Chapter 6 – Trump’s Worst Nightmare

Radio Show Audio With Score and Sound Effects

Since April 2020 I’ve been developing TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM, hosted temporarily here on my meditation blog, as a warts and all work-in-progress. Warning violent content and explicit language ahead. Whadya expect from a Trump nightmare were still trapped in?

And speaking of nightmares: Trump is about to have a Black Lives Matter nightmare, which of course bears very little similarity to reality.

Chapter 6 – Trump’s Worst Nightmare

Meanwhile, one timeline away, in July of 2020, an alternate universe’s Trump has been struck with a deadly case of Coronavirus and is lost in a delusional series of fever dreams. Kinda like our own Trump does with his eyes wide open.

Dr. Faucci makes a deep incision in Trump’s throat. Blood trickles, crossing the orange tan line where Trump’s bloated chest meets his saggy neck.

Faucci says, “OK, I’ve successfully made the incision to avoid the President’s damaged throat tissue, caused by drinking bleach. Insert the ventilator tube, Dr. Edwards of you will.”

Dr. Edwards takes over the operation and Faucci heads for the door, wiping sweat from his furrowed brow.

Ivanka, sporting the latest Paris fashion Covid mask, rises to her feet along with the mask wearing Jared when Dr. Faucci exits the surgery room. She asks nervously, “Doctor Faucci, is Daddy going to be OK?”

Dr. Faucci sighs deeply and wipes sweat from his forehead, “A tracheotomy is a relatively easy procedure. My real concern is that your father hid his catching virus for too long. And, well, the bleach.”

“That’s no answer, Tony!” blurts Jared, his normally high pitched feeble voice nearly inaudible beneath his red, white and blue mask.

Dr. Faucci ignores Jared and calmly addresses Ivanka, “Your father’s odds of a recovery are quite low. And even if he does ever recover, he may be in a mentally reduced to the condition of a moron —

“Reduced?” mutters Jared,

“- where he can no longer serve as president,” finishes Fauci.

Ivanka spins to pound Jared’s tiny chest.

In the adjacent operating room, dead to the real world, Trump does not stir on the operating table as Dr. Edwards carefully inserts a respirator air tube through Faucci’s tracheotomy incision. The operating room fades from view as the White House Bunker fades into view…

Nestled in the safely of his bunker beneath the White House, the real world a forgotten memory, Trump offers his best presidential poker face as his advisors wrangle with a new series of more violent BLM protests.

Larry Kudlow gasps as on the big screen an array of BLM protestors use a stolen city bus to flatten the White House fence. The angry mob charges the heavily armed Secret Service Agents.

Mark Meadows says, “Relax, Larry.  Our troops learned in Portland how to put these dogs to sleep.”

“Relax? This is revolution! And we all know what happens to the player in an old regime, especially one as cruel as ours,” croaks Larry.

Trump laughs at Larry and says, “Chill, Larry. Theses walls of the vault are 6 feet thick, or something like that kinda thickness. Tremendously thick. And we have all the comforts of home here. The best champagne.  The best caviar.”

On screen the Federal Troops lay down their weapons as the angry mob races past them.

“What in Holy Hell?!” shouts Trump, cracking one of TV screens with his tiny fists.

The Director of the Secretive Service, James Murray, calmly says to the shocked Trump, “Not to worry, sir. Like you just said, in your genius way, the protesters cannot possibly reach us down here.”

“Protest? You call this fucking protest.?” bellows Trump.

“Look, sir. The lowlifes have zero chance!” shouts Stephen Miller, making a Nazi salute, which he fakes into a stretch.

“Let’s get back to talking about my fantastic Mt. Rushmore monument to the greatest presidency ever! Mine! Tell me about getting head, Kayleigh.”

The men all laugh at Trump’s sexist joke, while Kayleigh does her best to hide her disgust. She rolls over a model of Mt Rushmore into the bunker conference room. “Mr. President, I’m afraid the Rushmore survey ream has determined that there is not enough structural integrity to the surrounding rock to add your incredible face.”

“I am not happy about this, Kayleigh!” grumps Trump, folding his arms across his big belly.

Screen Shot 2020-08-09 at 5.03.13 PM

“It’s OK, Mr. President. We have a solution…” Kayleigh loses her train of thought as on the big screen protestors fall and die under heavy gunfire from a more resistant line of White House defense. But an endless stream bat wielding protestors take their place in the bloody battle for the White House above.

“Go on Kayleigh. Don’t worry about the losers up there. Nigger scum,” snarls Trump.

“Well I see a lot of white people with these guys,” says Kudlow.

“The losers can’t reach us. Go on, Kayleigh. Give me some head!” chuckles Trump.

Mastering her outrage Kayleigh says, “Well, it’s simple. All we have to do is re-chisel one of the four heads into your amazing image. All that remains is for you to pick who to replace with your handsome face. Who shall it be, Mr. President, Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt or Lincoln, sir?”

Trump relishes at this historic decision making moment, spinning around and around in his larger life leather chair, and finally decreeing,”Q-Anon calls me the greatest civil rights leader of all time. Lowest unemployment for Blacks ever. Well, before the Covid started killing them off like flies. So I pick to replace the head of Abraham Lincoln head with mine. My base will love it and my haters can eat shit and die.”

Meadows offers obsequiously, “Brilliant as always, sir!  It’s true you have supplanted Lincoln in the hearts of the people after all!”

The gathering of white men, plus one frustrated woman in Kayleigh, give Trump a standing ovation.

