This is a hard fictional story to write as it makes my heart, mind and soul hurt deeply watch President Donald Trump fail to daily take responsibility for his slow and poor response to the #coronavirus. His daily “briefings” have become a near total scam of free campaign media where he lies and send s his followers to their early deaths. Still, an angry media desperately tries to wake up him and followers up before Trump sends us all back to square one by encouraging insane end the stay at home protests. Stupidity on scale never seen before.
Topping this Trump has halted funding the World Health Organization in the middle of this pandemic to, IMHO and many others, deflect blame from his YUGE ego. This is terribly dangerous and stupid all at once. In other words, the Trump brand of leadership.
But the show must go on. Let’s catch you up.
In chapter one we meet Trump’s fictional personal attendant Robert, a handsome young black man who gets along well surprisingly with Trump. Robert runs off for help when he realizes Trump may be coming down with a case of the coronavirus. Trump immediately passes out when Robert leaves. Trump begins to fever dream and is whisked two years into the future on the wings of a giant cosmic butterfly.
In chapter two Trump is dumped by the great butterfly into the White House Rose Garden. Two years have passed and Trump is furious to learn from Robert that the USA is now under the leadership of President Andrew Cuomo and that the White House has become a hospital for VIPS.
And now, without further ado I painfully present…
CHAPTER 3 – HATE IS A VIRUS
Robert gazes over his surgical mask at the full moon hanging over the White Hospital, formerly the White House. His deep brown eyes, which were all smiles a few minutes ago chatting with his mysteriously returned boss, are now filled with contempt.
In the distance, Trump tires to bully his way past a short, overweight and disbelieving Hispanic security guard.
“I tell you I am President Trump!”
“Hola. And I am Barrack Obama.”
“You’re almost the right color,” says Trump bitterly.
“Got any ID, smartass?” says the security guard dryly.
“Because, I ah, I got here buck naked on the back of this, uh, yuge time traveling butterfly?” says Trump, absentmindedly kicking a cigarette with his inflamed barefoot.
“Look, whatever kinda butterfly you rode in on, Covid-Kid! With no ID I don’t let you in. This here is a hospital. We got sick dying VIPs here aplenty and without no ID you ain’t no one.”
“Rudi Guliani in there?” says Trump trying to muscle past the smaller guard.
“Top secret!” says the security guard shoving Trump so hard that the would be king stumbles backward.
“Nasty! You’ll be sorry you laid hands on me!” says Trump dusting himself off from imaginary fleas.
“Right. So sorry, President Trump. Now hop back on your butterfly and buzz the fuck off!”
Fifty yards of social distancing away from arguing the Trump and the stone faced security guard, Robert pulls down his surgical mask to light up a cigarette. Cigarette smoke glides in the moonlight and takes the shape of an old woman’s face for just an instant.
“Grandma…,” whispers Robert to himself.
Robert closes his deep brown eyes and looks deep into his recent past with his inner eye. He is back in his family’s rundown DC apartment, He gazes sadly down upon his dying grandmother Annie, a beautiful light skinned African American, well into in her seventies.
“Breathe deep Grandma. Relax. I got you. Please breathe,” says Robert patting Annie on her back.
“How’d I get this damn virus walled off from the world?” says Annie going into a coughing fit.
“I think the devil himself musta gave it to me. Then I gave it to you.”
“Not your fault Trump infected you, Bobby.”
“I had a test. Musta been a false negative. Trump never did standardize tests fore he vanished.”
“If we’re lucky, maybe all that hate he had for our people turned his fat ass to dust,” laugh coughs Annie.
“That’s it. I’m taking you to the ER, Grandma.”
“No! I don’t wanna die in one of them zoos — cough — they call a hospital. I’ll die right here in our family home just like your father and big brother,” says Grandma in spurts. “Now, Bobby. You’re gonna be all alone. So can you promise me one thing?”
“You mighta caught Trump’s covid but don’t catch his hate.”
“Aw, don’t ask me that, Grandma… cause I think it’s too late.
“Hate’s a virus you know,” says Grandma Annie patting Robert’s hand.
“I know, Grandma. I know all too damn well. But after losing Dad and –”
Grandma Annie stops breathing and goes into a violent seizure. Her tender eyes go still.
Robert’s teary vision returns to the present. He grimly watches Trump idiotically arguing with the stubborn security guard.
Trump rages,”Look you Mexcian pinjata brain, just let me take off my mask you’ll see who the hell I am!”
“Pull down that mask, I shoot dead you on the spot,” says the security guard pulling his gun.
This only infuriates Trump more and he bellows,” A gun?! You pull a gun on the President of the United States! I’ll have your peon job! What’s your fucking name, Jose?”
“Now, you sound just like the Trump! It is you, you racist pandejo!” Jose pulls back the trigger hammer on his gun, murder in his eyes.
Robert jumps between the angry men, “Carlos, Carlos. take it easy, bro.”
“Stay out of this, Roberto!” says Carlos the security guard.
