Now that America did not self-destruct after all on January 20th, despite the predictions of Q, it’s time take a deep breath. Phew! Time for me to thank my wife for her amazing help in keeping me from falling down the Q rabbit hole. A hole many of the best people in the New Age and yoga community fell into.
All to the shock and horror of our left leaning community that so many of us could be so hung up — on wearing masks and taking a sensible vaccines — that so many vegans would end up passionately supporting a dim witted Neo-Nazi “hamburder” led insurrection against democracy!
You see, my beloved Elizabeth England, and fellow DreamShield blogger, is a pro-calling mind control BS, based on great intuition and 17 years military experience. Some of Elizabeth’s long and excellent service to America was performed in Special Ops, working in psychological operations. AKA PSYOPS.
To learn more about the weapons grade PSYOP that was launched on the Brits to ram through Brexit and then launched 4 years of Trump hell in America see THE GREAT HACK on Netflix. And, yeah, that film is one of the big reasons the Q brain washers, who may be Russian, is one of the reasons, besides their liking Obama, that, like any controlling cult, Q has told their believers not to watch NETFLIX.
As my loving partner in all things, Elizabeth has and continues to tirelessly blow the whistle on Q for me and those smart enough to listen to her here, Twitter and in person since day one when Q emerged to spread lies and hatred in 2017.
Elizabeth believes that Q, even in tatters for now, remains the most dangerous and powerful mind control tool ever inflicted on the American people. Letting go of Q, and all it stands for, is the first step on the road back to peace of mind.
You might think mind control can’t get me. AND YOU WOULD BE WRONG. This battle for the hearts and minds of America is not over by a long shot. Stay sharp. Many in the New Age community are profoundly infected by hateful conspiracies. So be careful with what you open from well meaning but totally messed up friends and family.
Get ready. Many will not give up Q and conspiracy theories even in the face of the wicked smoking crater the Trump years represent. A persistent desire to live in the bliss of brainwasher’s Big Lie all too well embodied in this sad yet hilarious photo today of the only NY guy who showed up today for Trump’s civil war on inauguration day.
Just remember, with all the love you can muster, that if your confused friend and/or loved one’s are under the very real mind control of Q and the Big Lie, the proven methodology of right-wing extremists, and gently tell them the truth.
Trump was not cheated.
There was NO voter fraud.
Biden is a legit president and is not a baby eating demon.
Let’s get on with building back better.
Use your IQ to free yourself of Q.
Get them to watch more media than just the brainwashing echo chambers.
Go easy on them on yourself in progress they make. It won’t be easy.
I now return you to your celebrating, or, being still lost to Trumpism and Q, mourning, the inauguration of Joe and Kamala, the rightful and righteous new President and Vice President.
Unless you live on a deserted island, you saw on the news or social media that the US Capital was invaded for the first time since the War of 1812 yesterday 1/6/21. A day that will live in stupidity.
This morning, in the chilling aftermath of January 6th, I am shocked to see a number people on social media and ring wing TV are this sharing Q and Trump lies that it was really BLM and Antifa that stormed the capital yesterday. — As if!
If you are a Trump supporter I refuse to believe what many in the media are saying, that you are so lost to the Trump brainwashing that you are a lost cause. Here are some ideas, written as best as I can while I reel from yesterday’s insane and irresponsible attack on our democracy and institutions. Consider it un-brainwashing to get you back on the rocky road to reality.
STOP! Accept your responsibility that Trump launched an insurrection, one based on lies about a stolen election was fueled one post at a time by people here on FB, who are either brainwashed or filled with a desire for chaos. Stop spreading lies and propaganda. Stop hating people with different opinions than yours.
ACCEPT THE TRUTH TRUMP IS A CRIMINAL AND A LOSER. Trump lost the elections, lost the electoral college. He 62 lost state court challenges for lack of evidence. He lost not one but two Supreme Court challenges of the election. He lost the US Senate by throwing the Georgia elections for his own party into chaos. He betrayed his own people in a criminal insurrection by arranging and inciting a riot to invade the Congress in the middle of the electoral certification that resulted in the deaths of 4 people, injured many and greatly weakened our nation. He wants a civil war. Stop helping him start one with your postings here and other platforms. Stop being part of the problem.
TRUTH MATTERS! I use a great deal of magical thinking in my quantum intentional meditation. But I always know where to draw the line and bring the gold I discover in magical thinking back to the real world. Indeed, magical thinking is only beneficial when it enhances appreciation for reality and prompts positive actions. Magical thinking has been kidnapped by Q and other mind control tools. This is horrible. So many good people lost.
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! Enough spreading of bullshit. Enough using your influence to mess with other people minds. Enough supporting racism either directly or indirectly. Stop posting utter nonsense that keeps you and others trapped in a fake reality. If we don’t baby dictators wannabes like Josh Hawley, smarter and therefore more dangerous than the fading Trump and who want to steal Trump’s pliable base.
GET REAL! Be a good citizen in the real world. Start by learning about the real world. Read the New York Times. Listen to CNN, listen to MSNBC and other mainstream media, which must still be taken with a grain of salt. Snopes is a, contrary to lies told to keep you from using it, a great tool to verify what it false and real on the web and media, right or left. Open your minds and hearts to the digesting some truth each day.
Like most patriotic Americans who love this democracy and are not part of the cult of Trumpism and Q conspiracies, I am furious with the insurrectionists terrifying our nation yesterday. But one day, after these viciously deluded people have paid for their part in the sedition of invading our Capitol, if they are sorry and recant their beliefs, they can be forgiven for being misled by Donald Trump with his endless lies, fear mongering and mind control.
Congratulations. If you are an American reading this blog during the final days of the Trumptopia you’re one of the lucky people not to be among the 340,000 to 420,000, depending on who is counting, to sadly and needlessly be killed off by the Corona virus in 2020.
Add to the Trumptopia 2020 shit show the nearly 20 million Americans who were infected by the maskless, feckless, freedom fighters and extra congrats if you’ve not become a long hauler. Happily, not even the ever more seditious GOP can dampen the collective joy over the good news that the mother of all polls, The Gallup, shows Trump’s popularity is falling as Biden’s rises.
All of which inspires me to create a new chapter in my ongoing blog series that began in the spring of 2020 and which might become a novel once I can make the time.
TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM –CHAPTER 8 – TRUMPTOPIA
In chapter 7 we left the Donald Trump of an alternate timeline reality. One where he was not so lucky as our reality’s Trump, who quickly recovered from Covid. — All to our collective shock given his obesity and unhealthy diet. — The orange dictator wannabe lays secretly intubated in a makeshift hospital room that was once his White House bedroom. While across the hall, the First Lady has been accidentally shot by Steve Bannon.
Melania croaks her last words to Bannon, “Tell Donald I love heem.”
Trump’s fever dream madness dissolves. He blinks his orange raccoon eyes, coming to with a loud gasp in his good old White House bedroom. He mutters in disgust at all the moving boxes that surround his bed.
Trump yawns deeply and mumbles to himself, “Knew it. Knew it was all a bad dream when Melania said she loves me.” He turns on TV and is shocked to see Kayleigh McEnany is now a Fox News anchor.
“Morning, Fox viewers. The sad day we’ve all been dreading, January 20th 2021, is here. Despite the heroic efforts of the near unanimous vote of the GOP Congress and GOP Senators, led by GOP rival for McConnell’s throne, Ted Cruz , and a well contained Proud Boy riot on January 6th, one fortunately with no casualties, unless you count their broken hearts, the geriatric Joe Biden will be sworn in at noon today as the unlawful fake president of the not-so-United States of America. We are honored on this, my first day as the new Fox News morning anchor, to welcome the real President of the United States Donald Trump to the show… Uh, sir? Are you there, sir?”
“One sec! Forgot I was going to be on this morning.” shouts Trump as he throws on a robe that is patterned after a king’s gown. “Well, not really forgot. I am sharper than ever. Sharp as… what was I saying?”
The ON AIR sign lights up on the bedroom camera. Now Trump’s gigantic naked bone white ass is all that’s being broadcast live on FOX, which temporarily cuts to a still shot of a well coifed Trump kissing Giuliani.
Trump sweeps empty McDonald’s wrappers off his bed. His orange head a balding Boris Johnson mess, Trump jams on a Lincoln stovepipe top hat over his embarrassing hair and shouts. “Ready, Kayleigh!”
“Mr. President! Ah there you are. Looking very Abe Lincoln too. How, um… nice!” says Kayleigh painting on her famed fake smile.
“Hadn’t heard you were on FOX, Kayleigh,” says Trump coldly.
“Fox made me an offer I could not refuse, sir.”
“Fox is fake news now. I am the REAL president and this whole fake Biden/Harris inauguration thing today is a total sham. Right?” demands Trump.
“Of, of course, Mr. Real President. And I am going to be on site for your real inauguration later today.” offers Kayleigh brightly.
“I’ll never give up! I love my voters too much to ever quit. The rigged elections were stolen by the lower income working class people living in urban areas!” shouts Trump.
“Just call them Black voters, sir. Sorry, we’re trying to get the balance back into “fair and –”
“Hate to cut you short, Kayleigh, but I gotta thank all the suc, uh, brave donors who gave me over $300 million, post election day, to my Stop the Steal Campaign. A new funding record that will earn me a third Nobel. Donations still welcome at this link!” Trump lifts a poster board with his website emblazoned across it in front of his face, accidentally knocking off his stovepipe hat. His hair a beautician’s nightmare, Trump dives from sight and pops back up with the Abe hat turned sideways.
