Two Fisted Trump Tales: The Night Joe Biden Knocked the President Out


As was his custom, Donald Trump was working deep into the night, poring over briefings filled with incredibly dense, technical information. The world would never know, could never know, that behind the brash facade Trump was actually a policy wonk, a man who would only sleep three or four hours a night because he was obsessed with being as knowledgable and informed as possible before making important decisions. 

People thought Trump sometimes referred to himself as “The Donald” out of arrogance, or even narcissism. Nothing could be further from the truth. No, Trump created the concept of “The Donald” as a way of separating the cartoonish caricature he promoted purely for business and financial reasons from the smart, soulful man and deeply moral man underneath. 

“The Donald” made Trump rich. He made him famous. In seeming defiance of God’s laws, he made Trump the forty fifth president of the United States. Yet Trump had come to resent “The Donald” all the same. It went beyond that. He despised the Donald. He hated having to impersonate that idiotic cartoon character in public. 

It was exhausting, having to pretend to be a buffoon, puffed full of phony bravado and devoid of introspection or self-reflection. Trump had based “The Donald” loosely on Tony Clifton. In his younger days, Trump was something of a stand-up obsessive. Trump haunted the Improv in the late 1970s, and was fascinated by the contrast between elfin man-child Andy Kaufman and the grotesque monster of id and ego that was Tony Clifton. 

Trump realized that he too could not only play a character, but become that character in a strange, Pop Art sense. Only he would do Kaufman one better. Trump wouldn’t ever break character in public. As far as the public knew, he was “The Donald.” The more Trump played the role, the more the role began to consume him. 

Kaufman was one crucial inspiration for “The Donald.” Another was the world of professional wresting. People though Trump loved the WWE because he was a macho idiot and close personal friend of owner Vince McMahon. In actuality, Trump was fascinated by the role-playing aspect of wrestling, particularly the concept of “Kayfabe”, the idea that in leagues like the WWE there are multiple realities: the fake-reality being presented to the public and the actual behind the scenes reality, where fights are all carefully scripted and rehearsed. 

Trump brought that element of Kayfabe first to business, then to reality television and finally to the Oval Office. He’d been playing the heel known as “The Donald” for so long that at times it was tough to even remember the Babyface underneath. 

Part of the awful kayfabe of politics involved having to treat politicians he admired and considered dear friends, like Clintons, Bidens and The Obamas as if they were his bitterest enemies. 

In happier times

In happier times

Christ, when Obama was elected, Trump wept uncontrollably, he was so proud of the progress the country had made. Yet “The Donald” nevertheless embarked on a racist campaign to discredit him by pretending that Obama was a Kenyan-born Muslim and not the very embodiment of the American dream. 

The only reason Trump had even contemplated running for President was to make it easier for his dear friend Hillary Clinton to get elected. The idea was for Trump to run such an obnoxious, insufferable and un-presidential campaign that rightfully disgusted voters would hand Clinton a historic, landslide victory. To that end, he had top audio engineers create a “leaked” audio-tape of Trump bragging to Access Hollywood host Billy Bush about how how if you’re famous enough, you can go around grabbing women by the pussy. 

This time Trump was absolutely certain his campaign was doomed. What woman would vote for a serial sexual harasser, or given Trump’s actual personality, “serial sexual harasser” as the real Trump never treated women with anything other than respect, over the first female American President in history? 

Yet somehow not even the release of the doctored tape was enough to kill Trump’s chances and in November of 2016 Trump accidentally found himself elected President. 

This meant he could not abandon “The Donald” persona. Dr. Jeckyll was obligated to be Mr. Hyde permanently, or at least as far as the public was concerned. 

This created all manner of problems for the sensitive chief executive. It meant that he had to continue to tweet obnoxious things in character as “The Donald”, a much-hated task he passed on to Peter, the boyish-looking, endlessly enthusiastic head of his communications team. 

It was a little past midnight one long, long night in the White House when Peter peeked his head into Trump’s office. 

Trump greeted his aide warmly. 

“Hello, Peter. I was just poring over some intelligence data on Indonesia. I am perpetually overwhelmed and humbled by the responsibilities of this great office. How can I help you?”” Trump inquired, looking up from the thick stack of papers he held in his hand. 