For a split-second Trump is back in the real world. Trump’s heartbeat stops on the monitor. Dr. Fauci takes up shock paddles and shouts, “Clear!” and jolts Donald Trump.

Shocked back into his bunker fever dream, Trump points at the security monitor and bellows, “What?! Those rioters, they’re in my Oval office!”

Trump and his team watch helplessly as the security TV screen shows a rush of protestors of all races and creeds swarming into the Oval Office

Trump demands, “Murray, set off the self-destrust bomb and blow the fucking Antifa anarchists off the face of the earth!”

Murray pleadingly turns to Meadows, who coldly nods for him to carry out Trump’s command. “You heard the president.”

Turning to the monitors, where the Resolute Desk is being set aflame, Murray anguishes and finally croaks, “I respectfully decline to carry out your orders to blow up the protestors, sir. You have my resignation.”

Trump spins to Defense Secretary Esper and roars, “Esper, wipe out these fucking terrorists!”

“These are American citizen’s, Mr. President. They can’t reach us in here. I respectfully refuse and resign as well,”

“Where are my Portland shock and awe troops?!” shouts Miller.

“In transit to Milwaukee I believe,” answers Meadows.

“Well, get them here to DC pronto! — Seen this Tweet?” says Trump, jamming a cell phone in Miller’s sweaty face.

The gaggle white men crowd around Trump’s cell phone that reads:

Lynch the #BunkerBaby!”

“The bastards are calling me BunkerBaby! Even after I crushed them in Lafayette Square!”

“Um, my mom taught me sticks and stones may break –”, says Robert Tulsa before he’s cut off.

“Shut the fuck up! Sergeant Cosco, escort these traitors my bunker!” shouts Trump pointing at the TV screen.

“Name’s Tulsa. Mr. President, and I am afraid Mr. Esper and Mr. Murray cannot leave as we are sealed in.”

“Look, COSCO. No one’s in the hallway!” shouts Trump pointing at the TV screen.

“But, sir, the 2 ton door operates slowly, by the time we see rioters we could be….”

“Break the seal!” demands Trump.

“– fucked.” finishes Sergeant Tulsa. “The door moves slowly. You could be killing us all.”

Trump defiantly pushes the open button and gloats, “Fuck off. You’re Black. Obviously, you’re in on this with them. You want something done right you gotta, um, something something or other.”

Miller takes charge, “Seargent, remove, Esper and Murray from my bunker or you’re up for a firing squad!”

“Pussy. I told ya. Look. It’s all clear.” gloats Trump. “You see. You’ve got nothing to fear but it something… We have nothing to fear but, ah.. Oh, fuck it!”

Gunfire erupts as mob of rioters race up the long hall for the bunker door.

“Seal the bunker! Seal the bunker!” shouts Trump.

BANG! Sergeant Tulsa falls to the marble floor, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Kayliegh shouts to the mob, “Power to the people! I am not with the dictator, sexist, racist Trump anymore! I’m free! Yay!”

The laughing protestors get such a kick out of Trump’s sad reaction to Kayleigh’s betrayal they let her slip away.

An angry Black man races up to a screaming Trump and raises a bloody hatchet.

Trump begs on his knees, “Black lives matter!  Praise Jesus! Black lives matter! Spare me! I’ll sign any law you want!”

Trump curls into a ball and weeps like a baby sucking his thumbs, eyes slammed shut, waiting for a death blow.

The angry black man laughs saying, “Pathetic!” He plants the axe in Trump’s throat.  Exactly where the incision in the real world. Blood gushes and all goes black.  Faintly, the beep of a life monitor gets louder and Trump’s eyes flicker open.

Thrilled to be back in the real world where he is on life support, Trump cracks open his eyes to see his loyal personal Black attendant Robert reading the newspaper beside his hospital bed. Trump’s bloodshot feverish eyes close.

We see Robert’s Washington Post’s headline reads:

PRESIDENT CONTRACTS CORONA VIRUS. LIFE HANGS BY A THREAD!

To be continued in Chapter 7 – Weekend at Trumpies

Special thanks to my wife Elizabeth for playing Kayleigh and Ivanka.

As always my handy disclaimer that this is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald Trump, and his charming GOP enablers, or for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.

Phew. It takes months to make these audio recordings. Donate at the link below to keep my one of a kind quantum space time meditational auditory entertainment and enlightening content flowing.

Donate for the Coolest in stories and meditation.

Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 5 – The Desert Sickness

Here’s some old timey radio style audio for them’s like to listen versus the whole readin’ thing.

Howdy Buckaroos, I wrote the first draft for this here chapter 5 ’bout 6 months before old Trump actually got the Covid. And, well, you didn’t need to be no Western Fortune Teller to know that it was a gonna happen. What with them rallies an’ all the kissin’ talk. And here I am in 2021, addin’ old-style radio show audio with the best western accent I can muster up, to amuse and astound the left and right alike.

Heads up you sensitive folk who don’t like gunfights, people a dyin’ and one a them there alternate universe Trumps and other GQP a gettin’ they’s comeuppance. Welp, just feel free to mosey on off.

CHAPTER 5 – THE DESERT SICKNESS

Meanwhile one timeline away….

Trump blinks his open 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 and masked 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 hum, 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.

“Don’t speak! Your throat’s badly seared. Nod if you understand me,” offers Dr. Fauci.

Trump nods “yes” curtly.

“Now, Mr. President, serious question I need a serious answer for 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, resisting the urge for to do a 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’m close to the time of day you drank the bleach… Midnight?”

