Meanwhile, when we last visited the alternate Trump universe, one timeline away… Trump’s harebrained insurrection succeeded in a wonky as hell overthrow of the rightful US government. This sadly happened through the sheer blind luck of Pelosi and Pence both taking wrong turns on the run on January 6th, ending in both being taken hostage by the rag tag white supremacist led insurrectionists.
A gruesome house to house battle, dubbed The Blue Civil War, erupted to put the rightful President Biden into the Oval office, has so far cost 256,234 American lives.
Looking to raise quick cash for a boost in the polls to bless his proposed launch tactical nukes on Blue states, Trump enlists the help of a Marjorie Taylor Greene for crowd funder to raise $5 billion to knock out her mythical Jewish space laser. We now join…
TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM – CHAPTER 10 – A BITTER CHEESE
Trump shows General Marjorie Greene Taylor, the new Speaker of the House, to the paneled door of the oval office saying, “Much as I love you, Margie, I don’t want to see your face again until you have the $5 billion!” Before Taylor can complain, Trump slams the door in her face.
Nestled in the blue yellow sofa, My Pillow Guy, Mike Lindell, the newly minted Secretary of Defense and Pillow Production Czar, reports to Trump on progress in Blue Civil War. He speaks fast, like he’s ripping off a band-aid, “Sadly, we’ve lost Illinois to the Sleepy Joe forces, sir.”
“What about Wisconsin?” demands Trump.
“The Battle of George Floydland was — ”
“George Floydland?!” shouts Trump.
“F.K.A. Kenosha Wisconsin, sir,” nervously answers Secretary Lindell. “Confusing, I know, because Minnesota is where Floyd was –“
“Do I look confused?” says Trump getting up in Lindell’s dumb as dirt puss.
“Of course not, sir!”
“I know where that counterfeit passing snake Floyd was choked out! Spades wanna name part of Wisconsin after a dead loser Minnesotan that’s their fucking funeral. Bigger question: How did that useless cheese head Johnson blow the 2-1 military advantage I gave him?” says Trump firmly pushing the button on his resolute desk to call for a Diet Coke.
“You’re in luck , sir! My film team from ABSOLUTE PROOF has whipped up a new doc about it and it’s already up on Trump TV!” says Lindell, doing a little victory dance.
Robert, Trump’s Black body servant, enters at a run, delivers Trump’s Diet Coke. Robert avoids making any eye contact with the hand waving Lindell.
“You put a fucking documentary about my brave Trumptopia troops losing to Obama on my TV station without my OK?” barks Trump.
Robert stumbles as he quickly exits to avoid Trump tantrum fallout.
Lindell fumbles with the big screen remote. He nervously says, “Sir, ahem, CNN and MSNBC have their version of the story coming out on the Battle of George Floydland premiering tonight. I had to move fast so that you’re the first one to tell the story. You know to slant it your way, of course. Ha ha. Knew you’d OK that since you are the genius chosen one after all!”
“Secretary Lindell… I saw on Fox News that you were broke and homeless. So how’d you afford making a movie with a 24 hour time –”
“Look, Donnie boy, I know you still watch Fox, because you’re personally keeping an eye on the enemy. But that junk will rot your –“
“Fair warning, I don’t like this rushed as fuck doc you’re with Pelosi, executed on Trump TV LIVE tomorrow at dawn!” barks Trump, cleaning a speck of lint off his banana Republic uniform.
Wiping sweat from his brow Lindell hits play and he says, “Narrated it myself.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me watch!” grouses Trump, already annoyed by the opening title.
A Bitter Cheese – Defeat in George Floydland (F.K.A. Kenosha, Wisconsin)
Documentary style footage plays as Lindell ham-narrates:
House to house combat raged for weeks in America’s dairy state. Troops led by former president Barrack Obama are on the march south from the Biden won city of Milwaukee.
Trumptopia’s Supreme Commander, aside from President Trump, Don Jr., confers beneath the fire scorched Kenosha Brat Stop sign with General/Senator Johnson, who for some dumb reason demands both titles as General Senator — Seriously, if this titty bar loving cheese dick slept better he’d have had a much clearer head for the battle he was about to lose for our heroic leader Donald the Chosen One Trump, all powerful President of Trumptopia FKA the USA.
For a dreamy night’s sleep visit MyPillowGuy.com!
