CHAPTER ONE: TRUMP x DUMP
Donald Trump, former 2016 presidential hopeful, had recently realized something about himself: he loved to sniff bathrooms, specifically what was left behind in them. He was so overcome with shame that he withdrew from the race and gave his company to a homeless he met Taco Bell. (Their bathrooms were the most delicious. Always so full of character.) He couldn't live with himself after his supermodel wife found out and accused him of being Trump the Rump Sniffah. He couldn't look anyone in the face only in the ass.
What beautiful smells they emitted. He took a deep breath. How... fresh.
Donald could barely keep himself from pouncing on the small toddler who'd clearly just loaded his jammer jams. Suddenly, the most overpowering of toots ran through his nostrils and tickled his rather prominent snotty golden locks. His nose hairs were picking out a mate. He couldn't help but take another breath. It sent him into a shit-smell frenzy. It was just so enticing, so erotic that he had no choice but to follow his dick to the source. His ex-wife had always been clean, that bitch. He wanted a dirty booty. A real dirty booty. So covered in filth that you wouldn't be able to tell which hole it came from. He nearly shot his load at the thought.
With his nose to the ground, he followed the scent, his orange glow spraytan he'd spent a whole five million dollars to get melting off his sweaty, pearly skin. He couldn't wait to cover it in brown with his new lover. Then, he ran his nose straight into squishy and spicy. He looked up to see a shit-stain. He was the most astonishing beautiful of turds. His hair flowed in the wind like Donald's old ("dyed") brown satin sheets. Such an eye-catching hue. The soft brown flowed in the wind like rabbit droppings in a tornado.
His eyes were lined with dark blue, and his jacket proudly proclaimed "Gas, Gas." Donald, after four wives, had finally found the one for him. It was a man, sure, but he was the one that produced a plethora of toxic gases. It tickled his fancy and his cock. With a raging erection, Donald approached the mysterious shitty specimen, proudly showing up his manhood.
"Are you a fart?" Donald asked, breathlessly. He was ready to get it on, but if his marriages had taught him anything, it was the importance of foreplay. Too excited to even give the man time to respond, he whispered in an anxious tone, desperately trying to be sexy, "Cause your shit blew me away."
The man looked confused for a second before turning his gaze to his own ass and gasped. "Oh deary man, I really did shat." Then, he looked up at Donald and fluttered his eyelashes, blushing a little under the heavy face makeup. The man in front of him was just as much as a human filth as he was. "Do you wanna help me clean it up? Help a brah out." Then, he winked provocatively at Donald.
"I don't screw unless I know whose name I need to scream."
"Well, professionally I'm Ceaser Clown, but you, big boy, can call me Fart." Donald was blown away, yet again. "Ya gotta name, messy boy?"
Donald could barely speak. The man - Fart, he reminded himself - was just as interested in him, and best of all, they seemed to have all the same kinks. He wondered if Fart would be okay with diapers. "D-D-Donald Trump."
A/N: I don't own One Piece although clearly, I have a better grasp for character development than Eiichiro Oda could ever hope to have. STAY TUNED FOR CHAPTER TWO.