Trump nods, impressed Fauci guessed right on 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’s if your damaged esophagus can handle it. But before I put you in that coma, uh, there’s an old friend here who must have a word with you,” says Dr. Fauci as he steps aside to reveal a gowned and masked Mike Pence.

“Hey, buddy. It’s Mike, 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 temporary of course until you’re 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 — Oh, Geez Louise, sorry about that expression! — Um, what with how my Veep pick and you, um, have had a little bit of a go-in with him on Celebrity Apprentice –”

Trump’s eyes widen with rage as he grunts angrily.

“Sorry. — I’ll 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 bankers are demanding $3 trillion in aid –” Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.

“Ok, ok. Arnold Schwarzenegger is my VP pick.” says Pence

Trump writhes and groans in agony that his fever dream about Schwarzenegger as president in 2022 might be 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 great Dr. Fauci here. Get well soon, buddy,” chirps Pence.

Enraged, Trump struggles mightily to free himself of the 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 fade from view.

Fauci’s distant echoing voice rides the white void, “Word of warning, Mr. President. Covid fever dreams can be… quite intense. Brace yourself… self… self.”

WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA

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 with red cowboy hats, mill about the dusty street.

Two gunfighters take to the street, one a blue-masked young man and mask-free old timer in a red cowboy hat. Everyone scatters. Doors slam.

Blue masked young man says, “I take back what I said about the Sheriff, Uncle. We ain’t gotta do this.”

Oblivious to the gunfighters, Trump stares into the desert sky, 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 ya I love Sheriff Trump more than you, nephew, don’t it?”

“You raised me, Uncle! Of course it does!”

“Draw, nigger lover!”

“No, Uncle! I refuse to draw on family –”

BANG!

The blue masked young man watches in shock as blood spreads 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 lover. Give my regards to my slave loving sister in hell.”

Trump watches in a daze as the town undertaker and town drunk, Rudy Giuliani, drags the blue-masked young boy towards his funeral parlor with a red door. Rudy, waves to Trump and says brightly. “Mornin’ Sheriff Trump. Gorgeous day!”

Trump does not answer. Rudy shrugs his shoulders and returns to dragging his human cargo for his funeral parlor.

A short time later on the outskirts of town, Rudy whips his horse team, pulling a wagon full of dead bodies. “Ah. That dang sheriff wants me put these bodies in separate graves, the red and the blue. But I just ain’t got the time no more. Can’t keep up with this desert sickness. — Whoa!” shouts Rudy bringing the horse team to a halt.

Rudy chugs a bottle of whiskey, downs the bottle and tosses it into the canyon.

Rudy pulls a lever and the wagon bed lifts up. Corpses rain into the canyon below. “Well, you’re all finally together now, aren’t ya? The red blue alike,” cackles Rudy.

BANG! A bullet hole appears in Rudy’s forehead. “Welp, them injuns did warn me this was their burial ground…”

Rudy falls into the canyon below, joining the dead.

A Native American pats his stove pipe hat, with a feather on it, holsters his rifle and rides off into the distance.

Back in town, 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 of Corona, here in the Old West. “Reckon I’m on the set of Westworld?” says Trump, puzzled at his Western accent. “That’s as odd as a rattler with jingle bells on his durned tail. Fuck. Can’t shake this danged bum fuck accent!”

Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. She’s dressed in 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.

On the street a woman in a red bonnet falls to the dirt.

“Another customer for Rudy. Desert Sickness keeps takin’ people from the Right we won’t have much of a Right left,” says Trump with a shrug as he digs into Kellyanne’s gravy soaked burger. And speaks with his mouthful,”Wow, babe. Had this crazy dream I’s president of these here United States way, way in the future.”

“Sorry, hon. Ya’all’s just the Sheriff of our sweet little town of Corona in 1864,” purrs Kellyanne.

“I’d a sweared it was the year 2020,” grouses Trump, still surprised by how old West he sounds.

“And we’ll be married 35 years come June 23rd next week. So now ya’all have no excuse to forgit again!” says Kellyanne, sneaking a kiss to Trump’s cheek.

Trump’s badly overweight deputy, William Barr, Billy in this world, plops two used up paint cans, one blue and one red, on the porch. He grabs a seat, mopping his forehead with a dirty white hanky. Seeing Trump’s puzzled expression Barr offers, “Finished, sir.”

“Finished with what, Billy?” asks Trump.

“Why, paintin’ 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 chickens who are slaved to wearing a mask and keeping their distance! Silly old blue bellies are terrified of the desert sickness.”

“Stupefyingly stupid. Right, sir?”

“Amen, Billy boy,” says Trump, getting into the swing of things.

“Got anymore of them delicious burgers and gravy 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.

“Billy, why in holy hell 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,” grouses Kellyanne.

“Meantime, Corona’s citizens, red and blue both, are runnin’ outta food fast — and they’s a blamin’ you, Sheriff,” offers Barr.

“Time to pay a little visit to our town’s only freed slave,” says Trump rising a bit shakily to his feet. And comes face to face with his horse Eric.

“Oh, Dad. Why’d I gotta be a horse in this dream?” brays Eric the horse.

“Shut up! I got me a nigger ta see!” barks Trump.

A short time later Trump Trump glares over the cash register at the blue mask wearing Robert, his Black personal valet in DC of 2020. The same one who saved his life with mouth to mouth, and who is now in this reality the general store owner.

Trump bellows, “I don’t care if’n you’re worried about some weak old sods headin’ for the last roundup. You Yankees gottsta realize this here sickness serves God’s purpose. It’s like the wolves. They thin the herd! Get it? Huh. Gotta tweet that today.”

