Since April 2020 I’ve been developing TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM, hosted temporarily here on my meditation blog, as a warts and all work-in-progress. Warning violent content and explicit language ahead. Whadya expect from a Trump nightmare were still trapped in?
And speaking of nightmares: Trump is about to have a Black Lives Matter nightmare, which of course bears very little similarity to reality.
Chapter 6 – Trump’s Worst Nightmare
Meanwhile, one timeline away, in July of 2020, an alternate universe’s Trump has been struck with a deadly case of Coronavirus and is lost in a delusional series of fever dreams. Kinda like our own Trump does with his eyes wide open.
Dr. Faucci makes a deep incision in Trump’s throat. 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, caused by drinking bleach. Insert the ventilator tube, Dr. Edwards of you will.”
Dr. Edwards takes over the operation and Faucci heads for the door, wiping sweat from his furrowed brow.
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 Faucci, is Daddy going to be OK?”
Dr. Faucci sighs deeply and wipes sweat from his forehead, “A tracheotomy is a relatively easy procedure. My real concern is that your father hid his catching virus for too long. And, well, the bleach.”
“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 calmly addresses Ivanka, “Your father’s odds of a recovery are quite low. And even if he does ever recover, he may be in a mentally reduced to the condition of a moron —
“Reduced?” mutters Jared,
“- where he can no longer serve as president,” finishes Fauci.
Ivanka spins to pound 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 carefully inserts a respirator air tube through Faucci’s tracheotomy incision. The operating room fades from view as the White House Bunker fades into view…
Nestled in the safely of his bunker beneath the White House, the real world a forgotten memory, Trump offers his best presidential poker face as his advisors wrangle with a new series of more violent BLM protests.
Larry Kudlow gasps as on the big screen an 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.
Mark Meadows says, “Relax, Larry. Our 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 the vault are 6 feet thick, or something like that kinda thickness. Tremendously thick. And we have all the comforts of home here. The best champagne. The best caviar.”
On screen the Federal Troops lay down their weapons as 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 shocked Trump, “Not to worry, sir. Like you just said, in your genius way, the protesters cannot possibly reach us down here.”
“Protest? You call this fucking protest.?” bellows Trump.
“Look, sir. The lowlifes have zero chance!” shouts Stephen Miller, making a Nazi salute, which he fakes into a stretch.
“Let’s get back to talking about my fantastic Mt. Rushmore monument to the greatest presidency ever! Mine! 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 over a model of Mt Rushmore into the bunker conference room. “Mr. President, I’m afraid the Rushmore survey ream has determined that there is not enough structural integrity to the surrounding rock to add 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 protestors fall and die under heavy gunfire from a more resistant line of White House defense. But an endless stream bat wielding protestors take their place in the bloody battle for the White House above.
“Go on Kayleigh. Don’t worry about the losers up there. Nigger scum,” snarls Trump.
“Well I see a lot of white people with these guys,” says Kudlow.
“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. All that remains is for you to pick who to replace with your handsome face. Who shall it be, Mr. President, Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt or Lincoln, sir?”
Trump relishes at this historic decision making moment, spinning around and around in his larger life leather chair, and finally decreeing,”Q-Anon calls me the greatest civil rights leader of all time. Lowest unemployment for Blacks ever. Well, before the Covid started killing them off like flies. So I pick to replace the head of Abraham Lincoln head with mine. My base will love it and my haters can eat shit and die.”
Meadows offers obsequiously, “Brilliant 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. Trump’s heartbeat stops on the monitor. Dr. Fauci takes up shock paddles and shouts, “Clear!” and jolts Donald Trump.
Shocked back into his bunker fever dream, Trump points at the security monitor and bellows, “What?! Those rioters, they’re in my Oval office!”
Trump and his team watch helplessly as the security TV screen shows a rush of protestors of all races and creeds swarming 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 Meadows, who coldly nods for him to carry out Trump’s command. “You heard the president.”
Turning to the monitors, where the Resolute Desk is being 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. They can’t reach us in here. I respectfully refuse and resign as well,”
“Where are my Portland shock and awe troops?!” shouts Miller.
“In transit to Milwaukee I believe,” answers Meadows.
“Well, get them here to DC pronto! — Seen this Tweet?” says Trump, jamming a cell phone in Miller’s sweaty face.
The gaggle white men crowd around Trump’s cell phone that reads:
“Lynch the #BunkerBaby!”
“The bastards are calling me BunkerBaby! Even after I crushed them in Lafayette Square!”
“Um, my mom taught me sticks and stones may break –”, says Robert Tulsa before he’s cut off.
“Shut the fuck up! Sergeant Cosco, escort these traitors my bunker!” shouts Trump pointing at the TV screen.
“Name’s Tulsa. Mr. President, and I am afraid Mr. Esper and Mr. Murray cannot leave as we are sealed in.”
“Look, COSCO. No one’s in the hallway!” shouts Trump pointing at the TV screen.
“But, sir, the 2 ton door operates slowly, by the time we see rioters we could be….”
“Break the seal!” demands Trump.
“– fucked.” finishes Sergeant Tulsa. “The door moves slowly. You could be killing us all.”
Trump defiantly pushes the open button and gloats, “Fuck off. You’re Black. Obviously, you’re in on this with them. You want something done right you gotta, um, something something or other.”
Miller takes charge, “Seargent, remove, Esper and Murray from my bunker or you’re up for a firing squad!”
“Pussy. I told ya. Look. It’s all clear.” gloats Trump. “You see. You’ve got nothing to fear but it something… We have nothing to fear but, ah.. Oh, fuck it!”
Gunfire erupts as mob of rioters race up the long hall for the bunker door.
“Seal the bunker! Seal the bunker!” shouts Trump.
BANG! Sergeant Tulsa falls to the marble floor, a 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! I’m free! Yay!”
The laughing 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 lives matter! Spare me! I’ll sign any law you want!”
Trump curls into 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!” He plants the axe in Trump’s throat. Exactly where the incision in the real world. 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 is on life support, Trump cracks open his eyes to see his loyal personal Black attendant Robert reading the newspaper beside his hospital bed. Trump’s bloodshot feverish eyes close.
We see Robert’s Washington Post’s headline reads:
PRESIDENT CONTRACTS CORONA VIRUS. LIFE HANGS BY A THREAD!
To be continued in Chapter 7 – Weekend at Trumpies
Special thanks to my wife Elizabeth for playing Kayleigh and Ivanka.
As always my handy disclaimer that this 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 Trump, and his charming GOP enablers, or for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.
Phew. It takes months to make these audio recordings. Donate at the link below to keep my one of a kind quantum space time meditational auditory entertainment and enlightening content flowing.