Welcome to my Covid writing therapy project. Hope you’ve read chapter 1-5.
It’s weird, – and what isn’t these Covid days ? – but have you ever noticed how many things written as fiction actually come to pass? For example the 2000 Motorola flip phone was first imagined by Gene Rodenberry for the 1966 premiere of STAR TREK.
Since April I’ve been developing TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM and, sure enough, some parts of the story are really coming to pass. Ultimately, will Trump eventually contract Covid-19 as in the premise of this strange tale, one that would be a comedy were the real life tragedy of Trump mismanagement not so sad?
Not that I’d ever wish such an ill event on our wannbe king, but we can dream can’t we that his catching the virus, not likely as he has the testing we all dream of, might awaken his long lost conscience? Indeed, anything is possible in a world where Trump fans, gathered in the middle of a pandemic, cheer a drink of water.
CHAPTER 6 – Mt. Rushmore and the Bunker Rebels
Dr. Faucci makes a deep incision in Trump’s throat in the exact spot where Trump was shot in the throat by his conscience in his wild west fever dream. Blood trickles, crossing the orange tan line where Trump’s bloated chest meets his saggy neck.
Faucci says, “OK, I’ve successfully made the incision to avoid the President’s damaged throat tissue from his drinking bleach. Now you make the insertion of the ventilator tube, Dr. Edwards.” Dr. Edwards takes over the operation,
Ivanka, sporting the latest Paris fashion Covid mask, rises to her feet along with the mask wearing Jared when Dr. Faucci exits the surgery room. She asks nervously, “Doctor, is my Daddy going to pull through?”
Dr. Faucci sighs deeply and wipes sweat from his forehead, “A tracheotomy is an relatively easy procedure. My real concern is that your father hid his catching virus for too long.”
“That’s no answer, Tony!” blurts Jared, his normally high pitched feeble voice nearly inaudible beneath his red, white and blue mask.
Dr. Faucci ignores Jared and addresses Ivanka, “Your father’s odds of a recovery are quite low. And if he does ever recover, he may be in a shape where can no longer serve as president.”
Ivanka spins to sob on Jared’s tiny chest.
In the adjacent operating room, dead to the real world, Trump does not stir on the operating table as Dr. Edwards inserts the air tube in Faucci’s tracheotomy incision. The operating room fades from view as the White House Bunker fades into view…
Nestled safely in his bunker, the real world a forgotten memory, Trump does his best presidential poker face as his advisors wrangle with a new series of more violent protests.
Larry Kudlow gasps as on the big screen array of BLM protestors use a stolen city bus to flatten the White House fence. The angry mob charges the heavily armed Secret Service Agents.
Barr says, “Relax, Larry. Our secret troops learned in Portland how to put these dogs to sleep.”
“Relax? This is revolution! And we all know what happens to the player in an old regime, especially one as cruel as ours,” croaks Larry.
Trump laughs at Larry and says, “Chill, Larry. Theses walls of this vault are 6 feet thick, or something like that kinda thickness. Tremendously thick walls. And we have all the comforts of home here. The best champagne. The best caviar. Bobby’s secret service troops are handpicked for their –”
On screen the Federal Troops lay down their weapons and the angry mob races past them.
“What in Holy Hell?” shouts Trump, cracking one of TV screens with his tiny fists.
The Director of the Secretive Service, James Murray, calmly says to the gasping Trump, “Not to worry, sir. Like you just said, in your genius way, the rioters cannot possibly reach us down here.”
“Right. The lowlifes have zero chance, sir!” shouts Miller, almost making a Nazi salute, which he fakes into a stretch.
“Let’s get back to talking about my new fantastic Mt. Rushmore monument to the greatest presidency ever! Mine!” says Trump imperiously. “Tell me about getting head, Kayleigh.”
The men all laugh at Trump’s sexist joke, while Kayleigh does her best to hide her disgust She rolls a model of Mt Rushmore into the bunker conference room. “Mr. President, I afraid the Rushmore survey ream has determined that there is not enough structural integrity to the surrounding rock to add an your incredible face.”
“I am not happy about this, Kayleigh!” grumps Trump, folding his arms across his big belly.
“It’s OK, Mr. President. We have a solution…” Kayleigh loses her train of thought as on the big screen a mass of militant protestors take baseball bats to the badly outnumbered Federal troops. Many protestors fall and die under heavy gunfire from the troops, but an endless stream bat and machete wielding protestors take their place in the bloody battle for the White House.
“Go on Kayleigh. Don’t worry about the losers up there. Nigger scum.” snarls Steve Miller.
“The losers can’t reach us. Go on, Kayleigh. Give me some head!” chuckles Trump.