“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 you’d be still 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, “No doubt as a slave. Nevada’s a free territory, Trump. And I am a free man. My store. My rules. And my rule is this store stays shut until Doc examines everyone for the desert sickness. Only way to stop swapping this disease 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 to see you lynched –”

Trump shoves Barr aside and bellows, “Shut it, Deputy! 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!”

“You know, runnin’ this little store I get to know a few personal things about the folks in this town. 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 example, your “Stormy” twice a week deal with the town whore,” calmly offer Robert.

Dumbfounded that Robert has boxed him in, Trump sputters, “You’re gonna be sorry, Tulsa. Powerful sorry.”

“I am already sorry, Donald, I ever moved to your piece of shit you call a town,” says Robert taking Trump and Barr forcefully about the shoulders muscling for the door and tosses them in the street.

“And you still owe me for that shipment of hydroxychloroquine, Trump!” snarls Robert as he slams the General Store door shut and pulls down the CLOSED window shade.

Robert turns from the storefront and almost jumps out of his skin at the sight of a Native American. The same one with the stove pipe hat who shot Giuliani. Robert breaths a sigh of relief and says, “Chief! Gotta stop sneaking up on me like that!”

“Mocasins. I hear all crazy orange one spoke. His venom smells of sulfur,” says the Chief sniffing the air in disgust.

“Ha. They don’t call you Laughing Skies for nothin’!” laughs Robert, transferring a big bag of grain into the chief’s muscular arms.

“No joke today, Robert Tulsa. You twist tail of demon,” says the chief.

“Ah, Trump’s just an old wind bag. Nothinl’ to fret about,” says Robert, trying to convince himself.

Chief Laughing Skies says sadly, “No. Trump worse than US Cavalry.”

“Worse?”

“Blue bellies kill the Paiute. Trump kills own White tribe. Evil spirit,” says Chief Laughing Skies grimly.

Robert peers out the window at the fuming Trump. “Well, I can tell you one thing for sure, Sheriff Trump’s madder than a wet hen.”

Outside Robert Tulsa’s General Store, Barr dusts off his boss. Enraged, Trump spins to Barr, “Billy, I want a full investigation into where Robert Tulsa gets his stock foods.”

“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 Bobby was responsible for helpin’ the Chinese bastards spread the desert sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”

“Hell, yeah! That must be why the 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, uh, we red doors don’t wash our hands and wear masks,” offers Barr feebly.

“Never you mind with them new fangled Union notions! Draft up charges and serve that blackie Tulsa. I want him hung by Sunday. Folks do love a good hangin’. Cleanses the soul,” gloats Trump, wishing to himself again that the old west had Twitter.

An out of breath kid, wearing a blue cloth mask, runs up to Trump and holds out a note. But Trump is too busy kicking Eric the horse in the ass to notice.

“Ouch! Stop it, Pa!” neighs Eric, who only Trump can hear.

“That’ll teach you for eatin’ up all the horse pills!” shouts Trump.

“Those are my horse pills, Pa. For my worms,” neighs Eric.

“Don’t talk so loud, Eric. The horse pills are secret recipe for stayin’ clear of the desert of the Desert Sickness!” says Trump giving Eric another kick in the horse’s ass. Eric the horse poops on Trump’s boots.

Townspeople hide the fear in their eyes that the sheriff is talking to a horse, who they only hear as neighs and whinnies. Eric poops mightily.

“You shit my boots, you stupid nag of a son!” complains Trump.

“Sorry, Pa. It was the worms made me,” says Eric the horse.

BOOM! A fireball rises in the desert sky. Debris falls. Townspeople scream.

The uncle who killed his nephew, seared by the explosion, stumbles from an alley up to Trump and says, proudly saluting, “Sir! Blowed up that town windmill like you asked for, sir!”

“Huh?” puzzles Trump, still ignoring the kid with a note.

The murdering uncle adds, “You know, the windmill that pumps water to the town. The one was makin’ everybody get the cancer with that terrible noise.”

Trump makes the noise,”Whirrr whirr whirr? “

“Yup! No more whir, whir whir, sir!” says the murdering flashing his lousy toothy grin at Trump.

Barr worries quietly to Trump, “How we gonna get water without the windmill, Donald?”

“Why, uh, from the creek, a course!” shouts Trump.

“Dry Creek dried up. Ain’t rained a drop in Corona for over in a year,” worries Barr.

“No problemo, sirs. I know a secret spring where the town can get the freshest water in the –” the murdering sycophant’s eyes go wide and he falls face first into the dirt at Trump’s shit covered boots, dead as a doornail.

Trump steps over the murdering uncle’s body and complains, “Desert sickness again! Where’d my booze hound good for nothin’ Rudy go? Street’s littered with corpses!” Finally spotting the kid with the note Trump bellows, “Seen the undertaker you lousy blue-masked brat?!”

The boy in the mask bawls, shoves the note in Barr’s chubby hand and runs off.

Barr opens the note and his eyes go wide.

“Whut?” growls Trump.

“Note from Kellyanne,” says Barr offering the note to Trump.

“Well, read it!”

“Pray for me, Donald. I have a fever. Love, Kellyanne” says Barr softly.

“Louder!” yells Trump.

“PRAY FOR ME, DONALD. I HAVE THE FEVER! LOVE, KELLYANNE!” bellows Barr, hiding any emotion on his rolly polly puss.

Townspeople red and blue stop dead in their tracks.

