Silver raindrops trickled down the black sedan's tinted windows, pooling at the bottom edge for a moment until the wind hastily whipped it away. Michelle peered into the gray darkness beyond the vehicle. Even though she could see into the future, she had no clue what would happen next.
"Honeybun," she suggested, "we're definitely far enough away from New York now. And Donald can't track us anymore."
Michelle ran her fingers along the back of Barack's neck, outlining where the tracker used to be. He winced at the touch.
But their sensual moment was cut short when the passenger-side window shattered into an array of twinkling shards. All four Obamas screamed in abject terror. Barack fainted, causing the four-door to skid off the road and slam into a firm oak tree. The still-conscious trio sat in the darkness petrified. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the ruined scene around them for half a second, just enough time for Michelle to see a vague silhouette against the sky.
It was Hip-Hop Hillary, ready to bust some femurs as well as some radical rhymes. Michelle recoiled in terror when Hillary began what she called rapping.
"B-B-B-Barack, Barack, we need you in Iraq,
Beating down ISIS as if you're their ebola virus,
Pulling a jihad like you preach the word of God,
So damn hypnotizing, those extremists keep on dying."
Michelle noticed that the dank beat took its toll on Hip-Hop Hillary because she was sweating like a sinner in church. Though exasperated, Hip-Hop Hillary swiftly pulled out a Horton Scout HD 125 Crossbow—yes, the exact same kind as Daryl Dixon.
Michelle whispered, "Not this time, Hill," before swinging her car door open, directly into Hip-Hop Hillary. The former democratic presidential candidate fell to the ground like a sturdy redwood.
The Obamas took her captive; she would be handy should they need to make a deal with the Donald. He did not know it, but a revolution would soon be on his hands.