Mastering her outrage Kayleigh says, “Well, it’s simple. All we have to do is re-chisel one of the four heads into your amazing image, sir. All that remains is for you to pick who you want to replace. Who shall it be, Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt or Lincoln, sir?”
Trump relishes at this historic decision making moment, spinning around and around in his larger than anyone else’s leather chair, and finally decreeing,”Q-Anon calls me the greatest civil rights leader of all time. Lowest unemployment for blacks ever, before the Covid started killing them off like flies, so I pick to replace the head of Abraham Lincoln be replaced by my very own much more handsome face. My base will love it and my haters can eat shit and die.”
Barr offers obsequiously, “Brilliant choice as always, sir! It’s true you have supplanted Lincoln in the hearts of the people after all!”
The gathering of white men plus one frustrated woman in Kayleigh give Trump a standing ovation.
For a split-second Trump is back in the real world as surgical team tech turns the breathing machine on. Trump heartbeat stops on the monitor. Dr. Fauci takes up shock paddles and shouts, “Clear!”
Shocked back into his bunker fever dream Trump point at the security monitor and bellows, “What?! The niggers are in my Oval offices!”
Trump and his team watch helplessly as security TV screen shows a rush of protestors of all races and creeds swarm into the Oval Office
Trump demands, “Murray, set off the self-destrust bomb and blow the fucking Antifa anarchists off the face of the earth!”
Murray pleadingly turns to Barr who coldly nods for him to carry out Trump’s command. “You heard the president.”
Turning to the monitors, where the Resolute Desk is set aflame, Murray anguishes and finally croaks, “I respectfully decline to carry out your orders to blow up the protestors, sir. You have my resignation.”
Trump spins to Defense Secretary Esper and roars, “Esper, wipe out these fucking terrorists!”
“These are American citizen’s, Mr. President. I respectfully refuse and resign as well,”
“Where are our Portland shock and awe troops?!”shouts Miller
“In transit to Milwaukee,” answers Barr.
“Well, get them here it DC pronto! Seen this Tweet?” says Trump, jamming a cell phone in Barr’s saggy fat face.
The gaggle white men crowd around Trump’s cell phone that reads:
“Lynch the #BunkerBaby!
“The bastards are still calling me BunkerBaby again, even after I crushed them in Lafayette Square!”
“Um, sir, my mom taught me sticks and stones may break –”
“Shut the fuck up! Sageant Cosco, escort these traitor my bunker!”
“Name’s Rosco. Mr. President, and I am afraid Mr. Esper and Mr. Murray cannot leave as we’re sealed in.”
“Look, COSCO. No one’s in the hallway!” shouts Trump.
“Now. But, sir the 2 ton door operates slowly by the time we see rioters we could –”
“Break the seal!” demands Trump.
“– be fucked.” finishes Sergeant Rosco feebly. “I will remind the president that there is angry mob right outside the vault door! Open it and you could kills us all.”
Trump defiantly pushes the open button and gloats, “Fuck off. Want something done right you, um, something something. ”
Miller takes charge, “Seargent Rosco remove, Mr. Esper and Mr. Murray from my bunker or you’re facing a firing squad for disobeying your commander and chief!”
Trump beams and he proclaims ,“All clear! As Winston, uh, Church-something, the Brit guy, once said we have nothing to fear but, ah, fuck it –”
Gunfire erupts as mob of rioters race up the long hall for the open bunker door.
“Seal the bunker! Protect the presi –” Sergeant Rosco falls to the marble floor, bullet hole in the center of his forehead.
Kayliegh shouts to the mob, “Power to the people. I am not with the dictator sexist, racist Trump anymore!”
The protestors get such a kick out of Trump’s sad reaction to Kayleigh’s betrayal they let her slip away.
An angry Black man races up to a screaming Trump and raises a bloody hatchet.
Trump begs on his knees, “Black lives matter! Praise Jesus! Black live matter! Spare me and I’ll sign any law you want!”
Trump curls in a ball and weeps like a baby sucking his thumbs, eyes slammed shut waiting for a death blow.
The angry black man laughs saying, “Pathetic!” as he plant the axe in Trump’s orange head. Blood gushes and all goes black. Faintly the beep of a life monitor gets louder and Trump’s eyes flicker open.
Thrilled to be back in the real world where he on life support, Trump peeps open his eyes to see his loyal personal Black attendant Robert reading the newspaper beside his hospital bed. Trumps bloodshot feverish eyes close.
We see the Robert’s Washington Post’s headline reads:
PRESIDENT CONTRACTS VIRUS. LIFE HANGS BY THREAD!