Trump stiffens and preaches piously to the shocked coughing townspeople, holding his Bible high, “Fever? Ha! Who cares? I am the Chosen one! And I hereby choose that my love Kellyanne will not perish of the Desert Sickness! So help me, Trump!”

“Show’s over, folks Get back to your business! Go on!” Barr shouts at the dazed townspeople.

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, the hood down.

Atop Eric the horse, Robert Tulsa is surrounded by two dozen KKK members whose Tiki torches light their sinister eyes.

Trump raises a mug to the stars, “A toast to the end our water troubles…”

“You’re dad gum genius, sir!” says the amazed Deputy Barr.

…drinkin’ our own urine!” proclaims Trump to the stunned Klansmen

Barr discreetly pours his mug of piss into the sand.

The KKK men raise their mugs of piss, cheering, “For he’s the jolly good fellow!” as they drink the urine through the mouth slits in their hoods.

Robert says, “Oh my God, Guys, you’re gonna drink piss for Trump? Hang me now!”

“Ah. Dee-licious!” shouts Trump as he turns from orange to green and vomits. The KKK men lift their hoods and vomit, to the incredulous laughter of Robert.

“Appears we may still have water problem, sir. — Uh, how’s Kellyanne doin’?” worries Deputy Barr to change the subject.

“Dang desert sickness got her,” says Trump, wiping his vomit soaked hand on Barr’s leather jacket.

“Oh, Donald I’m so sorry. So sorry,” says Barr, throwing away his jacket.

“Yeah. Sure gonna miss Kellyanne’s burgers and gravy,” muses Trump.

“Is that all — I mean me too,” bumbles Barr.

“But lookin’ on the bright side….”

“Here it fuckin’ comes,” mutters Robert to himself.

“…I’m single again! Yee haw!” cheers Trump, hamming it up for his lynch mob.

Robert says bitterly, “Let’s get this party over with you and your “fine people”, Mr. Mayor, Reverend, Sheriff and Racist Asshole.”

Barr cracks Robert in the jaw with the butt of his rifle.

“As Carona’s mayor, sheriff and reverend I hereby send you straight to hell, Robert Tulsa,” says Trump bitterly.

Robert spits out blood on Trump’s platform cowboy boots and says, courage lighting his large brown eyes, “I said get on with it. I don’t want the last thing I hear in this life to be your bullshit,” says Robert, the rope tugging at his neck.

Eric the horse, who only Trump can hear, brays, “He’s heavy, Pa. You’ve been eating all my horse pills. I ain’t got the strength to carry this man.”

“Well, you’re not gonna have to carry him far, Eric!” shouts Trump.

Robert twists to face the KKK mob and says,”Trump is talking to a fucking horse. Come on, guys. We gotta rid of this senile mother fucker before he lets the Desert Sickness kill us all!”

“Nice try but they don’t speak nigger!” laughs Barr.

The lynch mob laugh so hard the almost laugh their KKK hoods off.

“Final chance. Speak your last words , boy!” bellows Trump.

“This is all I got. America was built on the backs of my people and the Native Americans who –”

Trump smacks his son Eric horse on the butt.

The KKK men cheer with Trump as Robert chokes.

BANG! A distant rifle’s sound splits the air and the rope above Robert’s hangmen noose is cut free. Hands tied, Robert kicks Eric hard in his ribs.

Eric the horse neighs to Trump as he races Robert,” Sorry, Pa!”

“You traitorous nag!”

“He kicked me hard, Pa! Sorry!” nays Eric, racing Robert off into the night.

Trump turns to dumbfounded KKK men and hollers, “Well, don’t none of you grand wizards own a fucking gun?”

The KKK thugs all fire. All miss.

Trump forgets his fury. He staggers, suddenly dizzy and cough-says. “Man…

“Trump’s got the desert sickness! Let’s get the fuck out of here!” shouts the only skinny KKK man. The KKK men thunder off and run smack into Robert, Laughing Skies and the Paiute warriors.

“Billy, Billy, you gotta help me back to the town., “croaks Trump.

“Sorry, Donald. It every man for himself. You got the Desert –” BANG!

Hey there, Buckaroos. I’d say that bullet went through Barr heart. But that old Billy Barr ain’t got no heart.

All is darkness. Black as the soul of Donald J. Trump. Trump floats over the desert in a hospital bed… intubated.

A fly lands on Trump’s nose. He squints, trying to remove the fly, shakes his head, best as he can, but the fly sticks.

Trump finally notices the fly has the face of his father, Fred Trump. Fred the fly shouts,”You’re no good, Donnie. You’re no good. You’re going to even fuck up getting Covid. Aren’t ya? You’re a fuck up, Donnie. You’re a fuck up, Donnie. You’re a fuck up, Donnie. You fuck up everything!”

Trump groans in agony.

“Can’t believe I gave you three million dollars a year when you were a baby. You’re not worth three cents now!

A Black hand reaches out from nowhere, swats the fly away and disappears instantly. Trump breathes a sign of relief when he sees the lights of Corona in the distance. Trump swims through the air with his arms, pulling the hospital bed floating towards the city.

He looks down and sees a celebration taking place in the town square, headed up by no other than Robert Tulsa, who announces, “Citizens of Corona it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you our new Sheriff. Sheriff Barrack Obama!

Barack dances onto the stage and hugs Robert to the wild applause of the townspeople, all wearing American flag masks. Sheriff Barrack is flanked by the Paiute chief Laughing Skies and his band of warriors, who bravely rescued Robert and defeated the KKK.