“Fuck’s sake! Is this an My Pillow infomercial or God damn news story?” comments Trump imperiously.
Lindell hits pause. “Sir, we’ll edit my little pillow plug out ASAP. Let’s go on, sir. There’s some things in here you’re going to want to see firsthand,” Lindell quickly hits play again.
Lindell’s narration continues: And so, because many in the US Armed Forces are sitting out the Blue Civil War out, the hand to hand civilian combat showdown of the 21st century was at hand.
Lindell hits “pause” on the remote and says proudly, “Like the poetic thing I did with the hands? Classy huh?”
Trump just glares at the My Pillow putz who quickly hits the “play” button in response.
First to fall were the obese of both the red and blue civilian troops, causing some smart asses on the rogue app Twitter to dub this The Battle of the Second Battle of the Bulge. Although the bloodiest civil war since the Civil War of Lincoln’s Day, it has proven to be a chance to lower our obesity health index for the first time in 50 years.
The game was afoot. The sneaky Black former failed President versus our heroic great white Hope’s son of our stable genius president Donald John Trump, Don Jr., was accompanied by his operatic battle crier Colonel Guilfoyle .
Both of them clad in golden armor, astride the white stallions recalled the great days of Roman rule. All looks promising as General Senator Ron Johnson joins the Trumptopian troops in his cheddar cheese colored armored tank to draw final battle plans.
“General Johnson.” says Don Jr imperiously while Johnson lifts open the hatch on his tank.
“With all due respect that’s General/Senator Ron Johnson, Junior!”
“Oh, get off it, Ron. We’re about to go into battle. Let’s keep it short shall we?” grouses Guilfoyle.
“I outrank you and outgun you, little missy,” says Johnson laughing as his tank turret playfully takes aim at her and Don Jr.
Don Jr. fast draws his pearl handled pistol and blows the smile from Johnson’s face along with his head.
The cameraman shouts off-screen, “Holy fuck!”
Don Jr. smiles for the camera, “Command is all about respect. And –“
“Donnie! Come on you wuss! We gotta battle to win!” shouts Guilfoye.
“Later, fans. After Kimberly and I kick some Kenyan BLM ass! Yee ha!” shouts Don Jr. as he rears up his stallion and follows Guilfoyle. The two look amazing charging into battle until…
BOOM! The duo vanish in a massive explosion.
“Stop! Don Jr. is dead?” shouts Trump.
Lindell hits pause and says consolingly, “Along with Colnel Guilfoyle and most of our brave Wisconsin Trumptopia troops. Sorry for your loss, sir”
“My son was a damn fool not using Johnson cheesy tank. But, hey, I’ll put on a show of grief. Should inspire some donors,” says Trump.
Lindell looks for any sign of grief from the stone faced Trump and then says, “Brilliant as always, sir! Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on Fox in five minutes to discuss the film.”
“No. I’ll take the Fox interview myself.”
“It’s really no trouble, sir,” offers Lindell, clutching one of his crappy pillows for security.
“I said I will take the interview. No one’s lost more in this battle than me. My firstborn.” says Trump with a fake sniffle.
“But may I start the Fox interview and turn it over to you? Makes you more sympathetic.” says Lindell hopefully,
“Hmm. We can do that. But make it quick.”
“Great. Follow me. I’ve got the Fox setup in my office.” says Lindell, pointing the way with a gracious bow.
“No. This interview will be done from here in the oval,” demands Trump
“But it’s all set up in my office and there’s not time to — Of course. Of course.” Lindell barks into his phone. “Get the Fox crew over to the oval.”
A short time later Trump listens as Secretary Lindell makes the intro to the Fox cameras.
“Our Donald may have lost a son… but he still has all of you fine citizens of Trumptopia as his children. My fellow My Pillow fans, I give you the chosen one, our true President, Donald John Trump,” says Lindell with sweep of his hand that messes up Trump’s hair. Everyone holds their breath for Trump’s furious reaction. But Trump does not notice his hair is askew, revealing a bald pate as he speaks to the camera:
My fellow, Trumptopians, in a vicious sneak attack, Blue forces led by the evil Barack Obama, murdered my… my brave boy Don Jr. in cold blood. This is personal now! Therefore, Obama the puppet master and his puppet Biden have left me no choice but to order, herewith, a tactical nuclear strike on George Floydland, FKA Kenosha Wisconsin.
