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By Invitation Only

I got a serious case of the sillies, followed by a burst of creativity, when I watched the final Clinton-Trump debate, the only one I saw. Somewhere during Trump’s inarticulacies and Clinton’s indignation, I discovered a plot and dialogue. Turning to my guy, I said, “A screenplay’s unfolding in my mind.”

He looked at me, waiting. I said, “There’s a meeting of political VIPs, heads of multinational corporations, the top percent of the top percent, the Deciders. They’re schmoozing, toasting their triumphs.”
I didn’t have the opening scene then, so I presented only a sketch. After all, I’d need my computer to search articles, tap into Wikipedia, for info—which I’ve just done. Plus, at the time, I wasn’t privy to certain tapes that would surface. You know what I’m referencing.

So, the first scene, one that depicts gluttonous excess: Bill Clinton reclines on a chaise. Two 20-something women approach. One carries a tray of Champagne goblets containing Dom Pérignon Rosé by David Lynch. (The 1998 vintage: $11,179 for a 3-liter bottle.) The other woman offers caviar. The former president reaches out with one hand to grab pussy. The former president reaches out with the other hand to grab pussy. Neither woman recoils. Nor smiles. Maybe they’re robots. (I say this because there’s an opportunity here to intro artificial intelligence into the film. According to Stephen Hawking, it’s humanity’s greatest disaster.)

Anyway, Hillary Clinton’s four or five feet away with George, Laura, G.H.W., and Barbara Bush, cackling about Muammar el-Qaddafi’s murder.

Lynne Cheney dabs at a smidge of crème fraiche on her husband’s chin.

King Salman chats with Benjamin and Sara Netanyahu about the power of fear.

Francois Hollande chats with Xi Jinping and Angela Merkel about the power of fear.

Hollande’s partner, Julie Gayet, chats with Theresa May about the power of fear.

Sheldon Adelson chats with Lloyd Blankfein about the influence of money.

Adelson and Blankfein are joined by Gordon Tang and Huaidan Chen. Tang says, “We too want to chat about the influence of money.”

Henry Kissinger is heard mumbling to his wife Nancy, “The illegal we do immediately. The unconstitutional takes a little longer.”

Suddenly, a door opens. Donald Trump and Melania have arrived. Trump hears a familiar stridency, rushes to embrace HRC, and says, “Best debate ever. When I said Putin has no respect for you…”

Clinton cackles even more. “I know. I know. I thought I’d pee myself. I’m going to pee myself now, just thinking about it, and my response—that Putin would rather have you, a puppet, as president of the United…”

Trump interrupts with “Russian espionage against Americans.” He blows his nose and continues, nudging Tom Hanks, “When Hill said “Russian espionage and that nothing like this had ever happened in elections before, I thought it couldn’t be any better if it were scripted.”

“It was,” say Barack and Michelle Obama in unison. They fist bump.

Trump says, “I was joking.”

“Right, and your line about never having met Putin, that Putin’s not your best friend, blah, blah, blah. I nearly seized,” says Clinton. “Speaking of, he’s here.” Putin waves, swaggers toward them.

“Vlad,” says Clinton, “Donald and I have been congratulating ourselves, you know, our performances in the last debate.”

Someone says, “Oh, good, al-Baghdadi was able to make it.”

You see where I’m going with this. It’s not just a U.S. racket. It’s larger, global—globally orchestrated collusion.

Maybe I’ve seen something similar on Netflix. Dunno.

That night, after I’d conceived the idea, I added more. I knew a twist was necessary. I described the shocker to my guy. However, now that Jill Stein’s gone rogue, the denouement won’t be surprising. Here’s the ending you already may have guessed: Slowly, the camera focuses on faces, contorting mouths, the chewing of food, a tongue. A tongue licking lips. A tongue rooting, prying a morsel from between two teeth. A belch. Another. Amid the cacophony of sterling silver tearing through rare prime rib and striking Royal Copenhagen Flora Donica, glass thudding against inlaid mahogany, the viewer hears chatter. Someone says, “We really should toast the Deplorables, the voters who will never be at the table, never at the party.” Laughter. Slowly, the camera moves around the room to the entrance. The door opens. A radiant Jill Stein has arrived.

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Missy Beattie has written for National Public Radio and Nashville Life Magazine. She was an instructor of memoirs writing at Johns Hopkins’ Osher Lifelong Learning Institute in BaltimoreEmail: missybeat@gmail.com

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