Floating high above in his hospital bed ,Trump moans in agony as Barrack launches into a speech, “If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is still a place where all things are possible…”

Back in the real world Robert Tulsa is enjoying watching Obama’s 2008 victory speech on the hospital TV in Trump’s room. A fly lands on the intubated Trump’s nose. Robert swats the fly away. And we notice this the same hand that swatted the fly away in Trump’s fever dream.

Suddenly, Dr. Fauci enters. He panics at the sight of Obama’s victory video playing and says a bit amused, “Robert, what are you doing here? You can’t play that kind of thing while Trump is sleeping! It’s gonna get into his mind and it’s going to totally screw with his dreams wherever he is in his coma!”

Robert quickly remotes the TV off and asks, “Is the President gonna make it, Doc?”

Worried, Fauci speculates, “I don’t know… There’s a lot of horse medicine in him.”

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, even months. 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.

Special thanks to my wife Elizabeth England for her fine portrayal of Kelly Anne Conway as a Southern belle in the West.

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.

Phew. It takes months to make these audio recording. Donate at the link below to keep my one of a kind quantum space time meditational audio entertainment and enlightening content flowing.

Donate for the Coolest in stories and meditation.

BONUS CONTENT: A NIKI MINAJ CONSPIRACY THEORY

Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 1 – The Loneliest White House

Love Trumps Hate smaller
That’s my love Elizabeth and Fellow Voice Actor in the Coolest Meditation Ever Antarctica penguin hat.
Old time radio audio added 2021 to rewritten April 2020 chapter 1

To think I had put all my Trump fears, built up over decades of seeing his antics in the media aside to meditate in DC, along with my love Elizabeth, in 2017 for the best possible presidency… Yeesh!

Welp, it was a short honeymoon because Trump was already steamrolling over the Standing Rock tribe by green-lighting the Dakota Access Pipeline, even before Elizabeth and I headed back to Sedona.

And so, my Trump bias fully disclosed, I proudly present my parody… drum roll please…

Chapter One – THE LONELIEST WHITE HOUSE

Meanwhile, one timeline away…

A shabby shadow of his former self, President Trump aimlessly roams an abandoned hallway in the White House, now an empty ghost town. The leader of the free world, his bizarre mop of hair even more of a mess than usual, shuffles to an abrupt stop before an oil painting of JKF and vents loudly, “You had it easy, Jacko. The Cuban Missile Crisis was Jack shit compared to being a conservative running this liberal leaning country during a fucking pandemic!”

A Mexican cleaning woman wearing a surgeon’s mask leans her head out of a conference room and quickly ducks back inside again. She takes a small cross on a chain from her blouse, kisses it and prays, “Jesus, protect us from the Anti-Christ.”

After glaring at JFK’s glorious image for an inordinate amount of time, Trump flips off the Kennedy painting and slumps away, a rumpled embodiment of depression.

A short time later — by the light of FOX NEWS playing Sean Hannity, broadcasting from his elegant home — Trump wolfs down half a Big Mac in three bites. He glibly washes down the Mickey D with a long noisy straw dipped into an idiotically large plastic cup of Diet Coke.

Sean Hannity seems to speak directly to Trump from the big TV screen,”Hey Bud. Don’t listen to the commie loving liberals. You closed all travel from China the day you learned about the Chinese Virus, all way back in January. Your bold action was swift, decisive and all-American! If Pelosi and her corrupt Democrat Congress had not distracted you with their hoax impeachment we would never have lost so many precious Americans!”

“Hell yeah!” cheers Trump so loud it sends him into a coughing fit. Between coughs he desperately gasps for air. Trump finally regains control of his coughing. He wipes sweat from his brow with a monogrammed DJT hanky, smeared with orange tan makeup. “Shit. Gotta get tested again. Nah. Probably just a budding ulcer this bullshit’s giving me. Fuck this. I give ulcers, not get them! I’m fine. I’m fine. “

A short time later Trump brushes his teeth before the presidential bathroom mirror. Done, he grins smugly at his reflection, “Lookin’ good, Donnie.”

The Donald in the mirror dryly answers back, “Like hell, loser.”

Trump drops his electric toothbrush clattering to the marble floor and leans to the mirror. He makes strange faces at himself, mimicked perfectly by his reflection. “Seein’ things. Must be one those Covid hallucinations that fucker Fauci warned me about, or was it my fuck son-in-law Jared?”

“Jared’s a filet mignon meathead,” says Trump’s perturbed reflection.

“Who the hell’s doin’ this shit? Gotta be a TV monitor behind the mirror doin’ some kind of deep fake!” growls Trump at his smirking reflection.

“Never thought you had a conscience, eh asshole?” says mirror Trump.

“Screw you. The FBI will figure this out for me and nail your sneaky liberal ass!”

“Right. The FBI loves your fat ass. Don’t they?” laughs mirror Trump.

Nervous as an orange tabby facing down a German Shepard, Trump rushes to turn off the light switch.

Mirror Trump quips, “See you in your dreams, killer.”

Trump scurries out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He picks up a phone.  “Danny. — Shut up and listen. I wanna sweep done of my can. Someone’s hijacked my mirror.” Trump listens for a beat. “I don’t need a doctor. I need you to do what I fucking tell you!” Trump slams the phone down and angrily begins to tear his grungy outfit off.

Later, still shaken by his dark vision, Trump jams his chubby legs into his too tight red silk pajama bottoms.

A Black male servant, Robert Tulsa, sporting an elegant, if there can be such a thing, surgical mask, pokes his roguishly handsome head through the presidential bedroom door and says, “Will there be anything else, Mr. President?”