“Well, Mr. President, as you are well aware, former Vice President Biden, during a speech at University of Miami said, and this is a direct quote, “A guy who ended up becoming our national leader said, ’I can grab a woman anywhere, and she likes it. They asked me if I’d like to debate this gentleman, and I said ‘no.’ I said, ‘If we were in high school, I’d take him behind the gym and beat the hell out of him.” Peter stammered nervously. 

“I know” Trump said softly. “I saw that and I just felt sorry for Joe. He’s a good man. Christ, he’s seventy five years old. Why does he feel the need to talk that way?” 

“I don’t know, Mr. President, but I feel like this demands a response, preferably via Twitter.” 

“Can’t I just take the high road and ignore it?” Trump asked hopefully, despite knowing the answer. 


“Sure. Trump could do that. The Donald, however, needs to respond as forcefully and tackily as possible. To remain in character.” Peter clarified. 

Feeling resigned to his fate, Trump mumbled that that was probably true. 

“How about this for a tweet”, Peter suggested nervously, “Crazy Joe Biden is trying to act like a tough guy. Actually, he is weak, both mentally and physically, and yet he threatens me, for the second time, with physical assault. He doesn’t know me, but he would go down fast and hard, crying all the way. Don’t threaten people Joe!”

Trump looked down at the floor and sighed deeply. In moments like these, he particularly regretted creating “The Donald.” It was a hideous mask that had become his true face, the ugly, awful, perpetually lying face he showed the world. 

“To be perfectly honest, I think a Tweet like that is deeply disrespectful to someone I consider a friend.” 

The president paused, lost in thought, lost in memory. “Christ, the man lost his son not too long ago. I can’t even imagine that kind of soul-deep pain. When I heard about the news, I invited him to my hotel room and I held him in my arms and we wept for what felt like hours. To publicly threaten a man who has been through such a profound loss seems so wrong. It’s beneath the dignity of the office.” 

“Nevertheless”, he continued, “it is, nauseatingly in the voice of “The Donald” character, so go ahead and tweet it.”

Trump once again felt imprisoned by the character he was forced by fate to play full time. But he wanted his friend Joe Biden to know that the awful, juvenile, demented words in the tweet that had just posted did not represent his actual feelings, but rather the brash egotism of “The Donald.”

Alas, Biden didn’t seem to care. 

Trump trepidatiously dialed Biden’s home phone number. To his surprise, the former Vice President picked up on the second ring. He sounded drunk. And angry. And sad.

“Hey Joe, this is is Trump. I just wanted to let you know that someone in my communications team composed a tweet in response to your comments about beating me up if we were in high school and I wanted to say—” Trump volunteered anxiously before being loudly and rudely interrupted. 

“I WILL beat the hell out of you, you little whore-monkey. You and your whole army!” Biden slurred aggressively and semi-comprehensibly. Trump was pretty sure he meant to say “whore monger” but such linguistic parsing seemed irrelevant in the white hot heat of the older man’s incandescent rage. 

“Joe, you should know as well as anyone that I never said the words on that god-awful Access Hollywood tape. It was something my people recorded, in collaboration with Billy Bush, in an attempt to throw the election and ensure Hillary’s win. 

I have no idea why it didn’t work, but when I somehow ended up winning, I lost a lot of faith not just in the electorate, but in humanity as a whole. You know how badly I wanted Hillary to win. I never would have voted for her if I didn’t. Honestly, Joe, we’ve been friends and contemporaries for decades. Can you even imagine me saying something like, “Grab ‘em by the pussy?” 

“I’ll grab you by the pussy, you sonofabitch!” Biden growled irritably, clearly not listening to anything Trump had to say. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d beat the shit out of you. If you have any honor whatsoever you’ll fight me and then we’ll see who the real pussy is.”

Trump wanted very much to tell Biden to sleep it off and call him back when he was able to delineate between “The Donald” and the real Trump, but he didn’t want to seem condescending or dismissive, especially considering the obvious pain his friend was in. 

“Joe, you’re my friend. Besides, we’re both public servants in our seventies who haven’t fought in literally decades. I just don’t see what could possibly be resolved through old men fighting each other. “ Trump said reasonably, to no avail. 

