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:
Sorry for the short break between chapters. As I’ve been writing chapter 5 it’s been scary to see real-life Trump catch up to this next chapter, where Abe makes a cameo in “Trump’s Fever Dream”, by his holding a FOX town hall at the Lincoln Memorial last week. A weird choice given Abe would be a liberal Dem by today party standards.
But whoever said Trump was a student of history, or anything for that matter? He’s certainly not a student of the 1918 flu epidemic that killed millions. Tragically, America of 2020 is number 1 for the virus on earth. And yet Trump claims zero responsibility for not acting quicker and more decisively.
It’s deeply frustrating that, despite his daily epic fails, Fox and the GOP blindly support him. Combined with this unholy alliance, fueled by almost limitless “brainwashing funds”, with the Zuck’s FB support, Trump actually rose in approval polls this week. Please see THE GREAT HACK on Netflix to grasp how this terrible joke on the people is happening right before our eyes through highly targeted mind control.
Welcome to chapter 5 of my writing therapy, pard. Be sure to read chapters 1-4 to see how Trump got to this feverish point in this dark comedic fantasy that asks the question:
Would Trump catching the coronavirus have any lasting impact on our fearless leader if he survived catching Covid-19?
CHAPTER 5 – THE COVID KID
Trump blinks his open his bloodshot eyes and squints at blinding glare of surgery lights overhead. He struggles to sit up but restraints hold Trump in place.
A gowned, masked and gloved Dr. Fauci notices Trump’s struggle and says in his best soothing tone, “Please don’t struggle, Mr. President. You’re lucky your valet Robert kept you alive with mouth to mouth until the paramedics brought you here. Um, not so lucky, you’ve come down with a severe case of the coronavirus, sir.”
Trump tries to speak, but the pain is so intense he cannot.
“Do not speak! Your throat’s badly seared. Nod if you understand me?” offers Dr. Fauci.
Trump nods yes curtly.
“Now, Mr. President, serious question for which I need a serious answer if I am going to have a chance to save your life. Here goes: Have you taken any Hydrochloroquin?”
Trump nods yes sadly.
“And did you drink any disinfectants today?”
Trump nods grimly while making the hand signal for “a little.”
“Lysol perhaps?” says Fauci, visibly resisting the urge for to do face palm.
Trump shakes his head “no” rapidly.
“Sorry. Brand’s immaterial. Did you orally ingest some sort of bleach?”
Trump nods reluctantly.
“OK. It’s 2 AM. I’m gonna name some earlier times from today. Nod when I am close to the time of day you drank bleach.”
Trump nods, impressed Fauci guessed right the first try.
“Nurse, stomach pump! Stat!” an older nurse wheels over a stomach pump.
“Donald, I’m placing you on anesthesia. After pumping your stomach the nurse will immediately intubate you. That is if your damaged esophagus can handle it. But before I put you in an induced coma, uh, there’s an old friend here who must have a word with you,” says Dr. Fauci steps aside to reveal a gowned and masked Mike Pence.
“Hey, buddy. It’s Mike, um, Mike Pence, your VP. How you doin’?”
Annoyed as hell, Trump messages with his eyes for Pence to get on with it.
“Ok, Ok. Why I ‘m here. Right. You see, I’d like your blessings on my VP choice before I temporarily step into your big shoes, amigo. All very, very temporary of course until your back on the job in record covid-time,” says Pence, doing his best to sound sincere.
Trump becomes more agitated, but nods OK.
The mask-free Pence speaks up nervously, “Now, I know this is going to be a little hard for you to swallow — Geez Louise, pardon that expression! — Uh, what with how my Veep pick and you have been going back and forth a tiny teeny bit in the media, and, well, um, ah, given the fact they happen to be a life long Democrat and –”
Trump’s eyes widen with rage.
“Sorry. — Cut to the chase.– Donald, we need to reunite the country in this dark time. The markets have crashed three times in the past 24 hours. The Dow is down 5000 points. Banks are closed to prevent runs and demanding $3 trillion more in aid. Worst of all Civil War has broken out in Georgia after the second wave killed tens of –”
Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.
“Ok, it’s Govenor Cuomo. Andrew’s my VP pick.”
Trump writhes in agony that his fever dream about Cuomo as president in 2022 is turning out to be prophetic.
“Swell, Donald. I’m going to take your reaction as a definite “yes” and announce you’re in total and complete agreement to make Governor Cuomo my temporary VP. — Good. That wasn’t so bad now was it? Okie dokie. I turn you back of to the good Dr. Fauchster. Get well, buddy,” chirps Pence.
Enraged, Trump struggles mightily to break free of his restraints. Pence gives Trump a peck on his sweaty forehead. Dr. Fauci injects the writhing Trump. The surgery room and the worried face of Mike Pence fades from view.
Fauci’s distant echoing voice in the white void advises, “Word of warning, Mr. President. Coma dreams can be quite intense. Brace yourself… self… self.”
WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA
Total whiteness gives was to total blackness. Trump’s blurry twisted vision of an old town of the West fades into confusing view. Town folk, half wearing western bandit masks and half mask-free mill about on the dusty street.
A masked young man and mask-free young man draw on each other FIRE. Both fall dead in the street. Trump watches in a daze as the town undertaker and town drunk, Rudi Giuliani, drags the unmasked boy towards his funeral parlor with a red front door. Rudi, waves to Trump and says brightly. “Mornin’ Sheriff Trump. Gorgeous day!”
Trump simply stares into the desert sun, fascinated as it keeps shifting back and forth between being the sun and surgery light.
Rudi shrugs his shoulders and returns to dragging his human cargo for his funeral parlor.
The masked young man is dragged off by his bereaved family into a house with a blue door. The mother of the masked boy shrieks at Trump, “You, you, you bastard. Your hate killed my baby!” When Trump does not respond to her the dead boy’s Mother wails in agony before vanishing behind the blue door of her home with a slam of the door.
The crack of the door slam stirs Trump to life. He works out a kink in back on the porch bench of his sheriff’s office and belches loudly. Trump happily notices he’s dressed as the town sheriff, tin badge, six shooter and all.
Trump blinks, fully taking in the sight of the dusty New Mexico town in Old West. Trump rustles the CORONA GAZZETTE to his face. His eyes widen as he reads the date June 1864 just as the dirty town’s church tower clock clocks strikes for nine times. “Maybe I’m on the set of Westworld?”says a puzzled Trump.
Trump’s wild west wife, Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. Dressed a frilly pioneer frock of the day, Kellyanne swings opens picnic basket and chirps brightly in a thick southern accent, “Hey, sleepy head. Have a nice nap?”