“Nope. Those two Big Macs and fries will tide me over nicely.” Trumps says, punctuating his sentence with a, “Burp.”

“Night then, Mr. President,” says Robert doing his best to hide a shudder of revulsion.

Trump’s fluffs his pillow without acknowledging the kindly servant. Robert leaves Trump to his own rantings, gently closing the big paneled door.

“Robert?!” shouts Trump, loud enough to be heard through the soundproof door.

Robert peers his head back inside the door inquisitively.

“Come in, Robert. I need some, uh, advice,” says Trump, with a pinch of boyish charm.

Robert apprehensively takes the gold-framed chair Trump offers by the crackling fireplace. He tilts his head to the side to avoid Trump’s mask-free breath. The gorgeous smell of the roaring fireplace fills Robert’s nostrils. His big brown eyes close in bliss for just a moment, and then he hides his feelings, straightening his butler jacket’s red vest.

Ever the salesman, Trump notices Robert’s blissful sniff and brags, “Tonight’s fire is genuine redwood from California’s National Redwood Forest. Gift from the lumber industry. Chopped me up 10 cords. Great guys those lumberjacks. They will sweep the forest floor.  Biggest forestry contract ever!”

“You never fail to amaze me, sir,” offers Robert politically.

“Robert, here’s what I wanted to fireside chat with you about: Today that smug fuck Jake Tapper said everyone on my White House personal staff hates me. This despite of the extra I pay I slip all of you huge bonuses under the table, 100% tax free I might add,” says Trump.

“Well, we don’t always sees things eye to eye, Mister President,” says Robert, breaking into a warm reassuring and absolutely genuine smile you can see only in his eyes above the mask. “But ya know I love the fact you say exactly what’s on your mind!”

Without returning Robert’s kindness, Trump says, “Robert, how’s it make you feel when someone calls you a nigger?”

“Why, uh, terrible. The worst sir.” says Robert, pain written on his angelic face.

“Well, that’s how I feel tonight, terrible in the nigger worst way,” says Trump dropping his head into his hands.

“About that N word, sir. I wish — “

“Pence wants me killed.” whispers Trump, cutting Robert’s complaint off. “Keep your voice down, Pence might have this bedroom bugged.”

“Mr. Boy Scout? What makes you think that, sir?” asks Robert respectfully.

“Mike’s pissed I made him the fall guy for the ventilator shortage and not Jared. But Jared’s is my son-in-law goddammit. Family comes first!” says Trump staring into the fireplace flames as if looking for answers.

“Amen to that. But relax, Vice Prez Pence wouldn’t hurt a fly. Let alone you, sir,” says Robert reassuringly.

“It’s the quiet ones you gotta worry about, Robert. Pence wants me out of the way. He wants me dead so he can pin all the blame on all the Americans stacking up bodies in mass fucking graves!” bellows Trump. “Robert, you’re the only guy I trust. Starting tomorrow I need you to make my McDonald’s runs personally.”

“Happy to but why, sir?”

“Poisoning. That’s how the sneaky boy scout is gonna bump me off. Or try to. Will you do this for me, Robert. Can I count on you, broheim? Did I say that right?  Am I hip?”

“The hippest, sir. Now, if you don’t mind –” Robert notices a trickle of sweat leaving a traces of white skin at Trump temple. “May I, sir?”

“May you what?”

“Take your temperature,” says Robert pulling out a thermometer from his jacket.

“I’m fine. Just stress. No fever,’ says Trump unconvincingly.

“Well, I am gonna get the White House doctor on the phone just in case,” says Robert picking  up the red phone. “Odd. Phone’s dead. Lemme get you into bed and I –“

” I AM FUCKING FINE!” roars Trump in defiance, going into a coughing fit.

“Hang on, Mr. President! I’ll be right back!” Robert races out of the bedroom.

“Why is no one fucking listening to me?! I am fit as a fucking — “Trump falls like a tower of fast food to the plush carpet. The room dissolves into the form of a giant butterfly, floating amidst a galaxy of stars.

Trump hollers in fear, awakening astride said giant butterfly that says, “Welcome aboard, Sir. There’s something important I, like, totally want you to see.” 

Trump hollers again, shocked to be buck naked,”Mommy!”

The Butterfly banks over a mass grave on Hart Island. Workers in hazmat suits shovel dirt onto cheap wooden coffins. “Sir, millions will die unless you lead by example. Wear a mask,” says the cosmic butterfly.

“Masks are for pussies. And you’re nothing but a God damn nightmare bug!” shouts Trump.

“I am the butterfly of truth. No wonder you hate me.” the butterfly says as it flies over the mass graves.

“Shit happens. Take me back to the White House!”

“Stop lying. Start masking. Now, loser!” the butterfly calmly says and it dive bombs for Washington DC. It banks upside down and dumps the naked Trump on the White House lawn. Trump tumbles to screaming halt in the thorny bushes of the Rose Garden.

A flashlight sets the spectacle that is naked Donald Trump aglow. Dressed in a bright yellow hospital gown, Robert, now sporting a goatee, tosses aside a cigarette and shouts, “Who goes there?”

“The President!” shouts Trump, hiding in the rose bushes.

“No dice. President Schwarzenegger has an accent?” says Robert with a puzzled squint as pulls on his surgical mask.

“President who?!” shouts Trump.

“Wait, what the, that you Donald?”

“Donald?!  Shut it and get me some clothes, Robert,” says the shivering Trump.

