Patrick Stump vs The Big Donald Trump

What Even is Patrick's Life Anymore

Bring.

Patrick shot out of his chair, awoken from mid-nap, and crumbled to the floor from the sudden movement. His legs were still half asleep. Wow. He completely forget how freaking loud his doorbell was. It hasn't been that long, really, but touring makes you forget how real life works. He crouched on the floor and caught his breath, before lifting up his head and pulling himself up from the dirty (he hasn't swept in what felt like years) ground.

He didn't remember ordering anything in the last few days. Hm... maybe he did? Maybe Pete ordered something and sent it to his house as a surprise. It wouldn't be the first time. (Like, once, Patrick woke up to find a sparkly pink—pink—box on his front porch. He opened it to find a box of bedazzled condoms, signed "with love" from his best friend, Pete. Never again.)

Now slightly more afraid to check the door, Patrick padded across his hardwood floor in sock-clad feet. The muffled thumps met in time with his heart. He pulled open his front door to reveal... a letter. Just a letter. Upon closer inspection, Patrick found it to be a rather... ornate letter. Hmm.

Patrick turned and shut the door, gripping the letter shakily in his hands. He collapsed back into his chair and pulled his blanket over his knees. His hair flopped over his eyes as he bent over and fished out the letter from under his thigh, which had fallen when he grabbed his soft blanket. Still-shaking hands slowly peeled open the wax seal, it popping just slightly, as if the letter was sealed with a vacuum. It had to be from someone rich; if not, who would send him something like this?

He didn't recognize the seal, but he believed that it was something—or someone—important. The question was: who was it?

Finally, he got the letter out of the envelope. He held it carefully, as if it might explode at any given moment. As a celebrity (a "celebrity", he believed. He definitely wasn't famous like Kanye West or something), he'd come to expect the worst in the mail.

Patrick peeled open the letter, and began to read.

My Dearest Patrick,

Pause, pause, pause. Patrick froze. What the heck? "My Dearest Patrick"?! Who would send that? Even more confused, he continued, scanning the page of flowing script. Almost feminine, it seemed.

I'm sure you've heard of my name. If not, I'm Donald J. Trump, one of the best men alive.

Patrick mimicked a gag. Trump? What the heck. Why was Trump sending him a letter, of all people? What did he want? Patrick really didn't want to get within 10 feet of the man, if he was being honest.

His mind filled with dread at the coming letter, but he decided to plow on. A gut-feeling was urging him to. Maybe it wasn't as creepy as he thought it would be. You never know. The Donald never ceased to surprise him. (Note to future him: It was so much worse than you think it could be.)

And, I want a private concert from you.

Crap.

I've always loved your voice.

Double-crap. With a side of what-the-holy-heck-is-going-on.

I'm willing to pay good money to see you. (How is a small amount of $1,000,000 sound?)

Wheeze. Patrick nearly fell out of his chair when he saw the number. $1,000,000! Maybe it would be worth it... Stop. Stop. It's Donald Trump. Stump, it's not worth it. What if he's a molester? But... $1,000,000...