This is a hard fictional story to write. Frankly, it makes my heart, mind and soul hurt deeply to watch President Donald Trump fail to daily take responsibility for his slow and poor response to the #coronavirus. His “briefings” have become a near total scam of free campaign media where he lies and sends his followers to their early Covid deaths.
Topping this Trump’s halted funding the World Health Organization in the middle of this pandemic to, IMHO and many others, deflect blame from his YUGE ego.
And now, without further ado I present…
CHAPTER 3 – HATE IS A VIRUS
Meanwhile… one timeline away.
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 his true feelings of contempt for Trump.
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.
“Why not?” says the security guard.
“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.
Trump flashes back.
“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 with 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 backwards.
“Nasty! You’ll be sorry you laid hands on me!” says Trump dusting himself off from imaginary fleas.
“Right. So sorry, Mister President. 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 fresh stogie. Smoke glides in the moonlight and takes the shape of an old woman’s face.
“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 at 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.” says Robert bitterly.
“Maybe all that hate he had for our people turned his fat ass to dust,” 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 did,” 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,” croaks Robert.
“Hate’s a virus, love.”
“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 and 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 at the masked Trump, “This guy 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!” says the guard.
“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. Huh?”
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 appearing 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. He storms up the paneled hallway, lined with hospital beds filled with the sick and dying VIPS from religion, business and politics. We see many familiar faces. Bill gates one of them. Some are on on ventilators, some are 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 here in my White House,” says Trump brightly. “Hate what that prick Schwarzenegger’s done to my place. Finally had it back in shape after that Kenyan and his little brats ran it into the — “
“Wouldn’t get down on Schwarzenegger or Obama if I were you, Donnie. The libtards are, they’re running the show now. Armold’s a traitor to the GOP. 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. None of this is 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.
“Three million US citizens dead and counting does mess with one’s popularity, ” sadly says Robert.
“Well, been nice, uh, catching up with you, 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, “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 snatches his hand free of Sean’s kiss like it might carry Covid and says, “Let’s go, Robert. My bedroom. Now!”
“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 and staggers up the ruined White House staircase.
More sick VIPS in hospital beds fill the former meeting area between the White House presidential quarter’s bedrooms. The noise of all the ventilators is macabre.
“You ain’t gonna like the changes Schwarzenegger 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 the 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 , filled with confusion, 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 nothing.
“Bastard black. After all I did for you –” 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 three million of Americans you killed with your stupidity and your 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
As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers or for that matter the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.
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Click TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM in the menu bar top of the page to read all the chapters. More chapters coming. Thanks.
Here’s a little bonus visualization for those you out there that do quantum intentional meditation.
Yeah, these are terrifying time. Accept that. Be with it. You’re here for reason. Let stress roll of you like water off a duck’s back. You’re the earth and politics just the clouds in the sky. That’s all it is.
You’ll be here long after all that’s going on is gone.
One of my goals is creating these stories is to help you realize things could be worse… one timeline away.
Coming fever dreams…