I know it seems horrible as such an attack will kill red and blue soldiers and civilians alike. But the Pentagon estimates this ultimate shock and awe attack will end the Blue Civil War years ahead of conventional hand to hand fighting. Thus saving millions of American lives at the sacrifice of approximately half a million Wisconsinites.
Fear not! To reduce civilian casualties I am hereby grant the next 30 minutes to depart the George Floydland’s blast zone.
Please take your most precious possessions as Kenosha will be radioactive and uninhabitable for the next 35 years. Good news that’s half the normal length of radioactivity contamination thanks to our brilliant tactical nukes granted to us by our beloved friend and ally Kim Jung Un. Good night and God Bless Trumptopia.
Fox News cuts to pandemonium on the streets as forces of the left and right fight their way out of Kenosha. It’s a blood bath.
The camera lights go off and Trump smiles proudly at the stunned camera crew and a speechless Secretary Lindell.
“How was I?” asks Trump calmly.
Fox cameraman wearing a Trumptopia T-Shirt gushes, “Trumptopia’s behind you, sir!”
“I’m really trying to keep casualties low yet send a message of compassion. Fucking tightrope act,” says Trump loosening his red tie. Not to mention the chance to catch Obama sleeping with a nuke.”
“3 D chess once again, sir!” says the Fox cameraman.
“What’s your name, kid? You have a future on Trump TV.” says Trump shaking the cameraman’s hand in the dominant style Trump is famed for.
“But I have a major My Pillow distribution center in Kenosha,” the shocked Lindell finally says.
Trump checks his watch and says, “Um, not 28 minutes.”
A strategic bomber glides the starry skies over Lake Michigan beneath the full moon. In the bomber cockpit a heated argument rages between the pilot and co-Pilot.
“Orders are orders!” shouts the pilot.
“Not when the fucking order is to nuke a city on American soil for a delusional illegitimate president!” bellows the co-pilot.
Pilot and co-pilot both reach for their pistols. BANG!
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11 – TO NUKE OR NOT TO NUKE KENOSHA THAT IS THE QUESTION
*As always my little disclaimer that this is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection the kind and compassionate Donald J Trump, and his cohorts or for that matter the good guys in this dark comedic telling the Biden bunch. But I hope it makes you feel a little better about the weird as hell times we are still lost in.
Sorry for the short break between chapters. As I’ve been writing chapter 5 it’s been scary to see real-life Trump catch up to this next chapter, where Abe makes a cameo in “Trump’s Fever Dream”, by his holding a FOX town hall at the Lincoln Memorial last week. A weird choice given Abe would be a liberal Dem by today party standards.
But whoever said Trump was a student of history, or anything for that matter? He’s certainly not a student of the 1918 flu epidemic that killed millions. Tragically, America of 2020 is number 1 for the virus on earth. And yet Trump claims zero responsibility for not acting quicker and more decisively.
It’s deeply frustrating that, despite his daily epic fails, Fox and the GOP blindly support him. Combined with this unholy alliance, fueled by almost limitless “brainwashing funds”, with the Zuck’s FB support, Trump actually rose in approval polls this week. Please see THE GREAT HACK on Netflix to grasp how this terrible joke on the people is happening right before our eyes through highly targeted mind control.
Welcome to chapter 5 of my writing therapy, pard. Be sure to read chapters 1-4 to see how Trump got to this feverish point in this dark comedic fantasy that asks the question:
Would Trump catching the coronavirus have any lasting impact on our fearless leader if he survived catching Covid-19?
CHAPTER 5 – THE COVID KID
Trump blinks his open his bloodshot eyes and squints at blinding glare of surgery lights overhead. He struggles to sit up but restraints hold Trump in place.
A gowned, masked and gloved Dr. Fauci notices Trump’s struggle and says in his best soothing tone, “Please don’t struggle, Mr. President. You’re lucky your valet Robert kept you alive with mouth to mouth until the paramedics brought you here. Um, not so lucky, you’ve come down with a severe case of the coronavirus, sir.”
Trump tries to speak, but the pain is so intense he cannot.
“Do not speak! Your throat’s badly seared. Nod if you understand me?” offers Dr. Fauci.
Trump nods yes curtly.
