[INTERIOR SHOT: The floor of Cleveland's QUICKEN LOANS ARENA is packed and thrumming with activity. THE CANDIDATE is about to be introduced. The sense of anticipation is palpable, electric. The stage is empty and brightly lit.]
M. BUFFER: Lay-deeeeez and gentlemen, please welcome your nominee for President of the Yew-nited States, from New York City, standing six-feet-one and weighing in at two hundred and seventy-three pounds.
The Glower in the Tower, the Con King of Queens, the Son of Scam, the Bastard of Disaster who will eventually be enshrined in plaster. He likes his women rare and his steaks well-done. The Headmaster of Trump University, Donald Joooohhnn TRUMP!
[THE STAGE LIGHTS suddenly point toward STAGE RIGHT, where THE CANDIDATE emerges, walking to the podium, briskly but not hurriedly. He is in his element. The crowd rises to its feet all at once, applauding their new messiah. They are ALL IN, fully invested in this man.]
[THE CANDIDATE approaches the podium, looks left and nods benevolently, looks right and center and nods benevolently to each. He waves at some, points at others, making each person feel as if he is waving and pointing at them. He is ready to confer his grace upon these people. He soaks in the adulation, feels their love, feeds off their energy. THE CANDIDATE is in his moment.]
[THE CANDIDATE pulls a live chicken out of his suit jacket, holds it aloft, brings it down and bites its head off, all in one quick, smooth motion. He spits the head out of his mouth, and it flies just over the podium, rolls an extra few inches near the edge of the stage.]
[THE CANDIDATE looks out to the crowd, as they reach a fever pitch, and grins, blood running out over his chin and jowls, his teeth now coated with blood and a few feathers. This is his dream and theirs, and THE CANDIDATE pauses for maximum effect, ten seconds, twenty, thirty. Finally, he drops the chicken carcass and approaches the microphone, arms outstretched to the crowd.]
THE CANDIDATE: The Aristocrats!