Donald Trump stared at his handsome reflection in the mirror and adjusted the straw-colored toupee on his scalp. Once he was satisfied with the manner in which his modest comb-over rested upon his head like a crown, the new Galactic Emperor adorned his body with the most expensive fabrics that could be produced by mortals. Before slipping back into his daily routine, Donald thoughtfully took in the breathtaking landscape that decorated the abyss beyond his palace on the planet of Coruscant. His dominant and powerful blue eyes sternly gazed through the immense glass window in the corridor outside his spacious bedroom.

The strong, orange man wasn't quite as amiable as he is typically reputed to be, primarily because he didn't have the warm and voluptuous figure of his beloved Melania beside him as he woke up. It seemed as if Donald's beautiful wife had been avoiding him ever since the day that he had captured the galaxy as his own playground. He couldn't fathom why the woman would deny him and his glory, and this frustrated him a lot. He tried grabbing her by the pussy, but even that didn't put a halt to her apathy and distant behavior. What was she up to?

One who wields absolute power never leaves the security of his private quarters unarmed, as the threat of an assassination was an ever present dark cloud that hung in the sky of dictatorship. Donald, through his sharpened concentration, used the force to summon his lightsaber from a secret compartment beneath his bed. After slipping his weapon of honor into a pocket below his embroidered belt, he naturally took up his radiant residence in the magnificent throne room, where he was treated like a god by his subjects.

His throne itself was composed of the skeletons of the other candidates whom he had effortlessly crushed underfoot during his presidential campaign. Every day, he would relish in the experience of resting his buttocks on the skull of Marco Rubio and propping the heels of his impeccable shoes upon the femur of Bernie Sanders. That wretched Hillary was the only one to escape this brutal demise and flee to somewhere beyond the unknown regions of the galaxy, but Trump promised he'd rectify this with time.

His right hand had the peculiar habit of coming up to meet the arm rest, which was interestingly crafted from the left arm of Ted Cruz. Donald would occasionally relapse into homoerotic daydreams of Ted and the nights they shared together, but then mentally chastise himself for such impurity. It was simply criminal to have a sexual attachment to a timeless demon who would occasionally operate under the identity of the Zodiac Killer. He also had to brave the current tumultuous state of his marriage to Melania, in spite of his creeping doubts about whether she was truly faithful.

Sighing, the Trump patriarch sat upon his throne of human remains. His marvelous robes pooled at his feet in a puddle of red, white, and blue silk. They were short enough that he wouldn't trip over them mid-stride(although Donald Trump is too flawless to commit the foolish error of loosing his balance), yet just long enough to caress the pristine tiled floor whenever he assumed a seated position.

A young, Mexican slave boy crawled out from under a small trapdoor beneath the massive throne with a clean rag and shoe polish in each calloused little hand. He did his duty, shining his master's shoes until they gleamed brighter than the stars above before quickly retreating to his underground hole; briefly seen and never heard. He knew his entire family would be deported to the perilous and unlivable frontier beyond the galaxy if he so much as moved one finger out of line.

After intensely scrutinizing the state of cleanliness of his footwear, Donald Trump only stiffened his posture and set his delicate lips into an unreadable line.

"Not too awful, Juan. However, my omnipotent sight has detected a single molecule of filth on the toe of my left shoe that you have failed to cleanse. What a pitiful work ethic. All fourteen of your siblings shall be executed at this planet's sundown on this very day, pray that I do not extend your punishment."

Juan, of course, had no choice but to accept any suffering that the emperor bestowed upon his undefined, six-year-old shoulders. He hung his head in shame.

"Sí, Señor Trump. I fail your good empire and my family," he sobbed from within the shadowy and dark corner of his prison cell under the throne.

Exactly twenty-five stormtroopers(one of Donald's many obscure talents is that he is truly a prodigy when it comes to counting very precisely) marched into the throne room single file, silent with the exception of their gentle footfalls. Well-trained by the best of the best, the soldiers knew better than to arouse the anger of their otherwise benevolent and compassionate leader. Donald squinted and pursed his lips, readying himself to face whomever was being escorted into his mighty dwelling without scheduling his or her arrival at least a fortnight in advance. The day was a newborn, only having been birthed from time's loins a mere hour ago. There was not a logical explanation for why the virginity of the emperor's daily routine needed to be molested at the crack of dawn.

"What is the meaning of this disruption?" Emperor Trump finally spoke with a tone that could pierce any man's confidence and heterosexuality like a shard of broken glass. The stormtroopers kneeled with submissive synchronicity before his forceful and intimidating gaze, but gave no verbal answer to his question. Then came the glorious entrance of the dethroned Supreme Leader Snoke, who had quite the bone to pick with his replacement.

The crippled humanoid wore no shoes, so his twisted club foot would drag across the smooth floor with a slightly audible shuffle. Long gone were the days when Snoke still had the wealth to wear his robes of gold during casual occasions, so of course he'd appear before the reigning monarch in a humble, black cloak. Through the bitter and thick silence that permeated the large hall to the throne, one could almost taste the bad blood between the former and current ruler of the galaxy on the tip of their tongue. Usually, any empty space in the open air would find itself kissed by the eloquent speech of Trump, but even the brightest man across all dimensions had to pause for a fraction of a millisecond to conjure up a fiery opening line. Snoke awakened a deep passion within his heart, one that could only be met with a proper greeting.

"Donald," Snoke rasped, being the first to speak.

"Hillary," was Trump's only reply.

To be continued...