“Now, Mr. President, serious question for which I need a serious answer if I am going to have a chance to save your life. Here goes: Have you taken any Hydrochloroquin?”
Trump nods yes sadly.
“And did you drink any disinfectants today?”
Trump nods grimly while making the hand signal for “a little.”
“Lysol perhaps?” says Fauci, visibly resisting the urge for to do face palm.
Trump shakes his head “no” rapidly.
“Sorry. Brand’s immaterial. Did you orally ingest some sort of bleach?”
Trump nods reluctantly.
“OK. It’s 2 AM. I’m gonna name some earlier times from today. Nod when I am close to the time of day you drank bleach.”
Trump nods, impressed Fauci guessed right the first try.
“Nurse, stomach pump! Stat!” an older nurse wheels over a stomach pump.
“Donald, I’m placing you on anesthesia. After pumping your stomach the nurse will immediately intubate you. That is if your damaged esophagus can handle it. But before I put you in an induced coma, uh, there’s an old friend here who must have a word with you,” says Dr. Fauci steps aside to reveal a gowned and masked Mike Pence.
“Hey, buddy. It’s Mike, um, Mike Pence, your VP. How you doin’?”
Annoyed as hell, Trump messages with his eyes for Pence to get on with it.
“Ok, Ok. Why I ‘m here. Right. You see, I’d like your blessings on my VP choice before I temporarily step into your big shoes, amigo. All very, very temporary of course until your back on the job in record covid-time,” says Pence, doing his best to sound sincere.
Trump becomes more agitated, but nods OK.
The mask-free Pence speaks up nervously, “Now, I know this is going to be a little hard for you to swallow — Geez Louise, pardon that expression! — Uh, what with how my Veep pick and you have been going back and forth a tiny teeny bit in the media, and, well, um, ah, given the fact they happen to be a life long Democrat and –”
Trump’s eyes widen with rage.
“Sorry. — Cut to the chase.– Donald, we need to reunite the country in this dark time. The markets have crashed three times in the past 24 hours. The Dow is down 5000 points. Banks are closed to prevent runs and demanding $3 trillion more in aid. Worst of all Civil War has broken out in Georgia after the second wave killed tens of –”
Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.
“Ok, it’s Govenor Cuomo. Andrew’s my VP pick.”
Trump writhes in agony that his fever dream about Cuomo as president in 2022 is turning out to be prophetic.
“Swell, Donald. I’m going to take your reaction as a definite “yes” and announce you’re in total and complete agreement to make Governor Cuomo my temporary VP. — Good. That wasn’t so bad now was it? Okie dokie. I turn you back of to the good Dr. Fauchster. Get well, buddy,” chirps Pence.
Enraged, Trump struggles mightily to break free of his restraints. Pence gives Trump a peck on his sweaty forehead. Dr. Fauci injects the writhing Trump. The surgery room and the worried face of Mike Pence fades from view.
Fauci’s distant echoing voice in the white void advises, “Word of warning, Mr. President. Coma dreams can be quite intense. Brace yourself… self… self.”
WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA
Total whiteness gives was to total blackness. Trump’s blurry twisted vision of an old town of the West fades into confusing view. Town folk, half wearing western bandit masks and half mask-free mill about on the dusty street.
A masked young man and mask-free young man draw on each other FIRE. Both fall dead in the street. Trump watches in a daze as the town undertaker and town drunk, Rudi Giuliani, drags the unmasked boy towards his funeral parlor with a red front door. Rudi, waves to Trump and says brightly. “Mornin’ Sheriff Trump. Gorgeous day!”
Trump simply stares into the desert sun, fascinated as it keeps shifting back and forth between being the sun and surgery light.
Rudi shrugs his shoulders and returns to dragging his human cargo for his funeral parlor.
The masked young man is dragged off by his bereaved family into a house with a blue door. The mother of the masked boy shrieks at Trump, “You, you, you bastard. Your hate killed my baby!” When Trump does not respond to her the dead boy’s Mother wails in agony before vanishing behind the blue door of her home with a slam of the door.
The crack of the door slam stirs Trump to life. He works out a kink in back on the porch bench of his sheriff’s office and belches loudly. Trump happily notices he’s dressed as the town sheriff, tin badge, six shooter and all.
