Trump is fatter than he looks on television, and more disheveled.

He’s teetotal, but you wouldn’t know it. Yellow skin, big pores. He trails some awful French scent behind him—leather, lavender, orange peel, all that crap. He sweats.

He sank into our sofa like one of those TV accident lawyers, or a corrupt ombudsman.

“Dick,” he said.

I told him my friends call me “Mr. President.”

His people called after the Chris Matthews interview on Wednesday, asking if we’d go see him on Fifth Avenue. I said kiss my ass. I don’t go to Fifth Avenue for Kissinger, and I sure as hell won’t go for Trump.

VIDEO: Full exchange of @realdonaldtrump's abortion punishment comments on @MSNBChttps://t.co/03qXFmpdvm

— Mashable News (@MashableNews) March 30, 2016

So he came out to New Jersey late Friday night. A decoy car, no cameras, all that cloak-and-dagger business. As much for our protection as his. Still, Ziegler was against it, as was Mrs. Nixon. They think if you lie down with dogs you get fleas.

But as you know, I have some experience at winning things in the press. And no dumb piece of paper, “non-disclosure agreement,” or shitty-ass landlord will stop me.

“Matthews,” he said. “For years, dozens of people have told me he is really, really not an honest person. I don’t know. They tell me this, now I see it for myself. He comes at me like a sick, starving dog, and for what? Because he can’t get right with God? It’s sad.”

I agree.

“So what I’m looking for, Dick—Mr. President. I beg your pardon. I’m a New Yorker, we don’t stand on ceremony. Look: you and I are both negotiators.”

That’s true.

“I’m rich. I’m very, very, very rich. I didn’t get that way by taking bad advice. You want good meatloaf, go to Jean Georges. You want home runs, talk to Reggie Jackson. I’m sitting here now, in your amazing home, because you, sir, can make a deal.”

You want me to save you from this abortion mess.

“No. No. No. No. Matthews is not going to do that again. Believe me. Believe me. Still, it created an impression that Donald Trump is against women.”

I poured Pepsi into a glass. I sipped it and looked at him for a good 10 seconds.

“You let Chris Matthews, who is to politics what the glee club is to high school, bamboozle you on national television—"

“No. No. Look. Dick. Can we be honest with each other?”

“Sure. That’s what men do. And you let Matthews, through some kind of bizarre Platonic inquiry, hoodwink you into saying women should be punished for abortions. My God, you looked like the Three-card Monte mark who lost his shirt on the Red Queen.”

"I beg your pardon? What is that? Who uses that kind of language? If you'd let me talk for a minute, please—“

“You wanted to get to Cruz’s right. Some of them do want to punish women, after all. Falwell is with you. Hell, why not bring in more? But you were so busy trying to screw Michelle Fields—metaphorically, for once—that you didn’t look past your shoelaces.”

Trump on Michelle Fields incident: "I don't know who created those bruises" pic.twitter.com/P8l5rtNf2c

— Mashable News (@MashableNews) March 31, 2016

Trump stared at me like I sized up his wife’s legs.

“The worst thing you can do in politics is surround yourself with people who say nothing but ‘yes,’” I said. “I know a thing or two about that.”

Trump leaned over and jabbed a finger at my chest.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Only one of us has ever in his life gone out a loser. One of us has hung his head in public like a rat. And we know it’s not Donald Trump.”

I drank more Pepsi. It was very cold. Very satisfying.

“

No one but your son and that thug Lewandowski is loyal to you

Trump stood up like a fellow in a bar who’s about to attempt a left hook and miss.

“Look, pal. I own many, many golf courses. I am friends with every restaurant manager in the City of New York. They love me. I keep them running. I will make it so you don’t dare show your face in public again—“

“I hate golf. I only played it because Ike did. And I’m a hell of a lot older than you. I’ve spent more at ‘21’ than you did on your first two wives. I can take it.”

Trump bit his lip and turned to march out. He may have muttered “Give my best to Plastic Pat,” but the tape is unclear.

“I’ll give you one thing for free,” I said.

That stopped him.

“Stay the hell off abortion. A Republican has to be against it, but stay off it. Look at Bush Senior. His only move against abortion was Clarence Thomas, and he was bullied into it. Or look at us. Sure, we hung abortion around McGovern’s neck. But did we do a single goddamn thing to get in the way? No. Because you need women. It’s their own business, and more of them will always be on the abortion side.”

Trump started with the usual bluster. “It could be that I misspoke.”

“Bull. It doesn’t matter now, of course. What I just said, my God, it’s not rocket science. The first rule of negotiation is to preserve flexibility. Always anticipate the unique exception. How dumb are you?”

He was sputtering now. "Oh, oh, oh. Here we go. This from a guy who accepts mediocrity. Who takes care of the lazy! If I give an order to blow a safe, my people will blow it so fast your head will spin. Or they're fired. What did you do? Who did you fire, Dick?"

Yes, yes, yes. You're pro-life but you hate Trump. Fine. He wasn't talking to you. That's my point.

— Richard M. Nixon (@dick_nixon) March 30, 2016

The Pepsi was finished now. As Trump spoke I went to the record player. Victory at Sea seemed a good choice.

I dropped the needle into the groove.

“You could run tape of Mrs. Clinton shooting Vince Foster in the head, and she’d respond with you wanting to lock up Mrs. O’Malley who has too many mouths to feed," I told him. "And she’d win.”

“It’s won't get that far,” Trump said. “Believe me. Believe me.”

“But that’s what you thought all along, isn’t it? The whole campaign. It wouldn't get so far.”

The music swelled. I thought of Iwo Jima.

“And now it’s difficult. Cruz is picking off your delegates, and is about to win Wisconsin on Tuesday. Kasich won’t die. So you’re trying to set the house on fire and blame somebody else.”

Here Trump took a breath. He blinked and twisted his lip like he was having a stroke, then held his thumb and forefinger like a pistol. He shook them at me.

“I think many, many bad things are going to happen to you in the future,” Trump said. “It’s very sad. At your age. Very sad. But you’re going to have to pay a price.”

Then he left the house.

It’s all on tape, like I said. I guess the son of a bitch didn’t expect it. In any case, I’m not worried. I knew McCarthy and Roy Cohn. Lee Harvey Oswald wanted to kill me.

I've got the record playing. I'm still here.

Richard Nixon never left us. With the help of playwright Justin Sherin, he continues to speak his mind as @dick_nixon on Twitter.