Buffy Meets The Donald

In honor of the 20th anniversary of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the NYTimes has an article about Buffy fanfic. Here's a passage from one of the pieces they feature, "Buffy vs, Donald" by Terri Meeker (aka Piddinhead):

She’d thought the tower had been garish so far, but this enormous room made her redefine the word. The walls were covered in the same gold finish, but more portraits of Drumpf were packed onto every square inch. These were even larger than the ones along the staircase—some ten feet high. Oversized chandeliers crowded the high ceiling, so many that it looked like a lighting fixture store. Perched near gold-tinted sofas and chairs were gold-encrusted tables laden with gigantic candelabras and huge crystal figures.

Dominating the entire room, in dead center, was a statue of Donald Drumpf himself. It was thirty feet high and made of gold, naturally. The statue was illuminated by spotlights and dozens of American flags encircled it.

“Scrooge McDuck called,” Buffy mumbled. “He thinks you should dial it back a notch.”

“Hello there.” A male voice spoke through the maze of gold and crystal. “Did you get lost, little lady?”

Buffy strode toward the sound. “Not lost. I came for you, Mr. Mayor.”

She rounded a seven-foot vase and saw him. Donald Drumpf, seated behind an enormous desk. In person he was smaller than she expected. He wore a simple black suit, American flag tie and his orange hair was styled in his trademark comb-over. Behind him was a row of television monitors, some tuned to different TV stations, others monitoring his tower.

Donald smiled and stood, then made his way around the desk. “I’ve been watching your approach.”

Buffy crossed her arms. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”

He sniffed. “You’re attracted to me. You can’t help it. All women are.”

“That’s not it. I’m here to kick your—”

“My tower is very, very amazing,” Donald said, completely talking over her. “But I’m sure you noticed that coming in. Everybody says so, believe me. Thousands of people. Millions of people.” He reached into his trouser pocket and fiddled with something. She couldn’t help but notice that he had freakishly small hands. They were the size of quarters, but orange, with inch-worms for fingers.

“Not here about the décor,” Buffy said. “Though you really should give out shades to visitors because all this—”

“And my statue?” Donald interrupted again. “You couldn’t miss my statue. It’s very, very phenomenal.”

“Yeah, uh …” Buffy cut in. “But I’m here about—”