UNBELIEVABLE!!!! Democrats, including the disgusting and corrupt leftist New York Times Fake News Media Arm of the Democrat party, are up in arms about some peaceful words spoken by President Trump, and at the same time openly call for violence against conservatives and the assassination of the President of the United States.
The New York Times should be ashamed for publishing such a disgusting Trump assassination fantasy article at a time when the Fake News lies have already stoked leftist to violence, and we are having fake pipe bombs used as political props to create division.
Fucking douchebags must be retarded! I mean, seriously! How fucking stupid do you have to be to think that publishing an assassination Fantasy would EVER be OK – especially now that the Democrats have begun to get violent with the people they disagree with?
The New York Times would probably throw a leftist block-party if President Trump actually was assassinated, and I have a feeling that if the New York Times could help plan the murder of the President or Republicans, they would probably jump at the offer.
What a bunch of complete Fake News dumbfucks!
The fantasy involves a Russian hitman dispatched to D.C. to assassinate Trump who is holed up in the Trump Hotel as his administration crumbles under multiple indictments and faces certain impeachment. The motive for the Russians to take out Trump? “When it comes out that he was handpicked at the highest possible level, our great nation will be the laughingstock of the world. He must be silenced.”
The fantasy sets a scenario where the Russian checks into the Trump Hotel and the next morning is positioned with a firearm in the lobby in line of sight of Trump as he walks past.
The fantasy has a kicker where a Secret Service agent helps the Russian assassinate President Trump.
At 7 a.m., he showered. The bar of soap had the hotel name stamped into both sides. He made sure to wash his ass with it. Then he shaved and ate a last room-service breakfast. He dressed in the porter’s uniform that had been obtained for him, tucking the Makarov into the back of his waistband.
When it was time, he went downstairs, took his place in the lobby before the entourage appeared. The hotel staff had been lined up to see their boss, the president, go by. A few of them applauded. Most did not.
The president didn’t seem to notice. He waved, in his desultory fashion. The Secret Service agents clustered around him, ushered him toward the armored limo idling outside at the curb.
The Russian waited until they were a few steps past before he drew the gun. He sighted on the center of the president’s back, and squeezed the trigger.
The Makarov misfired.
The Secret Service agent at the president’s shoulder heard the click, spun into a crouch. He registered the scene instantly, drawing his own weapon with razor-edge reflexes.
The Russian tasted failure. He closed his eyes and waited to pay the cost.
It did not come.
He opened his eyes. The Secret Service agent stood before him, presenting his Glock, butt first.
“Here,” the agent said politely. “Use mine. …”
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