Trump blinks, fully taking in the sight of the dusty New Mexico town in Old West. Trump rustles the CORONA GAZZETTE to his face. His eyes widen as he reads the date June 1864 just as the dirty town’s church tower clock clocks strikes for nine times. “Maybe I’m on the set of Westworld?”says a puzzled Trump.
Trump’s wild west wife, Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. Dressed a frilly pioneer frock of the day, Kellyanne swings opens picnic basket and chirps brightly in a thick southern accent, “Hey, sleepy head. Have a nice nap?”
“Kellyanne?” says Trump, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Made your fav, hon. Burgers and gravy.” says Kellyanne, uncovering her steaming masterpiece. Kellyanne lovingly tucks a napkin into Trump’s dusty shirt.
Trump digs in and speaks with his mouthful,”Wow, babe. Had this crazy dream I was president of these here United States.”
“Sorry, hon. Ya’all’s just the Sheriff of our sweet little town of Corona,” giggles Kellyanne.
“So this is 1864” asks Trump, surprised by how Texan he sounds.
“Ha, ha. All year. And we’ll be married 35 years come June 23rd next week. So now ya’all have no excuse ya’all forgit again!” says Kellyanne, sneaking a kiss to Trump’s cheek.
Trump’s badly overweight deputy, Attorney General William Barr, plops two used up paint cans, one blue and one red, on the porch. He grabs seat, mopping his forehead with a dirty white hanky. Seeing Trump’s puzzled expression Barr offers, “Finished, sir.”
“Finished with what, Billy?” asks Trump.
“Painting every dang front door in town of the Confederate homes red and the Union homes blue. Just like you ordered, sir,” says Barr.
Puzzled to say the least, Trump runs a hand though his long head of silver hair as he says uncertainly, “Lemme see, our brave Confederates they don’t wear masks, right?”
Kellyanne brightly offers, “Them Union folks are the chickens who are slaved to wearing mask and keeping their distance! Silly old blue bellies.”
“Divide and conquer. Works every time,” says Trump proudly getting into the swing of things.
“Got anymore of them delish ham sandwiches in your picnic basket, Kellyanne?” asks Barr sweetly.
“Never forget my favorite deputy. Here you go, Billy boy,” says Kellyanne offering deputy Barr a gravy soaked burger.
“I dreamed you, Billy, you were my kickass Attorney General. Way, way in the future.”
“Wow. What year, Sheriff?” ask Barr.
“2020… I think,” says Trump still dazed and confused if he’s dreaming or all this.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Barr says effusively brown nosing, “Don, you are the best dreamer in the West. It’s what makes you such a miracle maker for the good people of Corona!”
“Billy, why in all that’s holy is the dang General Store still closed?!” Trump says, angrily pointing to the General Store across the street with a freshly painted blue front door.
“Uppity Bob Jenkins says he ain’t opening our fair town’s only General Store until Doc gives everybody a checkup for the sickness. Meantime, Corona’s citizens, red and blue both, are runnin’ outta food fast and theys a blaming you as Sheriff/ Mayor,” offers Barr.
“Time to pay a little visit to our town’s freed slave,” says Trump rising a bit shakily to his feet.
A short time later Trump Trump glares over a cash register at the blue mask wearing Robert, his Black personal valet in DC of 2020 who saved his life, but who is the general store owner in Trump’s 1864 fever dream.
Trump bellows, “I don’t care if’n you’re worried about some weak old sods headin’ for the last roundup. People like you libtards gotta realize this here sickness serves God’s purpose his creatures the wolves. Thin the herd of weakness! Huh. Gotta tweet that today.”
“Tweet? Ya mean like a little birdy?” wisecracks Robert.
Trump grabs Robert by his shopkeeper’s blue apron, “Do not get uppity with me, boy! If was up to me be you’d still be picking cotton in Georgia where you belong!”
Robert shakes off Trumps hand on his shirt and angrily says, seething hate welling in his normally soft eyes, “And no doubt as a slave. Nevada’s a free territory, Sheriff Trump. I is a free man. My store. My rules. And my rule is that my store stays shut until Doc examines everyone for the desert sickness. Only way to stop swapping us back and forth tween us like danged kindergartners!”