“Kellyanne?” says Trump, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Made your fav, hon. Burgers and gravy.” says Kellyanne, uncovering her steaming masterpiece. Kellyanne lovingly tucks a napkin into Trump’s dusty shirt.
Trump digs in and speaks with his mouthful,”Wow, babe. Had this crazy dream I was president of these here United States.”
“Sorry, hon. Ya’all’s just the Sheriff of our sweet little town of Corona,” giggles Kellyanne.
“So this is 1864” asks Trump, surprised by how Texan he sounds.
“Ha, ha. All year. And we’ll be married 35 years come June 23rd next week. So now ya’all have no excuse ya’all forgit again!” says Kellyanne, sneaking a kiss to Trump’s cheek.
Trump’s badly overweight deputy, Attorney General William Barr, plops two used up paint cans, one blue and one red, on the porch. He grabs seat, mopping his forehead with a dirty white hanky. Seeing Trump’s puzzled expression Barr offers, “Finished, sir.”
“Finished with what, Billy?” asks Trump.
“Painting every dang front door in town of the Confederate homes red and the Union homes blue. Just like you ordered, sir,” says Barr.
Puzzled to say the least, Trump runs a hand though his long head of silver hair as he says uncertainly, “Lemme see, our brave Confederates they don’t wear masks, right?”
Kellyanne brightly offers, “Them Union folks are the chickens who are slaved to wearing mask and keeping their distance! Silly old blue bellies.”
“Divide and conquer. Works every time,” says Trump proudly getting into the swing of things.
“Got anymore of them delish ham sandwiches in your picnic basket, Kellyanne?” asks Barr sweetly.
“Never forget my favorite deputy. Here you go, Billy boy,” says Kellyanne offering deputy Barr a gravy soaked burger.
“I dreamed you, Billy, you were my kickass Attorney General. Way, way in the future.”
“Wow. What year, Sheriff?” ask Barr.
“2020… I think,” says Trump still dazed and confused if he’s dreaming or all this.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Barr says effusively brown nosing, “Don, you are the best dreamer in the West. It’s what makes you such a miracle maker for the good people of Corona!”
“Billy, why in all that’s holy is the dang General Store still closed?!” Trump says, angrily pointing to the General Store across the street with a freshly painted blue front door.
“Uppity Bob Jenkins says he ain’t opening our fair town’s only General Store until Doc gives everybody a checkup for the sickness. Meantime, Corona’s citizens, red and blue both, are runnin’ outta food fast and theys a blaming you as Sheriff/ Mayor,” offers Barr.
“Time to pay a little visit to our town’s freed slave,” says Trump rising a bit shakily to his feet.
A short time later Trump Trump glares over a cash register at the blue mask wearing Robert, his Black personal valet in DC of 2020 who saved his life, but who is the general store owner in Trump’s 1864 fever dream.
Trump bellows, “I don’t care if’n you’re worried about some weak old sods headin’ for the last roundup. People like you libtards gotta realize this here sickness serves God’s purpose his creatures the wolves. Thin the herd of weakness! Huh. Gotta tweet that today.”
“Tweet? Ya mean like a little birdy?” wisecracks Robert.
Trump grabs Robert by his shopkeeper’s blue apron, “Do not get uppity with me, boy! If was up to me be you’d still be picking cotton in Georgia where you belong!”
Robert shakes off Trumps hand on his shirt and angrily says, seething hate welling in his normally soft eyes, “And no doubt as a slave. Nevada’s a free territory, Sheriff Trump. I is a free man. My store. My rules. And my rule is that my store stays shut until Doc examines everyone for the desert sickness. Only way to stop swapping us back and forth tween us like danged kindergartners!”
Barr inserts himself between Trump and Robert and says in his usual deadpan droll, “Now, Robert. You, more than most in Corona, have enjoyed the good Sheriff’s protection from the Confederates in here town. Now, son, we’d never want you lynched –”
“Shut it, Deputy Barr! I give the orders in this here town! And I demand this here General Store reopen today and you get your lazy black ass back on the job, Bobby boy!” demands Trump.
“So much for diplomacy,” mutters Barr to himself.
“You know, runnin’ this little store I gets to know a lotta personal things. And Sheriff, to be honest — And it’s nice nice to be honest. You should give it try once and while just to keep us guessin’ — There’s a whole lotta things you don’t want me tellin’ your fourth wife Kellyanne about. Like, for one example, your twice a week deal with the town’s whore,” calmly offer Robert.
Dumbfounded that Robert has boxed him in, Trump sputters, “You’re gonna be sorry, Jenkins. Powerful sorry.”
“I’m already, Donnie. Sorry I moved to your hateful little red and blue crazy town of Corona. Good day gents,” says Robert taking Trump and Barr forcefully about the shoulders and escorting them out of the store with shove. Robert slams the door their faces and pulls down the CLOSED window shade.
Enraged, Trump spins to Barr, “Billy, I want a full investigation into where Robert Jenkins gets his food stocks.”
“Already done. The blackie gets most of he supplies from the Chinaman who visits Corona once a month. In fact, I have conspiracy theory all my own that Jenkins was responsible for helping the Chinese bastard spread the sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”
“This must be why Confederate folks are getting sicker faster, ain’t they?” ponders Trump, loving Barr’s conspiracy theory.
“Yup. Though a course Doc said it could also be because we red doors don’t wash our hands or –” offers Barr.
“Never you mind with them outdated Union notions! Draft up charges and serve, Jenkins. I want him hung by Sunday. Folks do love a good lynching. Cleanses the soul,” gloats Trump, wishing to himself again that the old west had Twitter.
“But the mob might want to do a hanging’ before the judge hits town again,” says Barr.
“Not another word, Billy. There’s more deputies where you came from,” says Trump chewing on a ragged cuticle on his gun hand.
Barr switches mental gears and effusively offers, “You’re a dadgum genius, sir! Pissing off Abe Lincoln himself after Robert is, uh, um, brought to justice is red meat for our upstanding Confederate citizens!”
“Our fine city of Corona will carry the vote for Nevada to join the great Confederacy and turn the tide of the war or my name ain’t Sheriff Donald J. Trump,” says Trump.
Time shifts into high gear. Citizens, masked and unmasked, race up the street as the sun rockets overhead across the western sky. Eight hours pass in the blink of an eye. Night falls like rock.
Trump happily finds himself on the outskirts of town standing beside a hanging tree dressed in a KKK robe.
Robert, his muscular neck in a hangman’s noose and hands tied behind his back, glares down at Trump from atop a swayed old horse’s back. Robert’s chiseled featured are lit by the torches of men on horseback dressed in KKK robes. Robert says bitterly, “Let’s get this party with you and your “fine people” over, T-rump.”
Trump bows obligingly and smacks Robert horse on the butt. A distant rifle’s sound splits the air and the rope above Robert’s hangmen noose is cut free by the ace shot. Hands tied, Robert kicks the horse and races off, vanishing into the desert night.
In the distance a man in a stove pipe hat holsters his rifle and rides off into the starry desert night after Robert.
Next morning Trump addresses a crowd of Confederate citizens along with a smattering Union people,”As a lotta you know Corona’s token negro and General Store Keeper, Robert Jenkins, escaped a hangin’ last night.”
Townspeople mutter angrily among themselves.
Unfazed, Trump brilliantly riffs, “But what you fine Confederate folks don’t know is letting Jenkins escape was my plan all along!”
The stunned crowd stares at Trump in dazed silence.
“You see, I hired me the best Pinkerton detective west of Mississippi to sharp shoot off Jenkin’s necktie and now the dumb nigger’s bein’ tracked to the source of the tainted goods that have brought sickness to our fine town of Corona, birthplace of the greatest beer on earth!”
The Confederate citizens cheer wildly while the Union people all do face palms.
A few hours later, as measured by old church’s rusty clock, Barr and Trump once again enjoy Kellyanne’s burgers and biscuits on the Sheriff’s porch. Barr asks nervously, “Sheriff, that story about the Pinkerton…”
“One of my best whoppers. But, Billy boy, I ain’t got no clue about who really freed that nigger. All I really want is for people to be able to buy damned toilet paper. Me especially!” says Trump, wondering if toilet paper exists in 1864 because of the puzzled look on Barr saggy face.
“Well why didn’t you say so, Sheriff? I got a secret TP stash. Back in a jiff ” says Barr escaping up the street, exhibiting a bad limp.
Kellyanne turns to Trump, her face filled with confusion “Whatever is spin doc, hon?” asks Kellyanne lovingly.
“What you called me yesterday, hon. You said, ‘Kelly Anne, darlin’, my order to reopen the town, spin doctor it.'”
Before the unsure Trump can answer with some fresh bull, the town executioner, town undertaker and town drunk Rudi Giuliani, stumbles up and happily volunteers with drunken bow, “Madame, I will have you know that yours truly invented the spin doctor profession to help win Andrew Jackson’s re-elction back in, I think it was, 1830. To spin doctor refers to one such as me creating the best story by, um, reorganization, shall we say of the alternative facts… Wait sec, can either of you fine people spare a dime for a thirsty man? All this spin remembering has me parched. ”
Before Trump can answer, an out of breath pimple faced teen wearing a cowboy style MAGA hat runs up to the trio and shouts, “Sheriff Trump! Sheriff Trump, the Covid Kid just rode into town and he’s comin’ a gunnin’ for ya!”
“Oh my God, Donnie! Whatever shall we do?” worries Kellyanne.
“If by we you me mean me: Nothin’.” says Trump with his customary shit eating grin.
“Nothin’?!” says Kellyanne.
“This here reality is just what my 2020 doc, that fuck Fauci, calls a fever dream.” chuckles Trump.
“What you drinkin’, Sheriff? Cause I want me some,” slobbers Giuliani.
BANG! Trump and the shrieking Kelly Anne are splattered in blood from a bullet hole in Giulani’s forehead, “Funny. All of sudden I got a splitting headache.” Rudy falls face first to the dusty street.
“Sheriff Trump! Ya no good orange bellied coward. I am callin’ you out!” shouts the Covid kid holstering his smoking gun, his gruff voice muffled by a blue bandana mask
“Fair gun fight, Kid?” says Trump calmly, not believing any of this is real but playing along for kicks and hamming it up for Kellyanne.
“Fair? What in hell do you know about fair, Donnie boy?” snarls the Covid Kid.
“Ask poor unarmed Rudi, about fair, you monster,” sobs Kellyanne.
The Covid kid laughs at Kellyanne, “Ha. Rudi’s mouth is a legal weapon. Hmm. Wonder who undertakes the undertaker?”
“Ha. Thought you just lived in mirrors,” says Trump getting to his feet.
“I live in you, you idiot. I am your damn conscience! Now it’s finally time for me to take over the show, pard, ’cause you never listen to me, here in 1864 or in 2020. But tell you what, you don’t deserve it but, yeah, let’s make this a fair fight,” offers Mirror Trump.
Trump pats his gorgeous white stallion and says coyly, “But, kid, I already run the show, my body, my town, my rules. What’s in a gun battle for me except maybe a tombstone?”
“Opps. Forgot. Always has to be something in any for you don’t there?” Off Trump’s smug nod the Covid Kid offers, “OK, You got certain childhood memories, painful even to your elephant hide, I can make those go away,” says the Covid Kid dryly, mirroring Trump’s own insincerity.
“Your bluffin’.” chuckles Trump.
“And you should know all about bluffin’,” says the Covid Kid snapping his fingers, He and Trump become transparent spirits observing Trump’s dad Fred Trump impatiently giving a math lesson from hell to little Donald using coins.
Fred says menacingly,” Donald, Donald. That’s eighty cents! I asked you to show me ninety! Now do it! And no more help from me!”
Little Donnie places 3 quarters on the table and Fred smacks him on the back of the head. Donald cries and Fred whacks him harder, shouting, “Unless you can learn basic math I am sticking you in a school for retards! You a winner or a retard, Donny boy?”
Donald bursts into tears and Fred’s expression softens,”Aw. Did I make you cry… little girl?”
Already having seen enough, Trump turns sadly to the Covid Kid and says in a hoarse whisper, “Ok. Make all my bad memories of Dad’s abuse go away and we got us a deal. Pistols at 20 paces at high noon.”
The Covid Kid snaps his fingers and the two Trumps are back in the Nevada town of Corona in 1864 facing each other 20 paces apart.
“Just to be square, I kill you in this dream you die in the real world. At least the Trump we’ve all come to know and hate dies and I take over.”
Mirror Trump says, “Have it your way. Hell it is.” He points to a shop window that lights up to show a reflection of Trump being intubated in the real 2020 world, causing Trump of 1864 to choke and gag.
“No fair. What happened to our gunfight?” says Trump breathlessly.
“We draw when the church bells strike 12,” says Trump’s mirror image the Covid Kid.
The storefront image fades back to a regular reflection of 1864. A tumbleweed blows across the street between the two Trumps.
“For starters, Soon as I take over this burger bloated body of ours I am painting all the doors of this nightmare of yours purple.”
The church clock towers makes the first of twelve strikes. Hidden above the Sheriff’s office Deputy William Barr takes aim a Mirror Trump’s back. Barr mutters a pep talk to himself, “Boss wants this to look good. Fire on 11 and a half. Fire on 11 and a half.”
Trump catches a glint of Barr’s rifle in the hot noon sun and hides a grin with some false bravado,”I got nickname for your tombstone: Goodie Two Trumps.”
The church tower gongs five. Mirror Trump’s gun hand twitches over his silver six shooter. “After 73 years of nagging you to do the right thing, I am one conscience that’s done talkin’. Shut it and get ready to draw, ya mangy old coot.”
Kelly Anne runs to Mirror Trump’s side and pecks him on the cheek, “Can I watch you kill the blowhard?”
Trump says, “You’re fired, Kellyanne,” as he angrily blows Kellyanne off her feet. Her dead body splashing into the horse trough.
“Marriages just don’t stick with you do they, Donnie? ” says Trump’s mirror conscience in disgust.
Barr sees mirror Trump did not break his concentration as the clock strikes 9. Barr quietly cocks back his shinny rifle’s firing hammer. As he does another gun behind Barr clicks back it’s hammer. Barr spins in terror to see none other than Abraham Lincoln has the drop on him.
Abe says grimly “Justice is served, Deputy Barr,”and fires six shooter. Bam! Barr falls off the roof of the Sheriff’s office and crashes through the porch roof.
Mirror Trump, the Covid Kid, flashes a thumbs up to the grinning Abe Lincoln atop the Sheriff’s office a thumbs up as the clock strikes 10. Trump quick draws and fires on mirror Trump’s turned back 2 strikes ahead of the agreement. But his shot goes wide and takes out his beloved white horse.
“So predictable. Too bad your bad dad Freddy never taught you to shoot straight, amigo,” The Covid Kid chuckles as the clock strikes 12. BANG! Mirror Trump fires and Trump’s throat erupts in a gush of blood. Trump falls to his knees in the dusty street, gasping for air, unable to talk.
The Covid Kid gloats over the dying Trump,”For once I get the last world. Hurry up and die, Donnie boy. The world needs the better you, namely me.”
All fades to black. Trump blinks his eyes open in a luxurious hospital room. He spots a smug Kellyanne reading a PEOPLE’S MAGAZINE, complete a fresh photo of an intubated picture of Trump on the cover. The headline reads:
KELLYANNE EXCLUSIVE: TRUMP INTUBATED!
Trump tries to speak, but the tube down his throat only allows him a gagging gurgle and he passes out without Kellyanne ever noticing his brief awakening from the fever dream.
END CHAPTER 5
REAL FEVER DREAMS
Sadly Covid-19 patients can end up intubated in an induced coma on a respirator for weeks on end. The odds of a virus patient ever regaining consciousness drop daily the longer someone remains on a respirator. Strangely, Trump’s terrible fever dreams of choking and dying over and over again in elaborate ways I depict in this story are something I intuited weeks ago before this story from Atlantic.
Bottom line, avoid getting this damn virus no matter what the media or politicians playing with your life tell you. Above all avoid Trump’s insane false macho attitude of it being OK to allow people catching the virus to build herd immunity. All while it’s not even scientifically yet known if we the people can catch this damn thing more than once!
Stay distant, wear masks no matter to pressure from the misled right-wing nutjobs and wash your hands often.
Over my 24 years as a filmmaker and writer of modest notoriety, I have come to see there are basically two kinds of storytellers; those who plan it all out with detailed outlines and notes cards and those, like me, who write organically, allowing the story to evolve and grow as we write.
Which is better who can say? All I know is I love being an organic storyteller because allows me to enjoy the unfolding of a story almost like you the reader. Big plus too is my style is perfect for riffing on the day’s crazy news, all of which makes me want to scream, “TRUMP!” at the top of my lungs into the red rocks of Sedona.
Jesús wept, I read yesterday morning the Trump the Great suggested injecting disinfectant into the body to fight the virus. Seriously, no fiction writer can make up a horror story worse than his reality. And to hell with any Trump-spirit folk telling you he meant with ozone not bleach.
If you have even an ounce of common sense, Trump’s idiocy makes your head spin!
Be sure to read chapters 1-3 of TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM, here on the blog, before or after reading chapter 4, to see how we got to this feverish point where Trump’s fever dream shifts to fully into comedic nightmare mode.
CHAPTER 4 – DANCING WITH SEAN SPICER
Trump’s twisted view of the deranged Hilary Clinton strangling him fades to the blackness of death. A small yellow speck dances in the distance. Marimba music slowly rises in intensity.
Trump looks down at himself, thrilled to see he’s out of his paper hospital gown and spiffed up in his favorite blue pinstripe power suit. He stares downward, surprised to see he’s wearing shinny red vinyl dancing shoes that match his clown-like for width long red tie.
The bouncing yellow speck grows in size to form a Marimba dancer, complete with Carmen Miranda’s famed fruit hat. The dancer rockets up to Trump, who is stunned to see the dancer is none other than Sean Spicer, in Marimba drag!
Sean sweeps Trump into a passionate dance. Trump laughs and says, “See you learned a few things on Dancing With the Stars, Spicey.”
“Touche!” shouts Spicer, spinning Trump like a rolly-polly punching doll.
“Enough!” growls Trump as the Marimba band’s black leader pokes his pointy baton into Trump’sabundant ass, sending Trump back to into Spicer’s eager waiting arms.
“We’ve only just begun, sir!” sings Spicer operatically with a spin of Trump. “And please sing your words. This is a musical and the judges are watching.”
Trump notices the dance judges are one other than the nine members of the Supreme Court. Bret Kavenugh sneaks a swig of beer and flashes Trump a thumbs up who grouses, “Fuck this. I will not dance for the likes of libtard Ruth Ginsberg.”
“No choice, sir. We stop dancing before our time is up the court sentences us both to telepathic death.” sings Sean sheepishly. “And please sing your words, sir. Sing like your life depends on it… because it does!”
“I am not baby to be bossed around!” shouts Trump, folding his arms and pouting like a “239” pound baby.
Trump tries to struggle free himself of the dancing drag queen Spicer, but the smaller man is supernaturally strong. Sean yanks Trump by his long red tie down to his eye level and whisper sings in Trump’s ear,”You don’t understand, sir. Sing and dance or the judges give you a death sentence with their hive mind.”
Trump yelps as Sean yanks of his red tie so hard he sends Trump spinning like pinball into a giant pinball machine set. Trump, a red, white and blue blur hits a bumper that lights up:
IMPEACHMENT FARCE – Ding, Ding!
Trump flies, screaming towards more bumpers that light up in rapid succession as he rolls into and off them:
1 MILLION LIES AND COUNTING — Bing!
WORST PRESIDENT EVER – Bing, Bing, Bong, Bong!
CHEATS ON PREGNANT WIFE WITH A PORN STAR – Dong, Ding!
TAX CHEAT – Wha -Err-Err!
BRIBE-O-RAMA – Cha-ching! Cha-chong!
RELIGIOUS FAKE – Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
BLEACH DRINKER – BOOM! BAM!- GAME OVER!
Bursting from a cloud of smoke, Trump tumbles out of the giant pinball machine and falls on his orange face to the black shinny stage floor. Shaken Trump struggles to his two left feet to the wild applause of a zombie audience of Trump rally goers.
Sean snatches Trump into the dance again. “Many of your followers took your advice and, um, well, they’re DAED. But see, your Trumpies still love you, sir!”
Trump bows for his zombie fans and gloats, “Yeah! I still got it, Spicey!” grins Trump in triumphant song to his wildly applauding zombie followers.
“Amen, sir,” sing Sean doing a back flip that no one reacts to. All eyes are on Trump beaming a million watt smile in the spotlight.
“Now, tell me about that hive mind thing,” demands Trump as Sean switches up into a tango so fast it sends a bunch of his fruit hat’s grapes rolling across the dance floor through the spotlight.
Sean hums to Trump, hinting that he must sing. Exasperated Sean sob sings, “I keep telling you, but you never did listen to me. Oh, how did I ever let you make me start with the press that you inauguration crowd was YUGE?!” Sean falls to his knees beg singing, “You must sing and dance your question to me, mein President! To answer again without song is to suffer the hive mind’s wrath.”
“Oh, that bitch Ginsberg, bet she’s the hive mind’s wicked queen! Isn’t she?!” says without singing.
“Actually the evil masterminds are Gorsuch and his lackey Kavenaugh in tandem.” sings Sean like he performing a dirge.
“Both Trump appointees. I’m gold as usual!” gloats Trump and the judge all raises their right hands, ready to flash the thumbs down because the stubborn Trump is no singing.
Sean breaks a sweat and sings loud enough for the dancing duo, “No, sir. Once Brett and Neil joined the hive mind, because, well, ah, after all, more people in America are liberal, they both dumped their doltish Republican brethren like a rock. Now sing or we die.”
Trump rolls his eyes and finally sings,”Alright, Alright. I’ll sing you bums a tune. People say, they say to me, ‘Sir, forget real estate forget the presidency. You more fantastic a song bird than Sinatra,’ So I’ll sing you a question, Spicey: What’s a hive mind?”
“The Supreme Court is a subset of the hive mind invented in 2023 by Elon Musk. It began as Telsa auto experiment with 5G. Sadly, even now the evil liberal Supremes struggle to gain exclusive control of the hive for their own wicked liberal gains,” sings Sean.
“The judges call themselves the Supremes? Ha. That was a band of hot blackie chicks weren’t they?” sings Trump. The Trump zombies erupt into tortured laughter.
“Do not make fun of the Supremes, sir,” sings Spicer, beaming a fake smile at the scowling judges.
“I do what I please! I am the president of, well I was,” says Trump, going into a fab tap dance number. “Look at me! Look at my tap, tap. Best ever. I am the most super epic tap dancer who ever tapped a tune! Yeah, baby!”
Sean panics and yanks Trump back into a Marimba and whisper sings, “Sorry. The judges hate tap dancing!”
Trump breaks free and goes into a defiant tap dance as he glares at the judges. The zombie audience is hypnotized by Trump crazy beat. Trump sings gloriously, “Watch my toes fly. Watch my ankles kick. God knows I am the greatest tapper! Screw the judges and their jive hive mind!”
Spicer falls to his knees sings pleadingly to the judges, “Trump’s got Corona fever. Please forgive him. The hive mind is divine and not to be questioned. You divenest Supremes have used the hive mind to make war was a thing of the past. The dawn of hive mind has indeed ushered in an era of unbridled peace and prosperity, all under President Cuomo!”
Trump backhands Spicer, sending his fruit hat tumbling and roar sings,”Cuomo?! I should get the credit for any cures that spun out of my masterful handling of the virus! My genius was to delegate all Federal responsibility to the fucking states! Their struggle to sink or swim with the virus is what generated this hive — Wait, why can’t I hear this hive thingee?”
“Um… Apparently, your IQ is too low,” sings Sean, rolling into a terrified fetal position and sucking on his thumb.
Steam literally shoots from Trump’s ears. The zombie crowd of Trump backers go mad with applause. An old zombie Trumpie claps so hard that his left hand crumble to rotting dust. Two high fiving zombies knock each others arms off.
Sean, his voice muffled from his still being in fetal position and sings “Bravo, sir.”
“Fuck you, Spicey!” shouts Trump so loudly that he goes into a coughing fit. Trump’s orange face goes blue and he collapses to the dance floor. The crowd goes insane with joy. Trump bolts to sitting up, his eyes bulge as he glares his disloyal Zombie followers to silence.
Watching Trump regain control his followers sends Kavenaugh into a beerful spit spray. He wipes off his sleeve with black judge’s robe and shouts to Gorsuch, “Trump’s gaining control of the Trump zombie hive mind, Neil! Do something to stop Trump!”
Gorsuch pulls off his head of neat grey hair, only wig. His eyeballs begin to glow white hot. Laser beams shoot from Gorsuch’s eyes, setting all the zombie Trump followers ablaze. Trump collapses into a heap of coughing defeat to the dance floor again.
Ruth Ginsberg brains Gorsuch with a huge gavel. As Gorsuch falls his laser beam eye cut Kavenaugh in half at the waist, “Ha ha. Spilt decision.” Kavenaugh’s cut in two body slips apart with a sickening slurp, falling upon Gorsuch’s dead body.
“I am coming, Donnie my love!” sings Ginsberg as she leaps from the judge’s box like she’s twenty. She dive slides on her knees right up to Trump and sings, “Get ready! Mouth to mouth time, Donnie dear!”
Despite her shocking passion to save him, Trump fights off Ginsberg, coughing his words into her loving weathered face, “No fucking way!”
Ginsberg sings, Trump cradled in her spindly arms, “Oh, Donnie, it’s always been you. Let me kiss the air back into you! But please drink this bottle of bleach first. I insist.”
Trump smacks the bottle bleach out of Ginsberg’s hand, “No! Anyone but you, Ginsberg!”
“Oh, heck. I’ll take the chance you have the virus. No bleach then. Here. Let me mouth to mouth you, Donnie,” coos sings Ginsberg, who has surprisingly young voice. She leans for the choking Trump, her ancient lips in a pucker.
Ginsberg’s kissy face transforms to Trump personal attendant Robert’s mouth to mouth giving the unconscious Trump of good old present day 2020. Jared and Ivanka, dressed to a glittery hilt for a formal dinner, look on nervously.
Jared whispers to the sobbing Ivanka, “Should Robert be reviving your dad?”
“So what if Robert’s black? Father is no racist!” sobs Ivanka loudly enough to interrupt Robert.
“That’s not what I meant. You’re always so critical!’ bitches Jared.
Robert stops mouth to mouthing Trump and says drolly, “Kids, do you mind putting your the universe-revolves-me shit aside for 5 minutes while I –”
“Shut up. Does OUR father have resuscitation order, Robert?” shouts Jared to the incredulous Robert.
Ivanka beats on Jared’s tiny chest,”JARED! Let Robert try to save Father until the paramedics get here.”
“Ah ha. I get it. Make it look like we care. But seriously, Father dies we get can take over the presidency ,” whispers Jared to Ivanka, who finally gets it with small nod of collusion.
“Hmm. Robert. Um, does my father have a resuscitation order?”
Robert rolls his eyes at Jared and Ivanka and goes back to saving Trump with mouth to mouth.
END CHAPTER 4
PS My apologies to Ruth Ginsberg for the tough role she played in Trump’s fever dream. This was written before her passing. RIP RBG.
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.
Welcome to my writing therapy and I hope your reading therapy. This blog series is a science fiction parody about a dark future, perhaps coming into sad reality due the “too painful to watch” daily show of Trump’s inability to lead during the coronavirus crisis.
If you are just joining us on the blog here’s a link to read Chapter one if you’d like to enjoy the whole science fictional parody as it builds.
When we last left a feverish President Trump it was May 2022 when he was just dumped buck naked in the thorny bushes of the Rose Garden by a mysterious giant time traveling cosmic butterfly.
TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM
CHAPTER 2 – THE WHITE HOSPITAL
Trump’s former young black personal attendant, Robert, dressed in a hospital gown and mask, helps a badly scratched Trump from the rose bushes to his shaky feet and says,”Whoa. Last time I saw you, I rushed out your bedroom to get the doc. When I came back your were gone! Where’d you go for two whole years? And why are you naked as a Jay bird on the 4th of July?”
Too distracted to answer, Trump notices every window in the White House is brightly lit and wonders, “Why the hell are all the White House lights on?”
“Put on my spare mask and gown on and I’ll show you,” says Robert handing Trump both.
“I’m immune to the virus. Don’t need this junk!” shouts Trump, drawing attention from a masked security guard.
“Sorry. President Cuomo’s executive order of 2021 makes wearing of gowns and masks law,” offers Robert grimly.
“President Cuomo!” shouts Trump. Spotting the masked White House security, pulling out his pistol, Trump angrily complies. As he struggles to gown up Trump says, “Cuomo?! Why isn’t Mike president? He dead?”
“Pence ain’t dead yet… but he’s eating himself there.”
“Eating?” says Trump.
“To appeal to your Trumpers ol’ Pence took over your brand of eating all American fast food. But that shit got way outta control. Last report Pence’s gained 130 pounds since he was ousted from the presidency.”
Trump laughs wickedly and says,”Ousted how?
“Senate unanimously impeached him for slipping ventilators to all his PAC backers. Mikey, never even made it to the elections. Your yes man was lost after you vanished.”
“What happened to Biden?”
“Gone with the Covid. Sweet guy. Don’t think he’d have been much of president in any case.”
“Virus killed old Bernie same day as Moscow Mitch. But not before he gave his spot to Cuomo. Bernie that is,” adds Robert.
“Who’d Cuomo run against?” says Trump in angry wonder.
To be up totally front with you, dear reader — think of me as a lost spirit brother to Governor Andrew Cuomo who likes to tell it straight too, warts and all — I’ve not been a Trump fan since his “co-written” 1987 Bestseller THE ART OF THE DEAL. What a shit he showed himself to be in that book. How he ever got to be president with how he treats everyone like a sucker is beyond me.
To think I had put all my Trump fears, built up over decades of seeing his antics in the media, aside to meditate in DC, along with my love Elizabeth, for the best possible presidency, for the world’s sake, at his Inauguration (see photo below).
Welp, it was a short honeymoon because Trump was already steamrolling over the Standing Rock tribe by green-lighting the Dakota Access Pipeline within days of his dismal swearing in, even before Elizabeth and I headed back to Sedona.
And so, my Trump bias fully disclosed, I proudly present my parody… drum roll please…
TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM – #TrumpsFeverDream
Chapter One – THE LONELIEST WHITE HOUSE
A shabby shadow of his former self, President Trump aimlessly roams an abandoned hallway of the White House, now an empty ghost town. The leader of the free world, his bizarre mop of hair even more of a mess than usual, shuffles to an abrupt stop before an oil painting of JKF and vents loudly, “You had it easy, Jacko. The Cuban Missile Crisis was Jack shit compared to being a conservative running this liberal leaning country during a fucking pandemic!”
A Mexican cleaning woman wearing a surgeon’s mask leans her head out a conference room and quickly ducks back inside again. She takes a small cross on a chain from her blouse, kisses it and prays, “Jesus protect us all from the Anti-Christ.”
After glaring at JFK’s glorious image for an inordinate amount of time, Trump flips off the Kennedy painting and slumps away, a rumpled embodiment of depression.
A short time later, ny the light of FOX NEWS playing Sean Hannity broadcasting from his elegant home, Trump wolfs down half a Big Mac in three bites. He glibly washes the Mickey D down with a long noisy draw his straw dipped into an idiotically large plastic cup of Diet Coke.
Sean Hannity seems to speak directly to Trump from the big TV screen,”Hey Bud. Don’t listen to the commie loving liberals. You closed all travel from China the day you learned about the Chinese Virus, all way back in January. Your bold action was swift, decisive and all-American! If Pelosi and her corrupt Democrat Congress had not distracted you with their hoax impeachment we would never have lost so many precious Americans!”
“Hell yeah!” cheers Trump so loud it sends him into a coughing fit. Between coughs he desperately gasps for air. Trump finally regains control of his coughing and wipes sweat from his brow with a monogrammed DJT hanky, smeared with orange tan makeup. “Shit. Gotta get tested again. Nah. Probably just a budding ulcer this bullshit’s giving me. Fuck this. I give ulcers, not get them! I’m fine. I’m fine. ”
A short time later Trump brushes his teeth before the presidential bathroom mirror. Done, he grins smugly at his reflection, “Looking good, Donnie.”
The Donald in the mirror dryly answers back, “Like hell, loser.”
Trump drops his electric toothbrush clattering to the marble floor and leans to the mirror. He makes strange faces at himself, mimicked perfectly by his reflection. “Seeing things. Must be one those Covid hallucinations that fuck Fauci warned me about, or was it Jared?”
“Jared’s a buffoon’s buffoon,” says Trump’s perturbed reflection.
“Who the hell’s doing this shit? Gotta be a TV monitor behind the mirror doing some kind of deep fake!” growls Trump at his smirking reflection.
“Never thought you had a conscience, eh asshole?” says mirror Trump.
“Screw you. The FBI will figure this out for me and nail your sneaky liberal ass!”
“Right. The FBI loves your fat ass. Don’t they?” laughs mirror Trump.
Nervous as an orange tabby facing down a German Shepard, Trump rushes to turn off the light switch.
Mirror Trump quips, “See you in your dreams, killer.”
Trump scurries off to the bedroom, slamming the door to the bathroom behind him. He picks up a phone. “Danny. — Shut up and listen. I wanna sweep done of my can. Someone’s hijacked my mirror.” Trump listens for a beat. “I don’t need a doctor. I need you to do what I fucking tell you!” Trump slams the phone down and angrily begins to tear his grungy outfit off.
Later, still shaken by his dark vision, Trump jams his chubby legs into his too tight red silk pajama bottoms.
A young black male servant, Robert, sporting an elegant, if there can be such a thing, surgical mask, pokes his roguishly handsome head through the presidential bedroom door and says, “Will there be anything else, Mr. President?”
“Nope. Those two Big Macs and fries will tide me over nicely.” Trumps says, punctuating his sentence with a, “Burp.”
“Night then, Mr. President,” says Robert doing his best to hide a shudder of revulsion.
Trump’s fluffs his pillow without acknowledging the kindly servant. He leaves Trump to his own rantings, gently closing the big paneled door.
“Robert?!” shouts Trump, loud enough to be heard through the soundproof door.
Robert peers his head back inside the door inquisitively.
“Come in, Robert. I need some, uh, advice,” says Trump with a pinch of boyish charm.
Robert apprehensively takes a chair that Trump offers by the crackling fireplace, tilting his head to the side to avoid Trump’s mask-free breath. The gorgeous smell of the roaring fireplace fills Robert’s nostrils. His big brown eyes close in bliss for just a moment and then he hides his feelings, straightening his butler jacket’s red vest.
Ever the salesman, Trump notices Robert’s blissful sniff and brags, “Tonight’s fire is genuine redwood from California’s National Redwood Forest. Gift from the lumber industry. Chopped me up 10 cords. Great guys lumberjacks. They will sweep the forest floor. Biggest forestry contract ever!”
“You never fail to amaze me, sir,” offers Robert politically.
“Robert, here’s what I wanted a fireside chat about: Today Jake Tapper said everyone on my White House personal staff hates me. This despite of the extra I pay I slip all of you huge bonuses under the table, 100% tax free I might add,” says Trump somberly.
“Well, we don’t always sees things eye to eye, Mister President,” says Robert, breaking into a warm reassuring and absolutely genuine smile you can see only in his eyes about the mask. “But ya know I love the fact you say exactly what’s on your mind!”
Without returning Robert’s kindness, Trump says, “Robert, how’s it make you feel when someone calls you nigger?”
“Why, uh, terrible. The worst sir.” says Robert, pain written on his angelic face.
“Well, that’s how I feel tonight, terrible in the nigger worst way,” says Trump dropping his head into his hands.
“About that N word, sir. I wish — ”
“Pence wants me killed.” whispers Trump, cutting Robert’s complaint off. “Keep your voice down, Pence might have my bedroom bugged.”
“Mr. Boy Scout? What makes you think that, sir?” asks Robert respectfully.
“Mike’s pissed I made him my fall guy for the ventilator shortage not Jared. But Jared’s is my son-in-law goddamit. Family comes first!” says Trump staring into the fireplace flames as if looking for answers.
“Amen to that. But relax, Vice Prez Pence wouldn’t hurt a fly, sir. Let alone you,” says Robert reassuringly.
“Wrong. It’s the quiet ones you gotta worry about, Robert. Pence wants me out of the way. He wants me dead so he can pin all the blame on all the Americans stacking up in mass fucking graves!” bellows Trump. “Robert, you’re the only guy I trust. Starting tomorrow I need you to make my McDonald’s runs personally.”
“Happy to but why, sir?”
“Poisoning. That’s how the sneaky boy scout is going bump me off. Try to. Will you do this for me, Robert. Can I count on you, brohiem? Did I say that right. Am I hip.”
“The hippest, sir. Now, if you don’t mind –” Robert notices a trickle of sweat leave a traces of white skin at Trump temple. “May I, sir?”
“May you what?”
“Take your temperature,” says Robert pulling out a thermometer from his jacket.
“I’m fine. Just stress. No fever,’ says Trump unconvincingly.
“Well, I am going to get the White House doctor on the phone just in case,” says Robert picking up a red phone. “Odd. Phone’s dead. Lemme get you into bed and I –”
” I AM FUCKING FINE!” roars Trump in defiance, going into a coughing jag.
“Hang on, Mr. President! Be right back with help!” Robert races out of the bedroom.
“Why is no one fucking listening to me?! I am fit as a fucking — “Trump falls like a tower of fast food to the plush carpet. The room dissolves into the form of a giant butterfly floating amidst a galaxy of stars.
Trump hollers in fear, awakening astride said giant butterfly. Trump hollers again, seeing he’s totally naked.
The butterfly dive bombs for Washington DC., banks upside down and dumps Trump on the White House lawn. Naked, Trump tumbles to screaming halt in the thorny bushes of the Rose Garden.
A flashlight sets the spectacle that is naked Donald Trump aglow. Dressed in a bright yellow hospital gown, Robert, now sporting a goatee, tosses aside a cigarette and shouts, “Who goes there?”
“The President!” shouts Trump, hiding in the rose bushes.
“That you, President Cuomo?” says Robert with a puzzled squint as pulls on his surgical mask.
“President who?!” shouts Trump.
“Cuomo. Wait, what the, that you Donald?”
“Donald?! Shut it and get me some clothes, Robert,” says the shivering Trump.
“But you’ve been missing 2 years now, um, former President Trump!” says Robert in shock. “Where you been?”
Trump’s orange face goes as white as his ample ass.
Happy evening of 11/11/19. I hope you will enjoy this somewhat humorous quantum meditation look ahead two days into one possible timeline. A fantasy that will not happen exactly as I write about here, but one that may paradoxically happen precisely in this way somewhere in the infinite multi-verse or later in this universe.
Take a deep cleaning breath, in through your nose and out your mouth five times. Congrats. You’ve just time traveled in your mind, breaking the speed of light, to the fateful first day of the Trump Impeachment hearings.
11/13/19, 6:30 AM AZ Time
I awaken groggy and ready for coffee. The first sunbeams light up the autumn leaves to the west out our bedroom windows in gorgeous Sedona. Not yet married 2 months, my love Elizabeth and I are still on our blissful honeymoon. At 67 years of age I have never been happier in my long life.
My beautiful bride has a delightful ritual of snuggling to start each day. But today I separate from Elizabeth’s well toned arms and silently slip from bed.
I am as excited as a six-year old on Christmas morn because it’s Wednesday November 13th, the first day of the public Trump Impeachment hearings. I feel a twinge of regret leaving our love nest, but I know Elizabeth finds Trumpy stuff a YUGE time waste. She worked in Special Forces during her 17 years of military service to America and she feels quite sad about the low grade civil war we seem to be mired in.
Our little rescue dog Lincoln snores beside Elizabeth, keeping her company as I make my escape. Throwing on my trusty warm robe I close the door softly behind me and turn on the kitchen light.
Wow. Today’s the first live Impeachment hearing since I was in college during Watergate.
7AM is too early for popcorn while I devour the hearings. So I drop a frozen waffle in the toaster just as Elizabeth steps from the bedroom, pulling her white bathrobe around her lovely figure. Rubbing the sleep from her beautiful blue-green eyes Elizabeth says half asleep, “Why’d you leave bed without hugs, Ken?”
Lincoln hops against my plaid PJs as I say, trying not to sound like a guilty little boy, “Trump’s impeachment hearings start in –”
“Ken, I thought you said you weren’t going to watch the live hearings,” says Elizabeth playfully poking me in my all too Trump-like belly. I welcome Elizabeth’s gentle scolding because she’s suffered through my serious Trump news addiction for 4 years now, sharing a small home office.
Elizabeth takes me into a forgiving hug. She’s without a doubt one of the greatest huggers on earth. She looks deep into my eyes and says,”I’ll make tea. Get the circus going.”
I flashback to the Trump inauguration Elizabeth and I attended with the support of our fans. Our mission: Hold a space of love and hope in the feisty red-capped crowd for Trump’s first and hopefully only term in office. It was a hard thing for me because I’ve not been a fan of Trump’s brash style and the harsh way he treats people who serve him since the 1980s.
Unfortunately, the Ukraine scandal has fired my Trump news addiction back up again. I worry that watching the hearings this morning — and the inevitable cycle of Trump’s feisty blowback — might be harmful to the peaceful energies of my idyllic life here in Sedona.
Little Lincoln pokes me with his paws again. begging for his forgotten breakfast. This snaps me out of yet another of my Trump spells. I pop open the refrigerator and pull out his dog food. I multi-task finishing my waffle, dropping Lincoln’s food in his green plastic bowl to the floor with a familiar little clatter and hurry to the living room.
“Tea’s almost ready” says Elizabeth cheerfully from the open kitchen as I fumble through the hollow book that holds our TV’s remote controls.
I surf to channel 53, CNN here in Sedona where Anderson Cooper is talking without sound. The CNN title card in this waking dream Trumpian fantasy reads:
Trump Impeachment Hearings Canceled!
“What the fuck?!” I shout so loudly Elizabeth drops her tea pot spilling to the counter.
“What?!” Elizabeth shouts as she rips off some paper towel. and quickly starts a cleanup.
“I don’t know. Somehow Trump has gotten his impeachment hearings canceled!”
Elizabeth races to the couch, “Where’s the volume?”
Diving to look under the couch on the floor I say, looking at dust bunnies, “Not here.”
I hear Anderson Cooper’s excited voice boom from the sound system that Elizabeth has obviously found first. Anderson says:
“… you just watched Chairman Adam Schiff announce the unbelievable: President Trump has stolen the thunder from today’s live Impeachment hearings in announcing he will resign the presidency of the United States of America, effective noon Eastern time on this historic November 13th 2019.”
Elizabeth and I leap to our feet and dance and scream for joy! Lincoln runs for his safety zone in our bedroom closet. I sweep Elizabeth into the pose of the famous New York kiss of the sailor and the young woman at the end of World War Two.
Can this really be happening (or happen in two days)? Yes, on several timelines Trump resigns just as Nixon did. But not to avoid the shame, the man has none, but by shrewdly accepting the certainty that the Impeachment of Congress could go either way amid eroding public support. So Trump wisely cuts the deal of his life to be pardoned along with all his family and businesses in return for his resignation.
And now back to our Trumpian fantasy. About noon DC time Elizabeth and I stop working on shipping product for CoolestTechEver.com (shameless plug) to watch TV again. Trump shouts over the noise of the presidential chopper. His face beet red from the shouting, Trump goes on for what seems agonizingly forever. He rambles in a rally-like diatribe against the Deep State, Crooked Hilary and Obama, who he still says was born in Kenya, and more and more. Trump rails on:
“..in anyone’s book, even in Shifty Schiff’s, my Ukraine call was totally perfect! Perfect! Perfect! Perfect! Truth is I only resign today because Mark Burnett and I have reached a deal for me to star in our new reality show THE WHITE HOUSE APPRENTICE, airing Monday 7PM Eastern on NBC. Filming starts right now!”
“Hail to the Chief” plays as Trump high fives his loyal staffers who line the White House lawn leading to the presidential chopper. Head held high, former President Trump proudly strides up to President Pence and bear hugs him off the ground. Trump is already miked for reality TV and so we hear:
“Thanks for the pardon, pard! They’ll be after your sweet ass next, Mikey.” says Trump with a winner’s grin.
“I know, Don. I know. Mother and I are ready to do battle.” says President Pence as Trump walks away, not listening.
Clown to the last, Trump hurries up the little set of stairs, pieces of toilet paper stuck to both his shoes. Trump hams up the Nixon farewell pose as a gag to the laughter from many; but not Jared and Ivanka, whose plans for world domination have been crushed by ex-president Donald J. Trump.
Qanon tweets on 11/14.19 that the toilet paper bit was an intentional insult to the left-wing media to kiss his ass.
End fantasy meditation. We now return you to your present timeline.
Which timeline to which of endless possible futures are you actually on? Trump’s outrageous resignation visualized here? Trump’s rise to become the most outrageous dictator in our blue world’s history? Trump as a humbled man who mends his ways and becomes a surprisingly great president? Somewhere in between? Stay positive imaging please.
Oh and no imagining Trump starts World War 3 timelines please!!! You are far more powerful than you know.
Well, we’ll all know more about what this timeline you’re reading this blog holds on Wednesday. Good night, my fellow meditation fans.