In the end they coughed up the cash, American workers got the jobs to build it, and best of all, anyone who managed to get over it and through the no-go zone alive automatically got a green card.
Trump had agreed to split the advertising revenue from the weekly highlights show, which was edited from the live camera feeds all along the walls and the GoPros on border guards' rifles, with the Mexican government, which soon paid their building costs.
And the Americans loved it. It had created a whole new reality TV star genre, with some Mexicans successfully making the crossing nine or 10 times. What about that guy, what did he call himself? Juan More-Time, that was it. What a winner.
As the presenter, the President always handed over the green cards personally at the end of the show, signing off as the credits began to roll with his now famous line, "That's our wall. Pink Floyd eat your heart out."
Cash and jobs, wasn't that exactly what he had promised them? International sales of both shows were through the roof, and were singlehandedly funding his new healthcare for all programme. His personal ratings were off the scale, higher than at any time except the episode with Putin.
Good old Vlad, He hadn't wanted to do a deal, but Trump had found a way. That live summit on TV, another huge advertising earner, had been a masterstroke.
And when he'd grabbed Putin by the lapels and slammed him against the wall, demanding he accept America's position; the damned Russki pussy had blubbed like a five-year-old, like Trump had always known he would when faced with a really strong leader.
Well, the switchboard had gone nuts for weeks, twitter had imploded and even Tony Blair had called to ask his advice. Sure, he'd had to make a few concessions to calm Vlad down afterwards over drinks in the Green Room, but hey, that was behind closed doors, and most Americans didn't worry too much about details.
Hell, what did North Korea matter anyway? As long as it was in safer hands than before.
Syria had been the biggest challenge. Brokering a deal between seven or eight militant factions had been proved way too hard. But he'd found a way. Winners always did.
In the end he'd just built a whole bunch of luxury golf resorts across the country. He'd financed the deal through a little creative crowdfunding, imposing a compulsory 10 per cent levy on welfare payments and veterans' pensions. Boy, the returns those folks had made, they sure loved Donald J Trump now.
And all the terrorists were so busy making money fleecing golfing tourists, they just couldn't be bothered with terrorism any more.
Yup, foreign policy sorted. At the end of the day, everyone loved a deal, as long as there was something in it for them. That was the winning way, he knew.
All that remained was to choose his successor. He still hadn't made up his mind who to pick. Chelsea Clinton had shown some nice touches but could she prove a worthy successor? The President had his doubts. And let's face it, he thought, she didn't exactly galvanise social media with her earnest approach.
Maybe he should go with The Rock after all. He certainly packed a ratings punch. And when Duane, or DJ as Trump like to call him, had ousted Kevin W. Bush in the semifinal with some brilliant environmental solutions for fracked out states like Iowa and Wisconsin, social media had gone ballistic.
Aw hell, it didn't really matter, the soon-to-be ex-President thought. He'd solved all of America's problems anyway. World domination, and with it world peace.
Full employment too. Even Bernie Sanders had a real job finally.
Yup, those eight years had been good for Donald Trump, and in return he had been good for America.
Just like he'd said he would.
Jerry Flay is a freelance writer based in Hawkes Bay.
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