Barr inserts himself between Trump and Robert and says in his usual deadpan droll, “Now, Robert. You, more than most in Corona, have enjoyed the good Sheriff’s protection from the Confederates in here town. Now, son, we’d never want you lynched –”
“Shut it, Deputy Barr! I give the orders in this here town! And I demand this here General Store reopen today and you get your lazy black ass back on the job, Bobby boy!” demands Trump.
“So much for diplomacy,” mutters Barr to himself.
“You know, runnin’ this little store I gets to know a lotta personal things. And Sheriff, to be honest — And it’s nice nice to be honest. You should give it try once and while just to keep us guessin’ — There’s a whole lotta things you don’t want me tellin’ your fourth wife Kellyanne about. Like, for one example, your twice a week deal with the town’s whore,” calmly offer Robert.
Dumbfounded that Robert has boxed him in, Trump sputters, “You’re gonna be sorry, Jenkins. Powerful sorry.”
“I’m already, Donnie. Sorry I moved to your hateful little red and blue crazy town of Corona. Good day gents,” says Robert taking Trump and Barr forcefully about the shoulders and escorting them out of the store with shove. Robert slams the door their faces and pulls down the CLOSED window shade.
Enraged, Trump spins to Barr, “Billy, I want a full investigation into where Robert Jenkins gets his food stocks.”
“Already done. The blackie gets most of he supplies from the Chinaman who visits Corona once a month. In fact, I have conspiracy theory all my own that Jenkins was responsible for helping the Chinese bastard spread the sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”
“This must be why Confederate folks are getting sicker faster, ain’t they?” ponders Trump, loving Barr’s conspiracy theory.
“Yup. Though a course Doc said it could also be because we red doors don’t wash our hands or –” offers Barr.
“Never you mind with them outdated Union notions! Draft up charges and serve, Jenkins. I want him hung by Sunday. Folks do love a good lynching. Cleanses the soul,” gloats Trump, wishing to himself again that the old west had Twitter.
“But the mob might want to do a hanging’ before the judge hits town again,” says Barr.
“Not another word, Billy. There’s more deputies where you came from,” says Trump chewing on a ragged cuticle on his gun hand.
Barr switches mental gears and effusively offers, “You’re a dadgum genius, sir! Pissing off Abe Lincoln himself after Robert is, uh, um, brought to justice is red meat for our upstanding Confederate citizens!”
“Our fine city of Corona will carry the vote for Nevada to join the great Confederacy and turn the tide of the war or my name ain’t Sheriff Donald J. Trump,” says Trump.
Time shifts into high gear. Citizens, masked and unmasked, race up the street as the sun rockets overhead across the western sky. Eight hours pass in the blink of an eye. Night falls like rock.
Trump happily finds himself on the outskirts of town standing beside a hanging tree dressed in a KKK robe.
Robert, his muscular neck in a hangman’s noose and hands tied behind his back, glares down at Trump from atop a swayed old horse’s back. Robert’s chiseled featured are lit by the torches of men on horseback dressed in KKK robes. Robert says bitterly, “Let’s get this party with you and your “fine people” over, T-rump.”
Trump bows obligingly and smacks Robert horse on the butt. A distant rifle’s sound splits the air and the rope above Robert’s hangmen noose is cut free by the ace shot. Hands tied, Robert kicks the horse and races off, vanishing into the desert night.
In the distance a man in a stove pipe hat holsters his rifle and rides off into the starry desert night after Robert.
Next morning Trump addresses a crowd of Confederate citizens along with a smattering Union people,”As a lotta you know Corona’s token negro and General Store Keeper, Robert Jenkins, escaped a hangin’ last night.”
Townspeople mutter angrily among themselves.
Unfazed, Trump brilliantly riffs, “But what you fine Confederate folks don’t know is letting Jenkins escape was my plan all along!”
The stunned crowd stares at Trump in dazed silence.
“You see, I hired me the best Pinkerton detective west of Mississippi to sharp shoot off Jenkin’s necktie and now the dumb nigger’s bein’ tracked to the source of the tainted goods that have brought sickness to our fine town of Corona, birthplace of the greatest beer on earth!”
The Confederate citizens cheer wildly while the Union people all do face palms.
