The urge to stamp on him. The certain hope this was the top of Trump’s head, his entire body beneath it, pushing up the pavement, coming here, to my hood, to get us, to get me. And I spotted him. My chance to stop him, to crush his crown once and for all. I saw the blood. I saw the broken skull. I saw the brain oozing out. I pushed my umbrella through one of the cracks, working the ferrule down to the mass of thalamus. I heard him holler. I pushed harder. Through the thin sole of my boots, I felt the strain on the tarmac soften. He was relenting. Sinking. One last hard poke. The pavement flattened. The cracks disappeared. The leaves and the fag butt and the piece of gum framing the remains perfectly.