"We hate all the press," I was told upon confirming the invitation details, "because they always insist on quoting what Mr. Trump actually says, which simply isn't fair." Apparently, random drawings for unknown interviewers were seen by the campaign as being no worse than selecting known individuals by name, media outlet, or audience.
My body clock told me I met the candidate around midnight. (This is only a guess, as I saw no clocks in the room, when I came around, after my eyes adjusted to the light, as the black bag was removed from my head, following the flight in Trump Force Nine.)
"It's really something to meet you," I said thickly, refocusing my eyes to the well-known figure seated across the large, dimly-lit room. He was flanked by staff and bodyguards. My hands were lashed to the arms of the chair with zip-ties, I slowly realized. My mouth tasted like horse blankets soaked in rusty garlic oil.
"I imagine it is," he clucked.
I remembered as much of the meeting as I could, having no way to record details, which follow. (If the account is fuzzy in spots, I apologize. Blame the knock-out drugs.)