerged, flawless, leaves gone, hair gleaming.
“Fake news. Never happened,” he declared. Birds circled overhead, indifferent.
Miles ranted into the microphone: “Wake up! Democrat trees run communist cities! They’re pruning your freedoms! But Trump? Human, untouchable, fighting the lie machine!”
Orange leaves drifted lazily, unbothered by ideology. A squirrel clutched a tiny campaign sign reading: Trump for Oak—Forever Human!
A reporter cornered Trump, sunlight gleaming off his suit.
“Mr. Trump, are you feeling better?”
Trump smiled faintly, brushing imaginary leaves from his shoulder. “Yes, just a little stomach flu from something I ate.”
The reporter leaned in. “What did you eat?”
Trump grinned. “Just soil, water, and sunlight. What else do I need?”
The camera panned over the White House lawn, birds flitting through lingering orange leaves—a subtle reminder that reality, absurdity, and a little botanical chaos coexist peacefully… if unpredictably.