"Five days in, and there haven't been any improvements?" Trump practically yelled to the Hispanic maid supposed to watch over the mansion in his absence.
"Lo siento, señor, pero-"
"No, Alvera!" That was the final straw. "You are in America so speak English! I leave you here with ten dictionaries and there is no progress." Flustered, Trump raised his lilac handkerchief to wipe sweat off his brow. Then he refocused his attention on the maid. "Oh sorry did you not understand? English! Do I need to spell it out for you?" He secretly hoped she didn't call his bluff—he does't know how to spell.
With saturated eyes, Alvera spat out various curses in Spanish directed towards Trump and his mother. She knew they wouldn't bring repercussions since early in her position working for Trump, she told him they were expressions of apology and good fortune. However, her words did nothing to affect Trump's callous demeanor.
So she spat in his face.
In retrospect, it may not have been the wisest choice ever made, but Alvera didn't care. She endured his racist remarks and false accusations for months, and it was time to make a move.
Trump wiped the saliva off his cheek, smudging his pumpkin-orange spray tan in the process. "Ugh! Leave! Or leavo! Whatever you people say." He pondered whether or not to have her locked in the family mausoleum for a couple weeks to reflect on her life choices.
But Alvera was already gone into the night, riding atop Ivanka's chestnut mare. Tonight she triumphed. It was a salivary victory, but a victory nonetheless.