SCENE: The Oval Office. Seated at the Resolute Desk is still-president DONALD J. TRUMP. Legal Advisor and hair-dye spokesperson Rudy Giuliani is maintaining a cadaverous presence behind the president's chair as GEORGE BAILEY, of Bedford Falls, is ushered in by a White House attendant. BAILEY is one of New York State's 29 electors, scheduled to vote on December 14 in the 2020 presidential election. The president gestures to BAILEY to sit down, and offers him a cigar.
BAILEY: Thank you, sir. Quite a cigar, Mr. President.
TRUMP: You like it? I'll send you a box.
BAILEY: Well, I, uh, I suppose I'll find out sooner or later, but just what exactly did you want to see me about?
TRUMP: Now that's just what I like so much about you people. George, I'm an old man, and most people hate me. But I don't like them, either, so that makes it all even. You know, just as well as I do, that I run practically everything in this country but the election. You know, also, that for a number of years I've been trying to get control of it or kill it. But I haven't been able to do it. The Dems have been stopping me. In fact, they have beaten me, George, and, as anyone in this country will tell you, that takes some doing.
BAILEY: Yeah. Well, most people say you tried to steal the election.
TRUMP: The envious ones say that, George, the suckers. Now, I have stated my side very frankly. Let's look at your side. Young man, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, married, making say...forty thousand...
TRUMP: ...forty-five. Forty-five. Now, if this man was a common, ordinary yokel, I'd say he was doing fine. But, George Bailey is not a common, ordinary yokel. He's an intelligent, smart, ambitious young man. A young man who's been dying to get out of Bedford Falls ever since he was born. A young man...the smartest one of the crowd, mind you, a young man who has to sit by and watch his friends go places, because he's trapped. Yes, sir, trapped into frittering his life away playing nursemaid to a lot of politically correct snowflakes. Do I paint a correct picture, or do I exaggerate?
BAILEY: What's your point, Mr. President?
TRUMP: My point? My point is I want to hire you.
BAILEY: Hire me?
TRUMP: I want you to manage my property at Mar-a-Lago. George, I'll start you out at two hundred thousand dollars a year.
BAILEY: Two hundred thous...Two hundred thousand a year? (BAILEY drops the cigar on his lap and frantically retrieves it, brushing ashes off his lap.)
TRUMP: You wouldn't mind living in Florida, buying your wife a lot of fine clothes, a couple of business trips to New York a year, maybe once in a while Europe. You wouldn't mind that, would you, George?
BAILEY: Would I? Y-you're not talking to somebody else around here, are you? You know, th-this is me, you remember me? Democratic George Bailey?
TRUMP: Oh yes, George Bailey. Whose ship has just come in, provided he has enough brains to vote the right way next month.
BAILEY: Holy mackerel. (Pauses.) Well, how about the popular vote?
TRUMP: Oh, confound it, man! Are you afraid of success? I'm offering you a three-year contract at two hundred thousand dollars a year, starting today. Is it a deal, or isn't it?
BAILEY: (Standing up.) Well, Mr. President, I...I...I know I ought to jump at the chance, but I...I just, uh, I-I wonder if it would be possible for you to give me twenty-four hours to think it over?
TRUMP: Sure, sure, sure. You go on home and talk about it with your wife.
BAILEY: I'd like to do that.
TRUMP: Yeah. In the meantime, I'll draw up the papers.
BAILEY: All right, sir.
TRUMP: Okay, George.
BAILEY: Okay, Mr. President. (BAILEY shakes TRUMP's hand, but then pulls back, wiping his hand on his jacket.) No, no, no, no. Wait a minute here. Wait a minute. I don't need twenty-four hours. I, I don't need to talk to anybody. I know right now, and the answer is no! No! Doggone it! You sit around here and spin your little webs and you think the whole world revolves around you and your money. Well, it doesn't, Mr. President. In the...in the whole vast configuration of things, I'd say you were nothing but a scurvy little spider. (Indicating Giuliani.) And that goes for you, too!
(BAILEY exits the Oval Office, slamming the door on the way out, and we fade to black.)