A few hours later, as measured by old church’s rusty clock, Barr and Trump once again enjoy Kellyanne’s burgers and biscuits on the Sheriff’s porch. Barr asks nervously, “Sheriff, that story about the Pinkerton…”
“One of my best whoppers. But, Billy boy, I ain’t got no clue about who really freed that nigger. All I really want is for people to be able to buy damned toilet paper. Me especially!” says Trump, wondering if toilet paper exists in 1864 because of the puzzled look on Barr saggy face.
“Well why didn’t you say so, Sheriff? I got a secret TP stash. Back in a jiff ” says Barr escaping up the street, exhibiting a bad limp.
Kellyanne turns to Trump, her face filled with confusion “Whatever is spin doc, hon?” asks Kellyanne lovingly.
“What you called me yesterday, hon. You said, ‘Kelly Anne, darlin’, my order to reopen the town, spin doctor it.'”
Before the unsure Trump can answer with some fresh bull, the town executioner, town undertaker and town drunk Rudi Giuliani, stumbles up and happily volunteers with drunken bow, “Madame, I will have you know that yours truly invented the spin doctor profession to help win Andrew Jackson’s re-elction back in, I think it was, 1830. To spin doctor refers to one such as me creating the best story by, um, reorganization, shall we say of the alternative facts… Wait sec, can either of you fine people spare a dime for a thirsty man? All this spin remembering has me parched. ”
Before Trump can answer, an out of breath pimple faced teen wearing a cowboy style MAGA hat runs up to the trio and shouts, “Sheriff Trump! Sheriff Trump, the Covid Kid just rode into town and he’s comin’ a gunnin’ for ya!”
“Oh my God, Donnie! Whatever shall we do?” worries Kellyanne.
“If by we you me mean me: Nothin’.” says Trump with his customary shit eating grin.
“Nothin’?!” says Kellyanne.
“This here reality is just what my 2020 doc, that fuck Fauci, calls a fever dream.” chuckles Trump.
“What you drinkin’, Sheriff? Cause I want me some,” slobbers Giuliani.
BANG! Trump and the shrieking Kelly Anne are splattered in blood from a bullet hole in Giulani’s forehead, “Funny. All of sudden I got a splitting headache.” Rudy falls face first to the dusty street.
“Sheriff Trump! Ya no good orange bellied coward. I am callin’ you out!” shouts the Covid kid holstering his smoking gun, his gruff voice muffled by a blue bandana mask
“Fair gun fight, Kid?” says Trump calmly, not believing any of this is real but playing along for kicks and hamming it up for Kellyanne.
“Fair? What in hell do you know about fair, Donnie boy?” snarls the Covid Kid.
“Ask poor unarmed Rudi, about fair, you monster,” sobs Kellyanne.
The Covid kid laughs at Kellyanne, “Ha. Rudi’s mouth is a legal weapon. Hmm. Wonder who undertakes the undertaker?”
“Ha. Thought you just lived in mirrors,” says Trump getting to his feet.
“I live in you, you idiot. I am your damn conscience! Now it’s finally time for me to take over the show, pard, ’cause you never listen to me, here in 1864 or in 2020. But tell you what, you don’t deserve it but, yeah, let’s make this a fair fight,” offers Mirror Trump.
Trump pats his gorgeous white stallion and says coyly, “But, kid, I already run the show, my body, my town, my rules. What’s in a gun battle for me except maybe a tombstone?”
“Opps. Forgot. Always has to be something in any for you don’t there?” Off Trump’s smug nod the Covid Kid offers, “OK, You got certain childhood memories, painful even to your elephant hide, I can make those go away,” says the Covid Kid dryly, mirroring Trump’s own insincerity.
“Your bluffin’.” chuckles Trump.
“And you should know all about bluffin’,” says the Covid Kid snapping his fingers, He and Trump become transparent spirits observing Trump’s dad Fred Trump impatiently giving a math lesson from hell to little Donald using coins.
Fred says menacingly,” Donald, Donald. That’s eighty cents! I asked you to show me ninety! Now do it! And no more help from me!”
Little Donnie places 3 quarters on the table and Fred smacks him on the back of the head. Donald cries and Fred whacks him harder, shouting, “Unless you can learn basic math I am sticking you in a school for retards! You a winner or a retard, Donny boy?”
Donald bursts into tears and Fred’s expression softens,”Aw. Did I make you cry… little girl?”
Already having seen enough, Trump turns sadly to the Covid Kid and says in a hoarse whisper, “Ok. Make all my bad memories of Dad’s abuse go away and we got us a deal. Pistols at 20 paces at high noon.”
The Covid Kid snaps his fingers and the two Trumps are back in the Nevada town of Corona in 1864 facing each other 20 paces apart.
“Just to be square, I kill you in this dream you die in the real world. At least the Trump we’ve all come to know and hate dies and I take over.”
Mirror Trump says, “Have it your way. Hell it is.” He points to a shop window that lights up to show a reflection of Trump being intubated in the real 2020 world, causing Trump of 1864 to choke and gag.
“No fair. What happened to our gunfight?” says Trump breathlessly.
“We draw when the church bells strike 12,” says Trump’s mirror image the Covid Kid.
The storefront image fades back to a regular reflection of 1864. A tumbleweed blows across the street between the two Trumps.
“For starters, Soon as I take over this burger bloated body of ours I am painting all the doors of this nightmare of yours purple.”
The church clock towers makes the first of twelve strikes. Hidden above the Sheriff’s office Deputy William Barr takes aim a Mirror Trump’s back. Barr mutters a pep talk to himself, “Boss wants this to look good. Fire on 11 and a half. Fire on 11 and a half.”
Trump catches a glint of Barr’s rifle in the hot noon sun and hides a grin with some false bravado,”I got nickname for your tombstone: Goodie Two Trumps.”
The church tower gongs five. Mirror Trump’s gun hand twitches over his silver six shooter. “After 73 years of nagging you to do the right thing, I am one conscience that’s done talkin’. Shut it and get ready to draw, ya mangy old coot.”
Kelly Anne runs to Mirror Trump’s side and pecks him on the cheek, “Can I watch you kill the blowhard?”
Trump says, “You’re fired, Kellyanne,” as he angrily blows Kellyanne off her feet. Her dead body splashing into the horse trough.
“Marriages just don’t stick with you do they, Donnie? ” says Trump’s mirror conscience in disgust.
Barr sees mirror Trump did not break his concentration as the clock strikes 9. Barr quietly cocks back his shinny rifle’s firing hammer. As he does another gun behind Barr clicks back it’s hammer. Barr spins in terror to see none other than Abraham Lincoln has the drop on him.
Abe says grimly “Justice is served, Deputy Barr,”and fires six shooter. Bam! Barr falls off the roof of the Sheriff’s office and crashes through the porch roof.
Mirror Trump, the Covid Kid, flashes a thumbs up to the grinning Abe Lincoln atop the Sheriff’s office a thumbs up as the clock strikes 10. Trump quick draws and fires on mirror Trump’s turned back 2 strikes ahead of the agreement. But his shot goes wide and takes out his beloved white horse.
“So predictable. Too bad your bad dad Freddy never taught you to shoot straight, amigo,” The Covid Kid chuckles as the clock strikes 12. BANG! Mirror Trump fires and Trump’s throat erupts in a gush of blood. Trump falls to his knees in the dusty street, gasping for air, unable to talk.
The Covid Kid gloats over the dying Trump,”For once I get the last world. Hurry up and die, Donnie boy. The world needs the better you, namely me.”
All fades to black. Trump blinks his eyes open in a luxurious hospital room. He spots a smug Kellyanne reading a PEOPLE’S MAGAZINE, complete a fresh photo of an intubated picture of Trump on the cover. The headline reads:
KELLYANNE EXCLUSIVE: TRUMP INTUBATED!
Trump tries to speak, but the tube down his throat only allows him a gagging gurgle and he passes out without Kellyanne ever noticing his brief awakening from the fever dream.
END CHAPTER 5
REAL FEVER DREAMS
Sadly Covid-19 patients can end up intubated in an induced coma on a respirator for weeks on end. The odds of a virus patient ever regaining consciousness drop daily the longer someone remains on a respirator. Strangely, Trump’s terrible fever dreams of choking and dying over and over again in elaborate ways I depict in this story are something I intuited weeks ago before this story from Atlantic.
Bottom line, avoid getting this damn virus no matter what the media or politicians playing with your life tell you. Above all avoid Trump’s insane false macho attitude of it being OK to allow people catching the virus to build herd immunity. All while it’s not even scientifically yet known if we the people can catch this damn thing more than once!
Stay distant, wear masks no matter to pressure from the misled right-wing nutjobs and wash your hands often.