Robert amps up his charm and points to the masked Trump, “Jerry here’s just my covid crazy patient. He ain’t no Trump.”
Trump keeps his big mouth shut for the first time in his life.
“He sure as fuck sounds like the US Hilter!”
“Nah. I took old Jerry here for a walk in the Rose Garden. Idiot fell into the rose bushes. Gotta get some meds on his scratches. My fault he don’t have his ID. Can you let it slide, amigo? Let me put his fat ass back to bed?”
Trump almost breaks his silence but being held at gunpoint he instead bites his tongue. Literally bites his tongue. Robert sees as a spot of blood appears on Trump’s mask.
“Well? What you got to say for yourself, Jerry?” growls the Carlos the security guard.
“I, um, apologize,” says Trump in defeat, making the first apology of his long spoiled life.
“That’s more like it, pandejo.” Carlos says as he begrudgingly holsters his weapon and angrily stands aside.
Robert pats Carlos on the shoulder and says brightly, “Thanks, man. You’re the –”
“Shut the fuck up, Robert. Get me to my presidential bedroom!” demands Trump.
Robert makes a cookoo sign behind Trump’s back to Carlos and follows the fuming Trump.
Trump rips off his mask as he storms up the paneled hallways that uis lined with hospital beds. All are filled with the sick and dying VIPS from religion, business and politics. Some are on on ventilators, some dying for lack thereof.
Trump breezes arrogantly past it all, muttering, “All a bad dream. Can’t wait to get back to my bed and –” Trump spots sick Fox News star Sean Hannity waving him over to his hospital bed and shouts joyfully, “Sean!”
“In the flesh. What’s left of –” Sean answers with a racking cough that cuts his punchline short. Robert silently looks on, trying to manage the rage boiling up in his eyes.
“Easy, Sean. Wow, you still rate to end up in my White House,” says Trump brightly. “Hate what that prick Cuomo’s done to my place. Finally had it back in shape after that Kenyan Obama and his brats ran it into the — ”
“Wouldn’t get down on Cuomo or Obama if I were you, Donnie. The libtards are running the show. So where you been for the last two years, pal?” advises Sean.
“Nowhere,” says Trump vacantly.
“All this is just bad batch of Mickey D’s I had before bed. Not real,” says Trump brightly.
“Oh, buddy boy, it’s all to fucking real. Lucky thing you weren’t around the past two years to see the liberals destroy all you and I did together,” says Sean, a tear rolling down his sallow cheek.
“Twelve million US citizens dead and counting do mess with one’s popularity, ” sadly says Robert.
“Well, been nice, uh, catching up, Sean. Um, see you when I wake up,” says Trump shaking Sean’s trembling hand.
Sean jerks Trump’s hand to his lips, kisses it and says, “Stay, Don. This is curtains for me. Not enough ventilators. Too much of the world’s factory workers got too sick too make –” Sean goes into racking dry cough, his familiar Fox face going beat red.
Trump pulls his hand free like Sean’s kiss was a ticket to a ventilator.
“Let’s go, Robert. My bedroom. Now.” says Trump ditching his pal Sean coughing.
“Still love you, man!” coughs Sean as Trump vanishes around a corner.
Trump shimmies through a tight spot in the hallway past familiar shocked faces of religious politicians and business leaders of both parties.
Trump spots his reflection in mirror and Trump in the mirror says, “Feeling anything in that black heart of yours yet?” Trump staggers on not answering his conscience in the mirror up the ruined White House staircase.
More sick VIPS in hospital beds fills the former meeting area between the White House presidential quarters bedrooms. The noise of all the ventilators is deafening.
“You ain’t gonna like the changes Cuomo made to your bedroom, sir,” warns Robert as Trump throws opens the door.
Trump’s jaw drops at the sight of six patients jammed into his old presidential layer. Trump races to a hospital bed right cradling a frail old woman, exactly where his California King used to reside and orders Robert, “Get all these sick losers out of my bedroom. I want my bedroom back exactly as it was now!”
The wasted old woman in the hospital bed slowly blinks opens her eyes. Her sagging face is filled with confusion that quickly gives way to wide eyed rage. “YOU!” rages Hillary Clinton, the old woman, as she dives onto Trump. With a super human strength Hillary tackles Trump as she digs her bony hands into his windpipe.
“Robert, help!” chokes Trump.
Robert calmly sits down in a tattered armchair and says with a wicked grin, “Where’s some damn popcorn when you want some?”
“Bastard nigger. After all I did for –” says Trump in fits of coughs as Hillary maintains a death grip. Hilary cackles. Her superhuman strength allows her to easily continue ringing the last breath from Trump as she screams,”This is for twelve million of Americans you killed with your stupidity and arrogance!”
Robert lights up, ignoring the murder of one Donald J. Trump and says sadly to the smoke cloud he puffs, “Sorry, Grandma Annie. Trump’s hate virus done got me.”
Trump’s vision of his crazed executioner, Hilary, fades to the darkness of death.
END CHAPTER 3