Kayleigh coughs nervously and tries to change the subject,”Um, Tell us about your real inauguration today. Why the choice of Four Season Total Landscaping for the location of your second term swearing in?”
Trump crosses his plump arms in a pout and grouses, “Did I teach you nothing, Kayleigh, while you served under me?”
“You tell me why I selected Four Seasons Total Landscaping, Kayleigh.” says Trump tapping his chubby bare foot. “Hello! I’m waiting.”
“Um, you’re doubling down, sir? On Rudy’s presser he held between the dildo store and the crematorium?”
“Bingo! Haha! I own the libs again!” says Trump doing his YMCA dance, which minus the music is even weirder looking.
“Ooh the libtards hate you, sir!” giggles Kayleigh.
“Hey, Kayleigh, would you like your first Fox exclusive?”
“Of course, Mr. Real President.”
“The master of deal is back, Kayster! I’ve made an exclusive arrangement with Four Seasons Total Landscaping, to be the future northern White House, ” says Trump with a cocky grin.
“Um. Speechless, sir.”
“They’re putting me in the fertilizer department.” beams Trump.
“Um, uh, excellent choice to once again own the libtards. I’m curious of one thing though, Mr. President –“
“That’s Mr. Real President, ” says Trump angrily readjusting his stovepipe hat to his best crack a normal.
“I’m curious, Mr. Real President, why such a small venue? I mean the landscaper’s back alley could not possibly hold more than 100 or so of your loyal followers.”
“Duh. Simple, Kayleigh. Covid!” shouts Trump as if being louder will make his idea more understandable.
“Covid?” asks a panicky looking Kayleigh.
“I alone can save the American people from the virus. So I want my real inauguration to be intimate. You know, less people… to fight the China plague! A plague that Joe Biden’s son Hunter has brought upon our people with his illegal emails to the Ukraine.”
Not liking where this is heading Kayleigh gingerly asks,”Sir, are you still considering re-labeling this tragic killer of innocents and old people to be the Biden Virus?”
“Damn leakers. I was gonna reveal that in my inauguration speech today! Who told you about the Biden Virus?” demands Trump, with a pop on on his top hat for emphasis.
“You did, sir. Um, before I quit,” says Kayleigh with an apologetic smile.
“Right. I knew that. Knew that like Person, Man, Woman Camera, something, something. As you know, I am starting my own network. Trump TV! And it would have been the far,very far better choice for you, Kayleigh. Fox has gone too god damn liberal. Al the truthing! Disgusting!”
“The truth can really suck. I know. It”s just…”
“Just what, Kayleigh?”
“Ivanka. She’s jealous of any time I spend with you, sir.”
“Yeah, my babe, uh, baby can get catty. Can’t get enough of her Daddy dear,” says Trump distracted by a house fly.
“So I figured I able to converse with you more freely, Mr. Real President, at a network Ivanka was not, um, running.” says Kayleigh, finishing with a flirtatious smile.
Trump dives missing the fly and falls to the floor, “Got him and his little fly brother. Two flies with one blow Topped Obama again!” says Trump as the two flies buzz by the camera.
“How is the first lady taking all this?” says Kayleigh trying to move on.
“Dr. Jill? How the hell would I know?” sighs Trump then realizing what he said and quickly adding, “Right! First Lady Melania has written a poem about all this. Like me to read it?”
Off Kayleigh’s nod, Trump recites,
“A Poem the Real First Lady Melania Trump
4 years in the drafty old White House
Four years living with an arrogant louse
Get me off this fucking horse
I want a fucking dee-vorce!”
Trump says sadly, “Oh, that was Melania’s diary. My bad.”
“So sorry, Donald, I mean Mr. Real President.” says Kayleigh, wiping a tear.
“Shoulda rehearsed that poem thingee more. Nothing to be sorry about! Ladies, I am back on the market. How about a date tonight, Kayleigh?”
“Have to be double date. My husband Sean for me and any number of lucky women for you.”
“I’ll check with Kimberly!” says Trump wistfully.
“Don Jr. and Ms. Guilfolye have broken up?”
“Haha. Nope. But why settle for junior when senior’s on the market?”
Trump and Kayleigh laugh. Both have a hard time stopping and soon it awkward AF.
“Never can stay mad at you, Kayleigh Wayleighly. Wanna hear a little of my speech?” says Trump, pulling his robe tight over his bulging crotch. “This one I rehearsed, well, more like skimmed. Actually, my Black body man Robert read it to me. Did I mention Robert is Black?”
“Um, yes you have, sir. Many, many, many time.”
“Robert”s the Black guy that told me I was the best president for Black people aside from Abe Lincoln, maybe,” says Trump swatting the pair of flies away. “So mt speech. Want a taste, Kayleigh?”
“Oh my god, we at Fox News are totally honored to hear your real inauguration speech, Mr. Real President!”
Trump digs through the pile of burger wrappers, “Fuck me, where’s my fucking inauguration speech? Ah here we go! – Ahem! Four years ago we birthed Trumptopia together! This despite the mess I inherited from that Kenya born jungle bunny and –“
“If I may suggest, sir, Jungle bunny may cost your a few Black votes in 2024, sir.” says Kayleigh, sneaking a look at her watch.
Trump ignores Kayleigh and pushes on, “Now, as I begin my second terms as the real president of my ever blossoming Trumptopia, I want to give special thanks to those rascally Proud Boys for acting as my army — scratch that, I mean private security force — sponsored by My Pillow, and gathered here at Four Seasons Total Land –“
Onscreen Kayleigh listens to her earpiece and says, “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President.”
“Mr. Real President! Knew I should have given this interview to Hannity. What the fuck is so important you have the nerve to interrupt –“
“Sean has breaking news from the, um, fake inauguration. It seems fake president Joe Biden has sprained his big toe and –“
“Haha! See! See how old and feeble that old goat Biden is!” gloats Trump.
“Actually, it seems Joe sprained his toe rescuing a bus load of Trump backers from a burning Greyhound single-handidly.” says Kayleigh softly.
“Oh, “whispers Trump. The stovepipe hat falls off his bushy half bald head.
“Sorry, Mr REAL President. Over to you Sean,” says Kayleigh blowing a kiss to Trump.
The TV screen switches to a Sean Hannity who watches in amazement as Joe Biden carries a heavy Proud Boy over his shoulders off the burning Greyhound bus to be tended to by the First Lady Dr. Jill Biden.
Sean says bitterly to the camera, “Welp, there goes Trumptopia, folks!”
Trump glumly turns off the TV and starts to pack his remaining shit.
Trump’s Black body man Robert pokes his head in the bedroom door and says, “Sir, the Secret Service, insists you vacate immediately. You get dressed and leave that packing to me.”
Trump falls to his knees and prays,”Where’d I go wrong with your people, Robert?”
Robert ponders and finally finds the words, “I had to pick the moment it was, you know, after Charlottesville. When you said there were very fine people on both sides?”
Trump nods slowly. Falling tears streak his orange makeup. Trump finds a half eaten burger on the floor and attempts to eat away his sorrow.
The Biden transition is nothing short of a transition back to sanity. But it feels like the transition is taking forever because Trump, the king of the bad losers, is making this an ugly hard transition, one fraught with the danger of a civil war. It’s as if all Trump’s hate fostering and insanity of the past 4 years is being wrung out of the dirty dish towel of Trump’s reign. Hang in there.
I’d venture to say that Humankind has never experienced such intense stress, inflicted in particular on the American people, by the delusional leader of a nuclear power who is fully capable of trying to induce the rapture as a committee of one.
Since 2015 I’ve come to expect a unique brand of duplicitous lunacy from Trump and the GOP. But what I did not see coming this week were the 126 seditious House Republicans and 17 AG of other states signing onto a doomed to fail lawsuit filed by a Texas AG, an AG currently under indictment.
Fortunately, SCOTUS put Trump bogus legal claims to bed with not one but two DENIED rulings this past week. So what ‘s keeping all Trump’s delusions about a stolen election going? Greed. He’s found a way to bilk people for a legal defense fund. All while people are dying at the rate of a 9/11 a day of Covid. It’s not ordinary denial… it’s super-denial.
Here’s a story about super-denial on a much smaller personal scale. The names have been changed to protect the innocently delusional.
A 65th 25th BIRTHDAY PARTY
The hot autumn desert sun of 2010 beats down on the strange white domed structure know as the Integretron.
For most of 2010 I’ve taken a deep dive into the Los Angeles New Age community. This dive into the unknown came after beating my head against the Hollywood wall for a decade. A beating that has left me almost penniless and with no true Hollywood friends to show for it. So the open arms of the LA conscious community is welcome. Even if I am often wary of many in the conspiracy-loving community wanting my film skills in barter for healings and room and board.
This weekend I am filming a gathering of about twenty attractive minor celebrities of the LA conscious community, thrilled to be gaining fans and attention on the newfangled tool of social media. Our happy group makes our way up into the dome that sits near California’s Joshua Tree National Park for ceremony in the acoustically perfect interior of the Integretron.
After we all enjoy the great singing of a failed but talented wannabe Hollywood opera star, we’re all gathered by the campfire as the sun sets. I lean to the birthday guest of honor, a senior citizen, let’s call her Myrtle after one of my favorite aunts, and say, “Happy 65th birthday, Myrtle.”
“Don’t wish me that!” Myrtle quips.
