It’s clear what happened here. Donald Trump’s linguistically challenged rival, Boe Jiden, was edging ahead in the polls and he desperately needed a boost. Preferably one that came with great photos. The best photos.

So he gets a trusted flunky to flip through the Republican Party’s membership files, cross-referenced with those of the National Rifle Association, and find someone young, stupid and unemployed enough to play the part of a sniper. Then, he sends the flunky down to Walmart to pick up a loaf of bread, half a dozen eggs and an AR-15. Also, a box of 7.62mm blanks. Blanks underlined five times in red on the shopping list.

On his way home, the flunky stops at a prop shop and buys a couple of those exploding capsules filled with fake blood actors use when they need to show they’ve been shot. Can you see where this is going?

Next, bribe a couple of Secret Service agents with offers of free MAGA caps and T-shirts to not put someone on the roof of the only building in the area with a clear line of sight to the podium.

Meanwhile, the “shooter”, a 20-year-old kid by the name of Thomas Crooks, has been given the AR-15 and a handful of Xanax to calm his nerves. He knows what to do. Go around the back. Climb the ladder. Crawl along the roof. Wait for Trump to say the words, “Take a look at what happened…” and pull the trigger. Don’t believe me? Check the video. On the word “happened”, Trump clutches his right ear as if he’s been stung by a bee and sinks to his knees, a position that comes easily to him.

Just before the rally, someone reported Thomas to the local cops for “behaving suspiciously”. Was he wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt? Freshly shaven? Able to speak in complete sentences? We may never know. Either way, the officers let it slide.

Thomas has been briefed about what will happen. After he has “shot” Trump, the agents who have been promised freebies will “shoot” him with blanks and he will then “die” in a non-theatrical fashion.

Other agents, who haven’t been offered free MAGA merchandise, think this is the real deal and rush in to protect their charge. They have been trained to take a bullet for him so they’re already feeling like idiots. They overcompensate. If you listen carefully on the video, you can hear an agent say, “Ease up! He’s not George f***ing Floyd!”

Once Trump is certain all the cameras are in position, he struggles to his feet. The agents try to keep him down, in line with their training, but he’s a big guy and surprisingly strong for a very old man. He smears some of the fake blood from his ear across his cheek as a hunter does after his first kill, and says something about his shoes. It sounds like he’s asking if anyone wants to buy them.

Then he stands tall, waggles his paw like one of those gilt cats you find near the till at Chinese restaurants, and shouts something. Even the worst lip-reader can see it starts with an F. But it’s too loud to hear. Is he asking for fries? Women in the crowd are borderline hysterical. If I could make a woman scream like that just by nicking the top of my ear, I’d do it every day. Amid the mayhem, the agents are shouting. “Get him up!” “Move him to the car!” “Where’s my free cap?” Absolute chaos.

Then it happens. The money shot. The one that could take him all the way back to the White House. Agents clutching him, blood on his face, fist raised, and the Stars and Stripes, the glorious flag, standing proud against a clear blue sky. Oh, say can you see, by the porn star’s early light…

He doesn’t want to go. Never leave when the crowd wants more, even when they’re deeply traumatised. He struggles with the agents but they wrestle him to the van. He’s not done yet. He steps onto the running board and turns to strike a final heroic pose but gets pulled down.

Inside the car, Trump is a worried man. The tiny explosive charge in the capsule has done more damage than he expected. He takes out his pocket mirror and inspects his ear, cursing and brushing away a tear. He demands to be taken to a cosmetic surgeon but then has a second thought. The only one he’s ever had.

It’s more effective to keep the ear as it is. A badge of honour. Finally, a war wound. So much better than bone spurs. Not terribly impressive, though. Not exactly like losing a leg after stepping on a landmine. He picks at it to make it worse but cries out in pain, causing an agent to pat him on the leg. Trump asks him not to stop. It’s been a while since anyone touched his leg and it feels good. The agent asks for two caps and three T-shirts and keeps going even though he knows a promise from his boss is worth less than the South African rand.

As it turned out, Thomas was not shot with blanks. A loose end like that needs to be firmly tied up. Oh, well. It’s not like he had much of a future anyway. Certainly not in the military. Might have been a mistake to choose a registered member of the Republican Party, but nobody really cares.

A game of golf the next day, clinch the Republican Party nomination on Monday and by Wednesday everyone’s forgotten there was even an “assassination” attempt at all.