“But you’ve been missing 2 years now, um, Mister former President Trump!” says Robert in shock. “Where you been?”

Trump’s orange face goes as white as his ample ass.

END CHAPTER ONE

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. Thanks.

Donate for the Coolest in stories and meditation.

Click TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM in the menu bar top of the page to read all the chapters.

Coming attractions. Twelve tormentingly funny chapters here. 8 with audio.

Mary Trump to the Attempted Rescue

Screen Shot 2020-07-25 at 2.30.57 PMCould not put down Mary Trump’s new tell-all TOO MUCH AND NEVER ENOUGH. We’ve never seen anything like this firsthand take on Trump, or any other president ever, by a family member who also happens to be a professional shrink.

Indeed, Trump niece Mary’s well told book is by far the best of the orange king tell-all genre, spawned by our citizenry’s desperate search for meaning behind the spectacle of the Nero-like Trump presidency. Forget the rest of the tell-alls and dig deep into the depressing  inner realms of the Trump psyche aided by Mary’s professional speculation.

Ah, but don’t lose sight that’s ultimately what the book is when it comes to the shrink parts – speculation. And the disgruntled speculation, at that, of a woman treated terribly by Donald and the entire greedy Trump family. Still, Mary Trump’s brave deep dive into Trump family life is restrained and laser focused. Unless you have a hardened Q-Anon brainwashing shell around your mind, you will gain new insights about the tragically troubling puzzle that is Donald J Trump and those enabling his disastrous presidency.

In her already best-selling page turner, one that El Presidente Trump and his legal team failed pathetically to get banned, Mary Trump dashes any and all all hope of DJT ever becoming a good president. First because she feels Donald is deeply damaged goods due to a heartless father who coddled his son’s bullying and lying bluster to the exclusion of his heir apparent, Mary’s father Freddy; second she poses that deeply ingrained in Trump’s psyche is a driving need to please his cold as ice Father, which produced an obsequious nature in Trump around strong men world leaders; third she portrays the endless sums of daddy money that floated Trump cheating his way though his education and business, leaving him an incompetent fool; and last Mary believes that due to a mother who abandoned Donnie as a toddler that Trump suffers from a malignant vacuum of compassion and love deep within our fearful leader’s core for anything except money and power. And more, but these were the key salient points for me.

Before opening page one I had the preconception that I was not going to learn much new in Mary’s book. After all, it’s a 24/7 news world of Trump, our impeached president, and we are trapped in like moths to a eternal feeling flame of brainwashing hammering away at our minds. So how much new could there be to learn about the guy who cheated his way to presidency using Russian assistance? Indeed, just this week alone we’ve seen Trump launch Trumped up invasions of Portland and Chicago of federal troops as secret police, snatching innocent protestors into unmarked rental cars and whisking them off to black sites. But Mary’s storytelling is patient and potent in it’s heartfelt yet detached telling of her grandfather Fred Trump ‘s cruelty. A frosty hypercritical brutality that led to her father Freddy’s alcoholism and ultimate death at only 42 and the withering of Donald’s soul. After reading all this groundbreaking tell-all, done Mary says for love of country and not profit, helps one understand Trump’s lack of empathy for a Corona Virus death toll. A devastating toll well over 140K, with his icy attitude of, “I’ll be golfing if you need me!” mirrored in Mary’s sad account that while her father Freddy was dying in a hospital Trump was at the movies. And yesterday when people were mourning the dead of the virus alongside the death  civil rights pioneer Congressman John Lewis there Trump was on the greens with Green Bay Packers fallen hero Brett Farve.  I could not resist a digital political commentary.

18th(1)

I’ve lost a brother named Fred to alcohol too. And while I can relate to Trump needing to turn his back on Freddy’s destructive drinking to some degree, when my brother ended up in a hospital in 2015 with a bleeding ulcer from his over drinking I dropped everything and remained beside his hospital bed as he lay in a coma as many days as I could afford to be away from work. That’s what brothers do. My Freddy would die alone eventually in 2017 by ostracizing himself from the entire Sheetz family.

Considering how much I dislike Trump, it’s amazing how much we have in common, a bad father, a lost brother named Fred and a successful real estate career. Floated by endless cash from his dad and later suspected Russian money and now taxpayer money he abuses, Donald, however has never hit the absolute rock bottom I was blessed to experience in the real estate crash of 1991. Losing everything would send me into therapy and on the long road to recovery from my bad dad’s racist influences. But not so for our commander in chief who is an erratic untreated pack of neurosis we are all suffering under. A bully of cosmic proportions of unchecked ego. Fact is, I will consider it a win if we don’t end up in a civil and or nuclear war before his crazy reign ends. It will end someday won’t it?

I could go on sighting more awesome examples of why after reading TOO MUCH AND NEVER ENOUGH you’ll finally get why we must be even more concerned about Trump than we already are. Let that one sink in.  But I’ve said enough without being a spoiler. Enough I hope to get you to “take read”, as they say in Hollywood regarding scripts.

5 stars for an entertaining and informative look at what makes our wannbe dictator tick and why he is so vulnerable to Putin, Kim and other powerful enablers that, who like his father Fred Sr. keep Trump propped up as their useful idiot.  Read the book before you disagree with my harsh assessment of Trump please, one I have even more deeply after the fast read. I promise Trump won’t really care… even if you’re deep into the kind of brainwashing his millions in campaign funds and Russian psyop enable by Zuckerberg can do to paint a false reality.

Thanks for the attempted rescue, that is if America’s not already too far gone, Mary Trump.