“Because the mother ship is taking me up tonight to be rejuvenated. When you see me in the morning I’ll be a hot young 25!” quips Myrtle without a trace of doubt in her Texas twang.
Now, I’d gotten to know Myrtle well enough in LA to be frank with her, so I say dryly, “It’s cool you’re so sure you’re going to be reverse aged to 25, changing you from too old for me into too young to date, but maybe you want to leave yourself a little wiggle room so that if tomorrow morning you’re still 65 –“
Myrtle cuts me off with a dismissive wave and says to me as if instructing a child,”The ETs teach that to have even a shred of doubt sabotages manifestation.”
That night I did not sleep well in the Integretron. Not because I was even remotely imagining Myrtle would be abducted from our little group up to a spaceship to be reverse aged to 25, but because one of the guest’s snore was amplified to insane level in the perfect acoustic chamber.
Next morning over coffee and pancakes at a Ruby Tuesday’s diner on the way back to LA I managed to not remind the still 65-year-old Myrtle of my warning to leave herself some wiggle room. No worries. Myrtle had worked it all out for the group by announcing over pancakes, “Well, as you can see I am sadly still 65. That’s ‘casue the mothership captain told me the Galactic Council decided not change me back into a 25-year-old.”
“Why not?” I managed to ask with a straight face.
Myrtle grins like a kid caught with their hand caught in the cookie jar but manages to say, sounding unconvinced herself, “‘Cause no one on earth would believe who I really am without a matching new passport photo.”
“Aho,” the snorer from last night, who Myrtle loved like a son, says. BTW, “Aho” is New Age lingo for Amen. And that Aho was all the group cared to say on the matter. Myrtle smiled cockily at me and went back to enjoying her strawberry pancakes.
All these years later as I watch Trump spin his alternate reality that Joe Biden stole the election from play out on the world stage I am reminded of Myrtle and her ability to spin a new web of lies to keep her dream of being returned to the tender age of 25 up to date and active. 2020 and 10 years later and she’s now 75 and still dreaming of a youth rescue mission from the ETs.
Each time Trump loses a court victory, 56 losses in court and counting, like Myrtle he simply creates a new lie to support his waning chances. His willing group of supporters who are playing the game with him then spout those lies to anyone willing to listen.
Don’t buy the lies. Trump will be out of office, short of a civil war, come noon EST January 20th. Until then, if you’re a Trumper, take my advice and leave yourself some wiggle room. As for me. Well, I’ll be hoping for Myrtle’s mother ship to take me a few months into the future to escape this eternal transition back to the sanity of a kinder and gentler America under Biden and Kamala.
Trump’s ongoing refusal to accept his loss of the 2020 elections is what it looks like to fail at failure.
Let’s face it. Good sportsmanship is not a Trumpain skill set. Not surprising because Trump loses at far more things than he ever succeeds at. Take for example Trump’s two failed marriages, not counting his phony marriage to Melania, not one but two failed Atlantic City casinos, a failed airline, a failed university, a failed steak biz, a failed liquor biz, failures in leadership on education and the environment that hurt us all, a failed second term bid where 80 million Americans said, “You’re fired!”, a failing hair dye nightmare contesting of the election by the break-out star of the second BORAT film, Rudy Giuliani, and more and more failures.
Ah, but the #1 failure, the one that will define Trump’s failed place in history, while he spends his days golfing and tweeting about election fraud, is his failure, past, present and future, up to January 20, 2021, to protect America from an invisible enemy called the Corona Virus. Tragically, by Christmas the CDC is projecting 321,000 Americans dead of the virus, far exceeding the entire American death toll of World War 2. All because Trump miserably failed and continues to fail to lead on simple masking and simple social distancing and encouraged his followers to engage in the failed experiment of herd immunity, preferring the politics of division and hate.
Now, you might expect with Trump’s history of failure, in such a grand a repeating pattern, that the golfing pouter in chief, enabled by the unrecognizable, once respected GOP, that he might begin seeing a massive drop in popularity. And you’d unfortunately be wrong because Trump and the GOP are clinging to 70 million some voters for Trump with a stolen election fantasy, custom tailored to continue to brainwash his loyal base. And so on and on the world’s worst sport ever tweets from his golden toilet or his overpriced golf courses, “Rigged Election!”, all to the deadly detriment of a badly divided nation.
Sadly, I’ve learned the hard way from trying to help some of my New Age friends — duped into loving and supporting this scoundrel and his mutated and malignant GOP, that New Agers fed an endless stream of lies about the election being stolen by honest voters wanting a end to hate soaked politics — are going to have an especially hard time breaking free of Trump. You see, New Agers are so anti-vax and anti-mask that they are sadly continuing to submerge their natural disdain for kids in cages, racist sexist policies, the destruction of our EPA standards, love for our fellow man and much awfully more. It’s tearing my oblivious Trump loving friends apart and it’s hard to watch. Still I hang in there hoping something unforeseen might rescue my friends in the New Age bubble from the evils of Trumpsim.
AMERICA’S NEXT COACH WARMS UP
Joe Biden is like a NFL coach who is replacing a loser coach Trump, fired halfway through the season because his leaderless coaching style has cost his team every game. And yet this loser coach has somehow convinced some his failed team they were cheated by the refs and that they are, trapped in his alternate reality, undefeated!
As for how I’ve dodged all the Red Pill (Q indoctrination) efforts, well, I have a father to thank who loved to lie. And his compulsive need his fabricate reality like Trump does created in me for discernment as a means to survival, giving me inner alarm bells around liars. If you’re a fan of mine who trusts in my objectivity, please believe me when I say real success is based on truth. No matter how much the truth hurts. And it produces a far more lasting bliss than fantasy, one that will endure the test of time.
And so I invite you, dear friends and readers who still love Trump, when you are hopefully one day ready, to leave Trump’s “alternate facts” Twilight Zone universe that you in future confine fictional bliss for fictional entertainment, be it gaming, music, TV, movies and book enjoyment.
Lies have no positive place in the real world.
What Trump will never learn, but hopefully we can through his fantasy mirror example that is South Dakota Souix like in the tribe member called a Heyoka, a shaman who does all backwards to teach, is that we all grow from learning from our failures in accepting reality as it truly is. For only through the acceptance of reality and failure can we created the world as we really want it to be for us and our children and our children’s children.
Allow Trump’s failure at at gracefully accepting the 2020 elections be your guide up and out of the Trump/GOP/Q rabbit hole.
I’ll wrap this Trump meditation up by inviting you to join me in reading and watching less about Trump’s spectacular inability to be a good sport and to focus more on Joe and his plans for his taking over the team we call America. I am excited most, so far, about his choice of John Kerry as special envoy to deal with getting control of the all too real existential threat of climate change.
Meanwhile One Timeline Away… in a universe not very far away… an obese President Donald Trump, very much like our own, living on a parallel Earth, very much like our own, lays intubated, deep in a Covid coma.
Steve Bannon paces the White House presidential bedroom that’s been converted into a hospital room for the unconscious lump of Trump. Running his stubby hands through his unruly mop of salt and pepper hair, Bannon stops pacing to stare in disbelief and despair at his pal Trump through the clear plastic wall the separates them.
Losing her small amount of patience Ivanka says, “Well, Will you do it, Steve?”
Bannon hesitates for long beat before answering coyly, “I need time, Ivanka. He’s in a damn coma. How am I supposed to run a campaign with him fucking unconscious?”
Jared chuckles offering, “Ever seen WEEKEND AT BERNIE’S?”
“No.” say Bannon and Ivanka in unison.
“You guys are no fun,” says Jared, sounding high as a kite on something.
“I’VE GOT IT!” shouts Bannon, frightening Robert, Trump’s Black aid, who is replenishing Trump’s IV bag. It falls to the floor and bursts on the makeshift tiles.
“Quiet. Respect for my father-in-law,” scowls Jared.
“Respect from the WEEKEND AT BERNIE’S guy? A movie where Bernie is dead and some freeloaders use Bernie’s corpse to stretch out their free ride?” says Bannon sternly.
“No fair, Steve. You said you hadn’t seen it,” says Jared sheepishly.
“I lied to save you the embarrassment in front of the President’s wife.”
“Don’t you mean daughter?” says Ivanka.
Bannon remains smugly silent.
Robert slips on the fluid spill and falls to the floor, sending a tray of instruments flying. A flying scalpel impales Trump’s forearm but the trio of plotters are so engrossed they miss Trump’s impalement.
“So what do you have, or got, Steve?” asks Ivanka.
“And please don’t say Covid,” half-jokes Jared.
“Overdoing the Zoetis again, darling?” ask Ivanka, her cheeks flush with anger.
“Knock off the jokes. My father’s, and our, political futures hang in the balance. Go ahead, Steve. We’re all ears,” says Ivanka, oozing sex appeal to get her way by pinching Bannon’s ugly cheek.
Bannon swats Ivanka’s cheek tweak away, distracted as he watches Robert bandage a blood spurt where Robert pulls out the flying scalpel. Bannon takes a long breath and grunts, “Either of you familiar with deep fake videos?”
“We sure as hell are. A porn deep fake of me fucking a donkey while Ivanka rubs her ample breasts in the donkey’s happy face has 10 million views and counting,” says Jared drowsily with a yawn.
“Ew. Disgusting.” says Ivanka, nodding rapidly in agreement.
“Well, minus the donkey and the sex all we need to do is get a great voice actor with the same build as Donald.”
