And like any good journalist, I wrote a fanfiction to tell the story
It was a cold, lonely night for the defeated Steve Bannon. He had just been fired from his position as a national security advisor to Donald Trump. He was so lost that the only thing he could do was cry. Well, cry and call his secret lover. He pulled out his phone and dialed the top contact.
“Kushie, pick up your phone … Kushie … PLEASE!” Bannon mumbled through the tears. He listened as the phone rang three times. Three ever-so-long and lonely times.
“Hello?” A voice said, interrupting the fourth ring. The voice wasn’t whom Bannon wanted, however. It was a feminine voice.
“ … Ivanka?” Bannon whispered in disgust, blowing his nose even louder into a child’s stolen blankey he had snatched moments prior.
“Steve …?” Ivanka replied sounding concerned. “Steve, I know what happened with my Dad … I just want you to—”
“I WANT JARED!” Bannon cried, his tone similar to the time his mother took away his own blankey. (And no, stealing the blankey he had now was not a way of coping. He was over that.) His tone destroyed the eardrum of the president’s daughter.
“Okay, okay, honey, it’s Steve, he wants you … again,” Ivanka replied, her voice fading away from the phone. Seconds passed before another voice started talking.
“Hey Steve,” Kushner began, his voice similar to the whispers of teenage lovers on the phone late at night. You know, when they’re supposed to be doing their homework. Their love was, in a word, rebellious.
“What did you call me?” Bannon replied, upset.
“Hey …” Kushner suddenly grew quieter, as if to not let his wife hear. “ … Banny.”
“I need you right now, where are you?!” Bannon asked, demanding an answer while flipping off peaceful protesters outside his window. It had been days since they last talked. DAYS.
“I was eating with Ivanka; I’ll be over soon,” Kushner replied, grabbing his things, and heading out the door without a word for Ivanka.
“Let’s not say her name again. It reminds me that you aren’t mine,” Bannon said, smiling as he heard movement through the phone. He was happy because Kushner was coming home, to him. Not Ivanka. Now they could finally begin discussing the next phrase of their path to world domination.
“You know you’re mine, even if Donald says you can’t be. You don’t work for him anymore, what him or Pence think no longer matters,” Kushner said, pulling out of the driveway to head to Bannon’s house. “And you know I’m yours. I’m yours alone.”
“Good!” Bannon replied, beaming with delight, delighted that he had stolen the heart of Jared from his witch of a wife Ivanka. “Let me know when you’re here!”
“Sounds good. See you soon, babe,” Kushner replied, hanging up while speeding down the highway, the only barrier blocking their formerly forbidden love.
Kushner arrived promptly to the Bannon residence, where Bannon stood outside on the lawn, contemplating how to take over the world with his lover, who now ran into his arms. Before either could think, their lips were interlocked in a passionate, yet completely conservative, exchange. The elated Bannon released from the embrace, but only to proclaim his excitement for their now obstacle-less love: