The Inauguration That Almost Wasn’t
It was a cold January morning in Washington, D.C., the kind of biting chill that seemed to rattle the marble columns of the Capitol itself. The city buzzed with anticipation for the upcoming presidential inauguration. The streets were lined with flags, security checkpoints stood ready, and the media was abuzz with speculation. But something was off this year.
Donald J. Trump, recently elected for an unprecedented second term, was nowhere to be found.
The situation was bizarre. Whispers turned into rumours, and rumours into breaking news.
“President-elect Trump may not attend his own inauguration!” one headline blared.
But why?
The answer was as shocking as it was absurd.
Trump had started a side business during his campaign—Trump Kicks, a high-end sneaker brand designed, as he put it, “for winners.” The sneakers are gold-plated, have red soles, and bear the slogan “Make Your Feet Great Again” stitched along the sides. Sales had been skyrocketing. After all, who wouldn’t want to walk in the shoes of a billionaire president?
But Trump insisted on handling the most important orders himself. “Nobody delivers sneakers better than me,” he declared at a rally. “People are saying it. It’s true.”
One particular order, placed by an elusive billionaire collector in Dubai, was for the exclusive Trump Ultra Golds—a pair encrusted with tiny diamonds and rumoured to be worth $10 million. The customer demanded hand delivery. No middleman. No security. Just Trump.
Despite protests from his team and the Secret Service, Trump was determined.
“I’ll be back in time,” he told his aides. “It’s just a quick trip. I know planes. Nobody knows planes like me. I’ll fly faster than anyone. And besides, what’s more presidential than making a deal and closing it in person?”
And so, one week before his own inauguration, Trump boarded Trump Force One, a private jet he insisted was “much better than Air Force One—believe me,” and took off for Dubai with the sneakers in a velvet case.
But things didn’t go as planned.
A freak sandstorm grounded flights. Trump’s jet had to land in Oman. Frustrated but undeterred, he commandeered a luxury SUV—”the best SUV, folks, the best”—and began a treacherous drive across the desert. His convoy, consisting of a few reluctant Secret Service agents and a cameraman (because, of course, this had to be documented), battled the elements.
Meanwhile, back in D.C., Vice President-elect Matt Gaetz was in a panic. “Sir,” he said in a crackly phone call, “the Chief Justice is asking if you’re still going to be sworn in.”
Trump scoffed. “Tell him to wait! This is the art of the deal, Matt. You wouldn’t understand.”
Days passed. Social media exploded. Hashtags like #SneakerGate and #WhereIsTrump trended worldwide. News outlets speculated on Gaetz taking the oath in Trump’s absence. Late-night hosts had a field day.
But just when it seemed the inauguration would proceed without him, a helicopter roared over the Capitol. Cameras pivoted skyward.
Descending from the clouds, Trump appeared, sneakers in hand, wearing a dusty suit and his signature red tie slightly askew.
He strode up to the podium, out of breath but triumphant.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said into the microphone. “But folks, I just closed the biggest sneaker deal in history. And that’s how you lead a country. By winning!”
The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and laughter. Gaetz sighed in relief. The Chief Justice raised an eyebrow but proceeded.
And so, Donald J. Trump was sworn in for his second term—dusty, disheveled, and holding a single sneaker aloft like a trophy.
America, once again, was in for an unpredictable ride.