“Why would people want to see a video of Donald fucking a donkey?” ask Jared incredulously.
“Silly, the donkey is the mascot for the Dems, ” says Ivanka, proud of her political acumen.
“Enough with the donkey shit. We do this legit. An impassioned speech from his sick bed! We make a deep fake video of your father coming out of his coma to rouse to the base with a red meat attack on the old fuck Biden,” offers Bannon.
“Genius! I’ll never know why Daddy fired you,” says Ivanka kissing Steve on the cheek.
“Wasn’t fired. I quit, ” brags Bannon.
“Ha. And Nancy Pelosi is really Q, ” jokes Jared.
Ivanka gives Jared a shot in the arm as she says, “Zip it. Go on, Steve.
“The Q balls love the sexual dirt. So in his deep fake speech let’s have Donald’s double accuse Biden of having a S&M affair with Kamala,” Bannon says dryly.
Ivanka hugs Bannon so hard and he get a little boner and tries to hide it with a Wall Stree Journal.
Jared jealously look on and says, “The security risks are enormous. Where can we find a Trump imitator we can trust?”
“Simple. We just use them for the deep fake and then kill them!” cheerfully offers Ivanka.
Bannon pulls out his cell phone and dials, “No. We need to keep the imposter alive long ’cause we need more than one Trump deep fake video. And I know just the man to help us. The Man!” Bannon waits a beat as his phone rings an unknown caller who finally picks up. “Vlad?”
“Steven, we speak alone?” says Putin on Bannon’s cell phone speaker.
“Uh, yeah.” says Bannon motioning for Ivanka and Jared to keep quiet. “Remember that double guy we were going to murder in Donald’s place, if Donny boy would have been impeached, then smuggle Donnie boy out into Mother Russia for amnesty?”
“Da.” says Putin warily.
24 hours later…
A naked Yuri Yakov, who could easily stunt double for Trump, slips into a hospital gown with the seal of the president printed on the chest. Yuri says to the nervous looking Bannon, “Relax, Commrade Bannon. –”
“Call me, Steve please.”
“How about Steverino?” says Yuri imitating Trump.
“When we go live?”
“Never. This shit is taped so I can add in the deep fake in later. Doing the damn edit myself.”
“Relax, bro. Can’t be too hard to make a deep fake if kids on the internet are making these damned things. Haha! I love the one where Bill Hader turns in to Tom Cruise. How ‘ bout you, comrade Steve?”
“Just, Steve! Cut the chi chat, Yuri, and study your fucking lines!”
“Comra — Ah Steve, why so tense, my brother in this deepest of deep fakes?”
“Melania’s due back tonight after cutting her month long sabbatical short. So we need to wrap this up pronto and get her bedroom back to normal in…,” Bannon pauses to read his watch and adds, “Exactly seven hours.”
Meanwhile at the grand stairway…
An exhausted Melania slumps her way up the stairway to the presidential residential quarters. She’s spotted by a shocked Ivanka and Jared, standing guard for Bannon.
“Momma! You’re home 7 hours ahead of schedule. How nice!” shouts Jared rushing down the stairs to intercept Melania.
“Jared, you have never called me Momma before. What is wrong?! Donald dead?!”
“No, no. Of course not. But he’s in no shape for visitors now.” says Ivanka nervously.
“Fine. I need a bath. Bad weather. My flight was as exhausting one of Donald’s accursed rallies or protests or whatever he’s calling them to lure these fools to the deaths. Such stupid people Trumpies.”
“Let me treat you to coffee, Melania!” says Jared yanking Melania down the stairway.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Why are you keeping me from my bedroom, Jared?”
Jared panics into silence but Ivanka takes over. “Redecorating! They are redecorating your bedroom, Melania, and it won’t be done for several hours. How’s an OJ sound?”
“Fuck off the both of you! Decorating of the White House is my department!” Melania storms past Jared and Ivanka up the stairs. They shrug to each other, not knowing what to do.
Meanwhile on the set that’s been built in Melania’s First Lady bu dour…
Yuri is doing a very convincing voice imitation of Trump, “Q is saying Kamala first dines on babies before bull whipping a naked Biden –”
Bannon shouts, “Cut!”
“Ghost of Khrushchev! What was wrong with that one, Comr — Steve?” sobs Yuri.
“Be stronger. Trump may not be bright but he’s an amazing leader,” says Bannon, getting up in Yuri’s face.
“Agree with you… on the not bright part. Haha.”
“I don’t need your fucking opinion. I need a stronger Trump!”
“Before I do take 20 here, answer me a question, or no more takes.” coyly offers Yuri,
“I noticed, Steve, that you were fired on — ”
“Quit not fired.”
“OK, so you quit August 2017 and then, presto, October 2017, Q makes their first post on the web.”
Bannon sighs in frustration and says, “Totally coincidental. Now –”
“And then there are clues in your name.”
“I know how to spell my fucking name!”
“Replace the B in your name with a Q and you have QAnnon!”offers Yuri, immensely pleased with his conspiracy theory.
“QAnon is spelled with two Ns after the A, not three, Cocka.”
“There’s no need to call me a dummy in my mother tongue!”
Bannon pulls a gun and shouts at the trembling Yuri, “The script! Stronger! Action!”
Melania burst into her bedroom and Bannon spins to see who has barged in and his pistol accidentally goes off. BANG!
A rapidly spreading dot of red blood appears over Melani’s heart on her pristine white dress.
Melania softly says, “Ouch.” and then she falls to Steve’s feet.
Steve takes Melania’s pulse, “Dead as Trump’s brother Robert. Fuck me…” says Bannon, dropping the gun to the floor.
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8 – TRUMPTOPIA
A big thanks once again to my talented wife Elizabeth England for playing all the female parts in this 2021 reading.
As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers or the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.
Whoa! Alternate reality President Arnold Schwarzenegger is here and wants a word with you!
Listen up, America! My good friend Ken Sheetz is busting his flabby ass to bring you laughs and wild adventures, in a time of sorrow; to show you just how fucked up your world can be if you don’t defeat your Trump once and for all, along with all the lying losers in the GQP! Make a god damn donation, you cheap bastards, to help Ken keep bringing you more chapters and more old-style radio show audio and make sure that… I’ll be back.
Welcome to my Covid writing therapy project. Hope you’ve read/listened chapter 1-5. Chapter 6 audio when I can find the time.
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, I predict 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’s erratic mismanagement not so sad and dangerous.
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 . 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:
Heads up. A new rewrite of Chapter 5 is coming with the new title of THE DESERT SICKNESS. I left the story and nightmares Trump set at the same of time space as originally drafted. Otherwise, it’s 75% new and has, for the first time, awesome, according to fans, old-style radio show audio. I am a synthesizer that loves fiction set in the present. So read on if you want to enjoy this as a draft, typos and all, as you await the release of CHAPTER 5 – THE DESERT SICKNESS; mid to the end of September 2021!
Hey buckaroos! I wrote the first draft of Chapter 5 in May of 2020. In it an alternate reality Trump catches Covid. Will it this other Trump, living one timeline from our own with twins of most of us, learn something getting deathly ill about the value of life? Maybe become kinder, more truthful, more protective of humanity? Now that would be amazing fiction. Read on and find out. Subscribe for the latest material or meditations.
CHAPTER 5 – THE COVID KID
Meanwhile one timeline away….
Trump blinks his open his bloodshot eyes and squints at the 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 stir and says in his best soothing tone, “Please don’t struggle, Mr. President. You’re lucky your body man 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 Hydroxychloroquine?”
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 any sort of bleach?”
Trump nods “yes” 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 certain Celebrity Apprentice rival –”
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 the bankers are demanding $3 trillion in aid.” Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.
“Ok, Arnold Schwarzenegger my VP pick.” says Pence
Trump writhes in agony that his fever dream about Schwarzenegger 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 Arnold my temporary VP, assuming I can get a Senate waiver on his not being American born,” says Pence as Trump writhes in agony. “See? That wasn’t so bad now was it? Okie dokie. I turn you back of to the good Dr. Fauci. Get well soon, 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. Covid fever dreams can be quite intense. Brace yourself… self… self.”
WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA
Total whiteness gives way to total blackness. Trump’s blurry twisted vision of an old town of the West fades into confusing view. Town folk, half of them wearing blue colored western bandit masks and half mask-free mill about on the dusty street.
Two gunfighters take to the street, one blue masked young man and mask-free old timer in a red cowboy hat and everyone scatters.
Blue masked young man says, “I take back what I said about Sheriff Trump, Uncle Bobby. We ain’t gotta do this.”
Oblivious to the gunfighters, Trump stares into the desert sun, fascinated as it keeps shifting back and forth between being the sun and an overhead surgery light.
The man in the red hat spits and shouts, “Bugs you I love Sheriff Trump more than you, Nephew. Don’t it?”
“You raised me, Uncle Bobby! Course it does!”
“Draw, Nigger lover!”
“No, Uncle! I refuse to draw on fam –”
The blue masked young man watches in shock as blood spread from a hole in his white shirt. He falls face down in the dirt street.
The man in a red hat snarls over the young man’s body, “Worthless, mask wearer. Give my regards to my slave loving sister in hell.”
Trump watches in a daze town undertaker and town drunk, Rudy Giuliani, drags the blue masked boy towards his funeral parlor with a red front door. Rudy, waves to Trump and says brightly. “Mornin’ Sheriff Trump. Gorgeous day!”
Rudy shrugs his shoulders and returns to dragging his human cargo for his funeral parlor.
Trump works out a kink in his back, squirming 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 mutters to himself “Reckon I’m on the set of Westworld?”says Trump, puzzled at his Western accent. “That’s odd as a rattler with jingle bells on his darned tail. Fuck. Can’t shake this danged bum fuck accent!”
Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. She’s 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.
“Haha! That’s my name alright, sleepy bear. You sure do dream deep. Made your fav, hon. Burgers and gravy. Just the thing to wake you up!” coos 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’s president of these here United States a way, way in the future.”
“Sorry, hon. Ya’all’s just the Sheriff of our sweet little town of Corona in 1864,” giggles Kellyanne.
“I’d a sweared it was the year 2020,” grouses Trump, still surprised by how old West 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, 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 are terrified of the desert sickness.”
“Stupefyingly stupid. Old Jesus can save us from that! Right sheriff and town reverend?” brags
“Amen, Billy boy,” 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 forgit my favorite deputy. Here ya’all go, Billy boy,” says Kellyanne offering deputy Barr a gravy soaked burger.
“Whoa, dreamed that you, Billy boy, 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 is real.
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.
“That uppity nigger Bobby Tulsa says he ain’t opening our fair town’s only General Store ’til Doc gives everybody a checkup for the desert sickness. Meantime, Corona’s citizens, red and blue both, are runnin’ outta food fast and they’s a blamin’ you as Sheriff/ Mayor,” offers Barr.
“Time to pay a little visit to our town’s only 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 with mouth to mouth, and 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. You Yanks gottsta 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 Trump’s 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. And I am 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 deranged 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 “Stormy” 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, Tulsa. 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 Tulsa gets his food stocks.”
“Already done. The blackie gets most of his supplies from a damned 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 desert sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”
“Hell, yeah! 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 wear masks,” offers Barr feebly.
“Never you mind with them outdated Union notions! Draft up charges and serve that blackie Tulsa. 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 Tulsa 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 with the hood down.
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.”
As Carona’s reverend and sheriff I offer you last rite, Robert Tulsa,” says Trump piously.
“I said get on with it. Last thing I want to here are more of your blathering,” says Robert, the rope tugging at his neck.
“No last word then, nigger?” shouts Barr.
“Just this. America was built on the backs of my people and the extermination of it’s native –”
Trump smacks the grungy hangman’s 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 native America sporting a stove pipe hat with feather in it 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 Tulsa, escaped hangin’ last night.”
Townspeople mutter angrily among themselves.
Unfazed, Trump riffs, “But what you fine Confederate folks don’t know is letting that nigger 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 Tulsa’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.
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 a 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 rememberin’ has left me parched. ”
Before Trump can answer, an out of breath pimple faced Jared, 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.
“You’re a 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 tower 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.
To Be Continued in Chapter 6 – Mt. Rushmore and the Bunker Rebels
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.
As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers the Supreme Court, or for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.
Over my 24 years as a filmmaker and screenwriter writer of modest notoriety — see the About Me and My Films to learn more me and my stuff of dreams — 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. Who can say which one is better?
All I know is I love being an organic storyteller, especially in the case of Trump, because it allows me to channel the weird news of the day into story. Like Trump’s suggesting ingesting bleach as a Covid treatment this week.
And Sean Spicer on Dancing with the Stars?
We now join….
CHAPTER 4 – DANCING WITH SPICER & SCHWARZENEGGER
Meanwhile, one timeline away… Trump has caught Covid-19 and is trapped in a series of ever more delirious fever dreams, just as we all are on this timeline.
Trump’s Black body man, Robert Tulsa, runs back into the Presidential bedroom where President Trump has collapsed of Covid. He stops dead in his tracks shocked to see Trump strangling on a bed sheet twisted around his neck.
Robert hesitates rescuing the choking Trump. “Lord Jesus guide me on what to do,” prays Robert.
We enter his right eye, travel down Trump’s optic nerve, and enter his Adderall befuddled mind…
Trump’s twisted view of the deranged Hilary Clinton, strangling him in the White Hospital, in the Covid devastated future of 2022, where the death count has reached 3 million lost Americans, fades into the darkness of death.
Off in the distance, a small yellow speck sparkles in the distance.
Trump looks down at himself, happy to see he’s out of his paper hospital gown of his last fever dream and spiffed up in his favorite blue power suit, complete with his clownishly long red tie. He surprised to see he’s wearing shinny red vinyl dancing shoes that match his hilarious orange afro.
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, “Learned a few things on Dancing With the Stars, Spicey, I see.”
“Touche!” shouts Spicer, spinning Trump like a rolly-polly punching doll.
“Enough!” growls Trump. A crowd of thousands of red hatted MAGA rally goers cheer wildly. Trump does a bow and the crowd goes absolutely ape shit. Spicer gracefully takes Trump back into the dance.
“Welcome back, sir. Oh, look who we have for dance judges!” sings Sean.
Trump notices the dance judges are none other than the nine members of the Supreme Court. Bret Kavenugh sneaks a swig of beer and flashes Trump a thumbs up. While Ruth Bader Ginsberg blows a raspberry.
Trump grouses, “Fuck this. I will not dance for the likes of Ruth Libtard Ginsberg.”
Trump struggles free himself of the dancing Spicer, but the smaller man is supernaturally strong.
“Let’s Marimba!” sings Sean. He 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 will give you a death sentence.”
“Death sentence?!” says Trump.
“Afraid a lot has changed since you vanished two years ago, sir. Dance like your life depends on it. Because it does!”
Across the shinny black stage for the Fox & Friends team provide color commentary as the crowd of Trump fans continue to adore their returned king.
“Good evening, America! 5,000 plus Trump fans are here tonight at the Miami’s Hard Rock Sports Stadium to welcome back the great President Donald Trump!” says Doocy with a big silly grin to the Fox cameras.
The cheering crowd waves Trump 2024 flags and shout “Welcome back, President Trump!”
“Lots of GOP VIPs here tonight too,” adds Kilmead. The cameras point to Senator Ted Cruz, Governor Christi Noem, and the usual GQP suspects.
“Oh my God, Trump is an amazing dancer and his new hair style is revolutionary.” says Ainsley giggling about Trump’s orange afro.
“Any minute now we expect President Schwarzenegger to arrive. But here comes Vice President Chris Christie. A word Chris?” says Ducey.
“Sure,” says Chris as he signs an autograph from a sweet old woman with a MAGA hat. “What’s your name, hon?”
“Mindy!” chirps the sweet old lady. Veep Christie signs with a flourish, collects a smooch and turns to Doocy.
“How does President Schwarzenegger feel about the mysterious return of President Trump?” says Doocy.
“Well, after President Trump was declared dead after he vanished two years ago, a lot of Trump’s unfinished work has fallen on Arnold’s big shoulders,” says Vice President Christie.
“Ha ha. Not an answer, Chris.” teases Kilmead.
“With three million dead of Covid, rumors of a new DeSantis variant that’s attacking the white community, now might be a good time for you to drop the smart-ass routine, Kill-mead.”
“Any truth to rumors of a new zombie variant?” says Ainsley batting her eyes flirtatiously.
“Zombie variant? Q shit?” chides a concerned Vice President Christie.
“Hmm. No comment,” demurs Ainsley.
“I’ll close by saying, President Schwarzenegger and I are in total agreement that my old pal Trump has a lot to answer for when it comes to the three million and counting death toll and dangerous new variant that ravaged America until President Schwazenegger stepped in,” says Vice President Christie.
“Are you saying, Mr Vice President, that President Schwazenegger is going to ask the DOJ investigate Trump’s handling of the pandemic?” asks Doocy, hoping for a scoop.
Without answering, Christie slowly turns away from the Fox & Friends trio and strides, whistling, for the VIP box. Mitch McConnell beckons to the VP to a saved seat between himself and a selfie taking Tucker Carlson.
“Swell. I’m stuck between the Russian turtle and and Tucker the fucker,” mutters VP Christie to himself.
Trump yelps as Sean yanks his red tie so hard that 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, Ding!
Trump flies, screaming towards more bumpers that light up in rapid succession as he rolls into and off them.
3 MILLION DEAD OF COVID! – Bong!
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 down the giant pinball machine set and falls on his orange face to the black shinny stage floor. Trump struggles to his two left feet. All to the wild applause of red capped MAGA rally goers.
In the stands, Governor Noem says softly, “His fans still love him.”
“Schwartzengger’s in deep trouble if Trump seeks to be reinstalled.” chuckles Mitch.
Trump sees himself dancing with Sean on the Jumbotron screen, “How the fuck did I end up with a damn orange, afro?” says Trump as he tries to pull off the wig. “Damn it! This clown wig is stuck!”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. Your new fro is gorgeous,” sings Sean.
A pipsqueak of a zombie usher, with the name tag Jerry, emerges at the top of the stands. Jerry the zombie usher hungrily eyes a burly Hell’s Angels biker and leaps upon his back. Jerry chomps the biker’s tattooed shoulder. The biker yelps and instantly transforms to a fellow zombie. Biker and usher go to bloody work making more zombies.
Clueless to the instant zombie apocalypse racing through the five thousand strong crowd. Trump bows and gloats, “Yeah! I still got it, Spicey!” shouts Trump, beaming a million watt smile in the spotlight to his Trumpies… who are rapidly turning into a zombie horde.
“Look at me! Look at me tap, tap, tap. The best tapper ever. The most super epic tap dancer who ever tapped a tune!” signs the off-key and bad dancer Trump.
In the stands, Sweet old lady Mindy is bitten and transform in the blink of a bloodshot eye into a flesh eating zombie. She hungrily eyes Vice President Chris Christie as he flees the VIP zombies. “Stay aways from me, Tucker. Stay away.!” shouts the terrified Christie. The old lady leaps forty feet into the air and chomps into the screaming Veep’s fat leg.
The applauding crowd of now 90% freshly minted zombie Trumpies still have the love of Trump in their eyes.
“We love Trump! We love Trump!” says the zombie horde as one.
Sean panics and yanks Trump back into the Marimba and whisper sings, “The judges hate your tap dancing!”
“Well, I didn’t pick Brett and Neil for their good taste.”
“But the crowd… something seems terribly wrong.” .
“You worry to much, Spicer. Remember how you gave yourself an goddamn ulcer when I told you, ‘Tell the presser that my inauguration crowd was the largest ever?'” laughs Trump.
Trump and Spicey quick-turn away from the crowd an instant before a wave of biting and grotesque zombie transformations races through the audience stands behind them.
“Oh no! Look at Moscow Mitch! He’s zombie!”
“Relax. Mitch always looks like a fucking zombie,” pants Trump.
The curtains part and none other President Arnold Schwarzenegger struts onto the stage, a bevy of beauties on each arm and says warmly, “Donald, it’s so good to see you. I can’t believe what a good tap dancer you are! I’m sorry the judges don’t like it. I thought it was awesome, man.”
“So you think president now, huh?” grouses Trump.
“Oh, Donald, you’re always so funny.
Two high-fiving Trump zombies leap iknock each others arms off.
“But you weren’t born in America. How can you be president?” demands the clueless Trump.
“Because the people needed me, Donald. They needed me after your terrible presidency.”
“Well, I’m back now. Doesn’t that mean I’m president?” angles Trump.
“I’m afraid not, Donald.”
“I’m going to into the audience now, with your wonderful followers. Oh, wait… they’re all zombies.” says Arnold in shock.
Zombie Representative Jim Jordan dives for Arnold. But Arnold swings a folding chair an knocks zombie Jordan’s ugly head off and says, “Wrestle that!”
“You killed my Congressional hatchet man, you mother fucker!”
President Schwarzenegger watches in shock as his bevy of beauties are devoured by Trump zombies and says softly, “We are in great danger. Very quietly we speak.”
“What?” shouts the hard of hearing Trump.
“Quiet, you fool! They’ll hear you!”
“MAGA, MAGA, MAGA, “says a badly decaying Trump Zombie, who looks like she may have once might been South Dakota Governor Kristi Noem.
“Whoa! That you, Kristi?” asks Trump.
“Donald, no!” shouts Arnold, spinning Trump to face him as the zombie Trumpers grow hungrier and more restless.
“Relax, Terminator. These are my fans. Nothing to worry about!” chides Trump. Her biker chic biker’s outfit dripping blood, Noem stalks Trump.
“Donald, Duck!” says Arnold pulling a .357 Magnum.
“Hey! I’m no cartoon –“
“Duck you fool !” shouts Arnold shoving Trump to the floor. Bang! Governor Noem’s head explodes.
Arnold gloats, “Consider this a recall!”
“Swell. There goes my shot at Mt. Rushmore.”
“Oh, you’re going to take the place of Lincoln, huh?” quips Arnold.
“Go to hell! She was a Republican!”
Arnold picks off a zombie that’s come too close. BANG!
“Republican? Donald, they’re a bunch of flesh eating zombies! Your Goddamn handling of the virus caused a mutation!”
“It is what it is,” says Trump with a shrug. “I’m still taking you court where Neil and Brett owed me!”
“Look at the Supreme Court. They’re insane! They got this hive mind! And they’re going to blow us up if we’re not careful!” shouts President Schwarzenegger, taking aim.
As if on cue, laser beams shoot from Gorsuch’s eyes. But the shot at Arnold misses and instead slices Brett Kavenaugh in two. Kavenaugh says, “Ha! Ha! Split decision.” Kavenaugh’s cut in two body comes apart with a sickening slurp.
“Fuck! There goes the conservative majority,” bitches Trump.
“Mr. President, so yummy, yummy,” says a sweet looking female zombie.
“So tasty. Like a big blo0d orange,” says a male zombie in a fuck Hillary T-shirt.
“Oh-oh. Your Trumpies are looking at you like you’re a goddamn Happy meal!” warns Arnold.
“You’re just jealous because my fans love me. They love me!”
“Look, they think you’re delicious!” shouts President Schwarzenegger. BANG!
“Trump can I have a selfie?” says a Proud Boy zombie.
“Sure,” says Trump.
“Are you insane? Run, you goddamn fool!” BANG! Arnold blows the zombie Proud Boy away and yanks Trump into a run.
A zombie that looks like he used to be either Ted Cruz or the Wolverine steps slowly for Trump, “Hamburders. So good. He’s full of hamburders.” Cruz roars as he dives for Trump.
BANG! Arnold blows Cruz’s head off.
“Have a nice cruise.”
“Why you gotta do that?” grouses Trump.
“Make a wisecrack every time you shoot somebody?” pouts Trump.
“It’s my trademark. Get over it Donald!” shouts Arnold.
Arnold’s good shooting frees Ruth Bader Ginsberg from the Supreme Court hive mind. Gorsuch fires another laser blast at Ruth. BANG! Arnold blows Thomas’ head off.
“Guess he’ll never be head of the supreme court.”
“Thanks, you big hunk of hero!” says Ruth blowing a kiss to Aronold as she exits the giant sound stage. But Trump and Arnold are blocked by the hundreds of angry zombie Trumpies.
“Dear God I smell something awful. Wait… Have you pooped your pants, Donald?”
“Stop ordering me around, Schwarzenegger! I’m the real fucking president!” barks Trump just as zombie Mitch McConnell dives, green teeth bared, for Trump’s neck.
“Oh, it’s you, Donald. I must tell you the greatest regret I have of my career is that I was not able to defeat Obamacare for you,” sobs McConnell as he dives for Trump. Blood splatters Donald.
“Now ya did it!” shouts Trump.
“Putin’s gonna be pissed you killed Moscow Mitch!”
“Shut up and move, you out of shape hamburger brain! Now! Now! Now!” shouts President Schwarzenegger, shoving Trump into a maze set of mirrored walls, the Trump zombie horde hot on their heels.
“I had way, way better ratings on The Apprentice than you did, Arnold!” gripes Trump.
“Fuck you, Donald. Go right!” says President Schwarzenegger. But Trump comes to a stubborn stop. ” Go right,I said! You love right don’t you?”
The mindless Trump zombies are lost in the maze, buying the duo a bit of time .
Trump pants and says badly out of breath, “Wow. I’d be more scared if these zombies were black.”
“The Trump variant of the virus only makes White people into zombies, Donald. Thanks a lot.”
“Damn Chinese,” quips Trump.
“Pathetic! I hope some day when you have passed, Donald, hopefully of the covid you allowed to spread and mutate, that scientists crack open your thick skull and study what makes you the greatest racist in world history!” says Arnold running into the maze.
“Enough! I ain’t budging until you agree that I am the rightful president, Schwarzenegger,” pouts Trump.
“I inherited a shit-hole US of A when you abandoned ship in 2020. For two years I’ve been cleaning up your Goddamn mess and I am so done with this! So fuck you! Fuck you, Donald you’re on your own!” says Arnold running off into the maze.
Trump shouts after Arnold, “Foreigner! I was twice — Uh oh!” Trump’s tirade is cut short as the Trump zombie horde spin around the corner behind close in his heels. Trump spins and say, “My brave, Trump fans! Halt!” says Trump making a Nazi salute.
The Trump zombies all freeze in their tracks and return Trump’s Nazi salute shouting, “Heil, Trump! Heil Trump!”
High above, perched in the rafters, watching the show, the angel winged ghost of Martin Luther King passes a bag of ghostly popcorn to the ghost of LBJ and says sadly, “All I can say, Lyndon, is I’m glad Trump’s not one of my flock”
LBJ says, “Well, the orange clown sure as hell ain’t one of my flock either, Martin.” frowning down on the Trump zombies offering Trump a Nazi salute.
The maze, seen from this ghostly high vantage point, is a horrific collection of interwoven Nazi symbols.
Meanwhile, on the glossy sound stage floor in the maze below, a zombie, who was once Tucker Carlson, steps from the zombie horde,” Mr. President…” groans zombie Tucker.
“That you, Tucker? Wow. Good to see you, man,” says Trump happily.
Zombie Tucker nods and says sheepishly, “Ah, I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry for what, Tuck?”
“Well… You look great.”
“Thanks, Tuck. You… not so great.” says Trump sheepishly.
“I’m so hungry, sir. All the Big Macs you packed away. — Sorry, sir. I gotta eat you!” Tucker races from the crowd of Trump zombies for Trump.
“Tucker, you’re canceled.” BANG! “Come with me, Donald if you want to live!”
“Wait. Where have I heard that line?
FUCK YOU! THIS IS NOT A GOD DAMN TRIVA SHOW!”
“Hey, I’ve got Proud Boys who will beat the living shit out of you for speaking to me in such a rude -“
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I think I found a way out.”
“No. I love my fans.”
The Trump zombies all smile at Trump suddenly.
“See? My Trumpies… Wait a minute… I have a zombie army!” says Trump.
“What the hell did America ever see in you?” shouts Arnold as he dashes off again.
The red capped zombies begin to inch for Trump. “Stop!” shouts Trump again, doing his Nazi salute. But the zombies pick up speed. Not much, but they do pick up speed. Trump freezes in his tracks as the zombies claw over each other.
Suddenly, Spicer appears from nowhere to the rescue. “So grateful! You’re safe, sir! The Trump zombies listen and obey my song!” sings Spicer, thrusting his pelvis. “Halt! You fabulous bastards!”
Before Trump can say another word a badly overweight zombie leaps upon Sean Spicer. “Not the hat! Don’t touch the hat!” screams Sean. And rips him to shreds, splattering Trump is Sean’s blood. “Chris?”
“It’s always about the bridge. The bridge…” mutters zombie VP Chris Christie.
A horribly deformed Vice President Chris Christie spots Trump just as Trump spots him.
“Chris, is that you?” says Trump.
“You! You gave me Covid, you stupid bastard! Now we gotta eat your delicious ass! Dinner’s served, gang!” says zombie Chris Christie as he dives for Trump… and Trump somehow easily dodges Christie.
Trump easily keeps dodging as he taunts, “Slowpokes. Always did prefer the movies where the zombies are slow as fuck. Whoa! Gotta tweet that!” says Trump pulling out his cell phone and tweeting as he runs through the blood soaked mirror maze. “I love my twitter. Love Facebook even more. Yeah, social media. That’s where I get all my power and I got the tech nerds wrapped around my gigantic little finger.”
Christie dives for Trump and misses.
“Gettin’ tired yet Christie? You are one slow as fuck of zombie. Hahahahaha!”
Trump far behind, Arnold dashes through the maze. He stops to look at himself in the mirrored wall of the maze and says to his reflection, “For as old as fuck as I am right now, I still look better than –,” A zombie wearing a cheese hat jumps out in front of Arnold, waving an AK-47. Very slowly of course. Arnold gets the drop on him and BANG! Arnold notices the zombie he just shot is wearing a Congressional pin. “Oh, fuck. I think I just shot Ron Johnson.” Arnold yanks the machine gun from Johnson cold dead hand and says, “Oh well. No loss.”
The cocky Trump turns the corner and stops dead in his tracks facing his greatest enemy… a long… long… “RAMP. This is it. Impossible. No one could make it down. I’m finished,” croaks Trump as the slow moving zombie horde closes in on the frozen Trump. “This is it for me.”
“My brother President, I am here to save you!” shouts Arnold mass executing zombies with the AK-47 he took off Ron Johnson.
“You’re not my brother President. You’re a foreigner. You’re not president.”
“Goddamnit. Let me save you, you stupid fuck!” says Arnold as he easily runs down the ramp. “Baby steps, Donald. Try baby steps.”
Trump waddles down the ramp, slow as shit.
“Oh my God! What is it with you and ramps?” says Arnold sending dozens of zombie to their graves.
“Do not fucking rush me, Schwarzenegger. I will not end up with a hip surgery!”
“Hip surgery? You need a brain surgery!” shouts Arnold, picking off ten Congressmen zombies closing in on Trump with the AK-47. “And you’re welcome for my saving you.”
Foreigner! I’m the president!”
“Hurry! I don’t have unlimited bullets here, you know!” shouts Arnold, polishing off a baker’s dozen of Trump zombies.
Trump finally makes it to the bottom of the ramp. Trump fast walks with his arms as he slow walks with his feet.
“You’re not fooling anyone with that ‘fuck you’ walk of yours, Donald”
The equally slow moving zombie Christie reemerges from the Trump zombie horde. Trump shouts at Arnold, “Well, what are you waiting for? Shoot him!”
“I will not shoot my goddamn Vice President. You’re on your own, Donald. Again!” says Arnold running off into the maze.
“Let’s cut this fat orange fuck down to size, boys and girls. He’s had so many Fish Fillets we can all feast on one of his chubby thighs for a week!” shouts Christie. The growing zombie horde becomes more determined, as they slowly move for Trump, who is quickly running out of maze.
Trump finally gets it and runs as fast as his fat legs can carry him. Trump dodges through the mirrored maze and comes face to face with the entire Fox and Friends gang. The trio of Fox zombies have muted into an 8 foot tall three headed drooling monster.
Trump says nervously, “Hey, hey, how you three doin’? Whoa! Love that new look. It shouts GOP unity!”
The Fox and Friends giant Zombie rips the orange clown afro wig off Trump’s head, leaving Trump completely bald.
The deformed head of Doccy does all the talking,”You, fucking evil clown! You made us lie about the Covid every Goddamn day. You’ve killed us! You’ve killed the world! Get him!”
Trump pulls off his long red tie and forms a silk lasso. Trump’s red lasso swirls and snags the not so friendly Fox & Friends. Trump dashes off, amazingly light on his feet for such a fat man.
“Sir, lie to us! We love your lies,” shouts Ainsley, despite angry glares from the heads of Kilmead and Doccy.
Trump freezes in his tracks and riffs, “OK… How’s this one? The Chinese vaccines caused to mutation that made you sweethearts into a three-head giant zombie, not me!”
The tied up trio all confer with each other, speaking in some kind of weird zombie language. Ducey says, “Breaking News! “Trump and the other zombies watch Doocy with great anticipation. “Kill this lying sack of shit!”
The tied up Fox and Friends zombies, followed in slow pursuit by Christie. The zombie smash in side of mirror. Glass flies as Trump tap dances away.
Trump loses the zombies in the maze again. He comes upon President Schwarzenegger desperately pondering a series of five doors, labeled in neon with the years 2020 though 2024. “This is your show, Donald! We only have seconds to pick which door!”
Trump slowly walks up the pentagonal formation of doors, “Well, 2024 looks good because I can easily defeat you in a rigged election.”
“I already tried that door, you fool. It’s locked!” shouts Arnold as the sound of the zombies gets closer.
“Well, 2021 then. I’ll have won the election against you, even that fucker Biden.” says Trump with a smirk, opening then door. But Trump is stunned to see a angry mob of red capped insurrectionists, chasing Mike Pence as they shout, “Hang Mike Pence! Hang Mike Pence!” Trump slams the 2021 door shut and says, “What the fuck was that?”
“Oh, just some of your Proud Boys you’re so proud of!” grouses President Schwarzenegger.
Trump zombies, some of whom Trump saw at the glimpse of insurrection before they were zombie, spin around the corner.
“Time is up asshole! Pick another door!” barks Schwarzenegger as he mows down the endless supply of Trump zombies.
Trump yanks open the 2022 door and comes face to face with a fat zombie Mike Pence. “Donald?”
“Mikey? Haha. So good to see you, buddy,” says Trump hiding his terror.
“The insurrection. Why did you send the Trumpie insurrectionists to hang me on January 6th?” says Pence.
“Uh, must be some kinda antifa trick. I’d never sick my Trumpies on you, buddy. Not me. I’m from 2020! We never had the insurrection. I swear, Mike!”
Pence scowls, “Huh. Why don’t I believe you, Donald?” He unhooks his jaw and swallows Trump whole.
“Mother Mary of God? — How does he taste, though?” wonders President Schwarzenegger.
Pence burps and says somberly, “Like hamburgers. What else?”
Pence’s gaping maw transforms to Trump’s personal attendant Robert, giving Trump mouth to mouth. “Like breathing into a football!” says Robert out of breath.
The unconscious Trump is back in his White House bedroom in the good old present day April 25, 2020. Jared and Ivanka, dressed to a glittery hilt for a formal dinner, both look on nervously.
Ivanka whispers to Jared, “What in holy hell was daddy singing about? Some kind of hive mind. What was that?”
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.
“Can you two keep it down for a minute?” says Robert, taking a breath from resuscitating Trump.
“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 -white-shit aside for 5 minutes while I –“
“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 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.
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5 – THE COVID KID
Return with us to the thrilling days of yesteryear in the OId West, when Trump is the sheriff of a small western town divided into Confederate and Union citizens
A big thanks once again to my amazingly talented wife Elizabeth England for playing all the female parts in this 2021 reading. No disrespect to the fallen of Covid intended. I hope you can have a good sense of humor about all this stuff. It’s the only way we can keep sane.
And thank God we’re on the timeline we are where we don’t have the three million dead kind of situation I think we would have had under Trump. I don’t know what the hell he was doing with the Covid, but it really was not working . Kudos to Joe Biden, Kamala and his team for what they’ve done to restore our lives. I’m going to be seeing my grandchildren soon and I’m really excited.
As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers the Supreme Court, or for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.
Whoa! Alternate reality President Schwarzenegger is here and wants a word with you!
Listen up, America! Help my good friend Ken Sheetz is busting his flabby ass to bring you laughs and wild adventures, in a time of sorrow, to show you just how fucked up your world can be if you don’t defeat your Trump once and for all, and all the lying losers in the GQP! Make a god damn donation, you cheap bastards, to help Ken keep bringing you more chapters and more old-style radio show audio and make sure that… I’ll be back.
This is a hard fictional story to write. Frankly, it makes my heart, mind and soul hurt deeply to watch President Donald Trump fail to daily take responsibility for his slow and poor response to the #coronavirus. His “briefings” have become a near total scam of free campaign media where he lies and sends his followers to their early Covid deaths.