“There’s only one way to make things good. That’s for you to fight me. For honor.” Biden sneered, seemingly growing angrier and less receptive to reason by the minute. 

It was then that Trump realized what he must do: he must fight Biden. For whatever reason, this wasn’t something Biden’s ego wanted. No, it was something that his ego needed. To feel whole again. 

“You really want to fight me?” Trump asked. 

“More than anything in world!” Biden yelled back. 

“Fine. If it will help you attain closure, then I’m willing to degrade myself by fighting you. But only because it’s important to you. I tell you what. You sound a little tipsy, so what I’m going to do is send a limousine to you. It’ll pick you up in a half hour, and take you to Old Man Kalan’s barn. You know the place, where we used to drink jugs of wine and smoke weed back before all of this political nonsense. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“You’re on, motherfucker!” Biden belched and then terminated the call. 

Trump instantly felt silly. Why on earth was he going through with this? What on earth did he have to gain? 

Then Trump realized why he was participating in this ridiculous fight: for his friend’s sake. For the sake of an old chum’s enormous but incredibly fragile and brittle ego. 

So Trump decided to drive himself over to Old Man Kalan’s barn, where a clearly inebriated Biden stood waiting for him, shirtless and defiant, clad only in a pair of dirty sweatpants. 

When Trump went up to shake Biden’s hand he was rewarded with a roundhouse punch to the face. 

As he staggered backwards, Trump, clad ridiculously in one of his trademark baggy suits,  implored “We don’t have to do this! Violence between old men settles nothing! Think of your children! Think of your grandchildren! Is this how you’d want them to see you, throwing punches at a dangerously out of shape seventy one year old man? Where’s the glory in that? Where’s the honor?” 

Just then, something unexpected happened. Pundit Tucker Carlson passed Old Man Kalan’s barn during one of his night-time bike rides and noticed a commotion. When he saw that the President of the United States was immersed in a no holds-barred bare knuckle brawl with the former Vice President, he got on the phone and dialed everyone he knew to convince them to immediately head to Old Man Kalan’s barn to see the fight of the century. 

Carlson called up Senators. He called up his colleagues at FOX News. He called celebrities who called up other celebrities, who called still other celebrities, all of whom immediately made a beeline to the otherwise inauspicious barn where history was being made at that very moment. 

They came to Old Man Kalan’s barn in antique private planes. They came to Old Man Kalan’s barn on old time motorcycles with sidecars. They came to Old Man Kalan’s barn via hang-gliders. They came via unicycles. They came via blimps. A biker gang known as the Black Widows arrived on glistening Harley-Davidsons they’d purchased with their winnings from a similar bare-knuckle brawl ages ago. 

Soon there were hundreds of onlookers to the fight, almost all of them famous. By that point, Trump had taken a vicious beating at the hands of his angry friend for what seemed like an eternity. That was the whole point of the match: to make Biden feel better by allowing him to soundly defeat his nemesis in fisticuffs. The pain was brutal. Trump was punched so  extensively in the right eye that geysers of blood threatened to shut it altogether. 

In his peripheral vision, Trump could see Ruth Bader Ginsburg standing and cheering, “Finish him, Joe! Take this saggy-assed motherfucker out! FINISH HIM!” 

As if on cue, Trump went down with a deafening thud, weeping audibly, his suit in tattered, full of holes and soaked in the old man’s blood. 

“No mas!” Trump announced as Biden grinned big and the crowd erupted in cheers. 

It took a few minutes, but eventually Trump got back on his feet and, with a big, incongruous smile, announced, “I would like to publicly declare that I was wrong. Joe is anything but crazy. IF anything, I’M the crazy person. He’s a good, decent man who loves his country like he loves his family. He’s no fake tough guy; he’s a man of real courage and bravery. He is a true champion, not just in bare-knuckle brawling but in life.” 

Trump looked over to Biden, who had sobered up and was grinning like a child. 

The President gave Biden a bear hug and whispered tenderly into the sweaty, exhausted seventy five year old’s ear, “I love you, Joe.” 

The victorious Vice President replied, “I love you too, Trumpy. Thanks for letting me win.” 


Everyone in the barn seemed satisfied, Trump most of all. Trump opened his mouth to speak further but then realized that nothing more needed to be said. 

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