Topping this Trump’s halted funding the World Health Organization in the middle of this pandemic to, IMHO and many others, deflect blame from his YUGE ego.
And now, without further ado I present…
CHAPTER 3 – HATE IS A VIRUS
Meanwhile… one timeline away.
Robert gazes over his surgical mask at the full moon hanging over the White Hospital, formerly the White House. His deep brown eyes, which were all smiles a few minutes ago chatting with his mysteriously returned boss, are now filled with his true feelings of contempt for Trump.
In the distance, Trump tires to bully his way past a short, overweight and disbelieving Hispanic security guard.
“I tell you I am President Trump!”
“Hola. And I am Barrack Obama.”
“You’re almost the right color,” says Trump bitterly.
“Got any ID, smartass?” says the security guard dryly.
“Why not?” says the security guard.
“Because, I ah, I got here buck naked on the back of this, uh, yuge time traveling butterfly?” says Trump, absentmindedly kicking a cigarette with his inflamed barefoot.
Trump flashes back.
“Look, whatever kinda butterfly you rode in on, Covid-Kid! With no ID I don’t let you in. This here is a hospital. We got sick dying VIPs here aplenty. And with no ID you ain’t no one!”
“Rudi Guliani in there?” says Trump trying to muscle past the smaller guard.
“Top secret,” says the security guard shoving Trump so hard that the would be king stumbles backwards.
“Nasty! You’ll be sorry you laid hands on me!” says Trump dusting himself off from imaginary fleas.
“Right. So sorry, Mister President. Now hop back on your butterfly and buzz the fuck off!”
Fifty yards of social distancing away from arguing the Trump and the stone faced security guard, Robert pulls down his surgical mask to light up a fresh stogie. Smoke glides in the moonlight and takes the shape of an old woman’s face.
“Grandma…,” whispers Robert to himself.
Robert closes his deep brown eyes and looks deep into his recent past with his inner eye. He is back in his family’s rundown DC apartment. He gazes sadly down at his dying grandmother Annie, a beautiful light skinned African American, well into in her seventies.
“Breathe deep Grandma. Relax. I got you. Please breathe,” says Robert patting Annie on her back.
“How’d I get this damn virus walled off from the world?” says Annie going into a coughing fit.
“I think the devil himself musta gave it to me. Then I gave it to you.”
“Not your fault Trump infected you, Bobby.”
“I had a test. Musta been a false negative. Trump never did standardize tests fore he vanished.” says Robert bitterly.
“Maybe all that hate he had for our people turned his fat ass to dust,” coughs Annie.
“That’s it. I’m taking you to the ER, Grandma.”
“No! I don’t wanna die in one of them zoos — cough — they call a hospital. I’ll die right here in our family home just like your father and big brother did,” says Grandma in spurts. “Now, Bobby. You’re gonna be all alone. So can you promise me one thing?”
“You mighta caught Trump’s covid but don’t catch his hate.”
“Aw, don’t ask me that, Grandma… cause I think it’s too late,” croaks Robert.
“Hate’s a virus, love.”
“I know, Grandma. I know all too damn well. But after losing Dad and –“
Grandma Annie stops breathing and goes into a violent seizure. Her tender eyes go still.
Robert’s teary vision returns to the present. He grimly watches Trump idiotically arguing with the stubborn security guard.
Trump rages,”Look you Mexcian pinjata brain, just let me take off my mask and you’ll see who the hell I am!”
“Pull down that mask, I shoot dead you on the spot,” says the security guard pulling his gun.
This only infuriates Trump more and he bellows,” A gun?! You pull a gun on the President of the United States! I’ll have your peon job! What’s your fucking name, Jose?”
“Now, you sound just like the Trump! It is you, you racist pandejo!” Jose pulls back the trigger hammer on his gun, murder in his eyes.
Robert jumps between the angry men, “Carlos, Carlos. take it easy, bro.”
“Stay out of this, Roberto!” says Carlos the security guard.
Robert amps up his charm and points at the masked Trump, “This guy Jerry here’s just my covid crazy patient. He ain’t no Trump.”
Trump keeps his big mouth shut for the first time in his life.
“He sure as fuck sounds like the US Hilter!” says the guard.
“Nah. I took old Jerry here for a walk in the Rose Garden. Idiot fell into the rose bushes. Gotta get some meds on his scratches. My fault he don’t have his ID. Can you let it slide, amigo? Let me put his fat ass back to bed. Huh?”
Trump almost breaks his silence, but being held at gunpoint he instead bites his tongue. Literally bites his tongue. Robert sees as a spot of blood appearing on Trump’s mask.
“Well? What you got to say for yourself, Jerry?” growls the Carlos the security guard.
“I, um, apologize,” says Trump in defeat, making the first apology of his long spoiled life.
“That’s more like it, pandejo.” Carlos says as he begrudgingly holsters his weapon and angrily stands aside.
Robert pats Carlos on the shoulder and says brightly, “Thanks, man. You’re the –“
“Shut the fuck up, Robert! Get me to my presidential bedroom!” demands Trump.
Robert makes a cookoo sign behind Trump’s back to Carlos and follows the fuming Trump.
Trump rips off his mask. He storms up the paneled hallway, lined with hospital beds filled with the sick and dying VIPS from religion, business and politics. We see many familiar faces. Bill gates one of them. Some are on on ventilators, some are dying for lack thereof.
Trump breezes arrogantly past it all, muttering, “All a bad dream. Can’t wait to get back to my bed and –” Trump spots sick Fox News star Sean Hannity waving him over to his hospital bed and shouts joyfully, “Sean!”
“In the flesh. What’s left of –” Sean answers with a racking cough that cuts his punchline short. Robert silently looks on, trying to manage the rage boiling up in his eyes.
“Easy, Sean. Wow, you still rate to end up here in my White House,” says Trump brightly. “Hate what that prick Schwarzenegger’s done to my place. Finally had it back in shape after that Kenyan and his little brats ran it into the — “
“Wouldn’t get down on Schwarzenegger or Obama if I were you, Donnie. The libtards are, they’re running the show now. Armold’s a traitor to the GOP. So where you been for the last two years, pal?” advises Sean.
“Nowhere,” says Trump vacantly.
“All this is just bad batch of Mickey D’s I had before bed. None of this is real,” says Trump brightly.
“Oh, buddy boy, it’s all to fucking real. Lucky thing you weren’t around the past two years to see the liberals destroy all you and I did together,” says Sean, a tear rolling down his sallow cheek.
“Three million US citizens dead and counting does mess with one’s popularity, ” sadly says Robert.
“Well, been nice, uh, catching up with you, Sean. Um, see you when I wake up,” says Trump shaking Sean’s trembling hand.
Sean jerks Trump’s hand to his lips, kisses it and says, “This is curtains for me. Not enough ventilators. Too much of the world’s factory workers got too sick too make –” Sean goes into racking dry cough, his familiar Fox face going beat red.
Trump snatches his hand free of Sean’s kiss like it might carry Covid and says, “Let’s go, Robert. My bedroom. Now!”
“Still love you, man!” coughs Sean as Trump vanishes around a corner.
Trump shimmies through a tight spot in the hallway, past familiar shocked faces of religious politicians and business leaders of both parties.
Trump spots his reflection in mirror and Trump in the mirror says, “Feeling anything in that black heart of yours yet?” Trump staggers on, not answering his conscience in the mirror and staggers up the ruined White House staircase.
More sick VIPS in hospital beds fill the former meeting area between the White House presidential quarter’s bedrooms. The noise of all the ventilators is macabre.
“You ain’t gonna like the changes Schwarzenegger made to your bedroom, sir,” warns Robert as Trump throws opens the door.
Trump’s jaw drops at the sight of six patients jammed into the old presidential layer. Trump races to a hospital bed right cradling a frail old woman, exactly where his California King used to reside and orders Robert, “Get all these sick losers out of my bedroom. I want my bedroom back exactly as it was now!”
The wasted old woman in the hospital bed slowly blinks opens her eyes. Her sagging face , filled with confusion, quickly gives way to wide eyed rage. “YOU!” rages Hillary Clinton, the old woman, as she dives onto Trump. With a super human strength Hillary tackles Trump as she digs her bony hands into his windpipe.
“Robert, help!” chokes Trump.
Robert calmly sits down in a tattered armchair and says nothing.
“Bastard black. After all I did for you –” says Trump in fits of coughs as Hillary maintains a death grip. Hilary cackles. Her superhuman strength allows her to easily continue ringing the last breath from Trump as she screams,”This is for three million of Americans you killed with your stupidity and your arrogance!”
Robert lights up, ignoring the murder of one Donald J. Trump and says sadly to the smoke cloud he puffs, “Sorry, Grandma Annie. Trump’s hate virus done got me.”
Trump’s vision of his crazed executioner, Hilary, fades to the darkness of death.
END CHAPTER 3
As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers or for that matter the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.
Make a donation to help me keep bringing you more chapters and more old style radio show audio. Donation link.
Click TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM in the menu bar top of the page to read all the chapters. More chapters coming. Thanks.
Here’s a little bonus visualization for those you out there that do quantum intentional meditation.
Yeah, these are terrifying time. Accept that. Be with it. You’re here for reason. Let stress roll of you like water off a duck’s back. You’re the earth and politics just the clouds in the sky. That’s all it is.
You’ll be here long after all that’s going on is gone.
One of my goals is creating these stories is to help you realize things could be worse… one timeline away.