Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 5 – The Covid Kid

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!trumps-fever-dream-version-of-kelly-anne-conway

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.


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.”


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.

Town Sign Final

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.”

“Like hell.”

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.

WIld West Trump
Fire, ready aim! Trump battles to Covid Kid and his Gang

“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:


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


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.

Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 2 – The White Hospital

Old radio style audio and edits added May 16, 2021

Welcome to TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM, my dark sci-fi parody about a dark future, perhaps coming into alternate reality due the “too painful to watch” daily show of Trump’s inability to lead during the coronavirus crisis.

When we last left a feverish President Trump it was May 2022, and he was just dumped buck naked in the thorny bushes of the Rose Garden by the giant time-traveling cosmic butterfly of truth.



Meanwhile, one timeline away …

Trump’s former African American personal attendant, Robert, dressed in a hospital gown and mask, helps a badly scratched and quite naked Trump from the rose bushes to his shaky feet. Robert says,”Whoa. Last time I saw you, I rushed out your bedroom to get the doc.”

“Yeah, I know. That just happened,” says Trump crouching behind a bush.

“No. You been gone a whole two whole years!”

“Two years!?” shouts Trump.

“And why are you naked as a Jay bird on the 4th of July?” says Robert.

Too distracted to answer, Trump notices every window in the White House is brightly lit and wonders, “Damned if I know. Took a ride on a fucking giant liberal butterfly.”

All Robert can manage to say is, “Liberal butterflies?  Yep, you’re former President Trump alright.”

Trump points to the glowing presidential windows, “Why the hell are all the lights on in White House?”

“Put on this spare mask and gown on and lemme show you,” says Robert handing Trump both.

“The virus is fake news. Don’t need a mask but I will take a fucking gown!” shouts Trump, drawing attention from a masked security guard.

“Sorry. President Schwarzenegger’s executive order of May 7, 2020 makes wearing of gowns and masks law,” offers Robert grimly.

“President Schwarzenegger?!” shouts Trump.

The masked White House security, pulling out his pistol. Trump quickly struggles to gown up as he says, “Why isn’t Mike president? He die of Covid?”

“Pence ain’t dead yet… but he’s eatin’ himself there.”

“Eating?” says Trump.

“Pence took over your brand of eatin’ all American fast food. But that shit got way outta control. Last report, Pence’s gained 130 pounds since he was ousted from the presidency.”

Trump laughs wickedly and says,”Ousted how?

“Senate unanimously voted to impeach him for slipping ventilators to all his PAC backers. Mikey, never even made it to the elections. Your yes man was lost after you vanished.”

“What happened to Biden?”

“Gone with the Covid. Sweet guy. Don’t think he’d have been much of president in any case.”

“He was in the Ukrainians and China’s pocket. America’s better off Biden’s dead,” says Trump.

“They cremated old Joe. Conspiracy theories abound Joe’s still alive and hiding out in Antarctica on a UFO base,” says Robert.

“Hmm. Sounds like the Dems caught onto how much people love conspiracy theories.”

“And Bernie?” says Trump.

“Virus killed old Bernie same day as Moscow Mitch. But not before he gave his spot to Schwarzenegger. Then Arnold ran for reelection and won biggly, as you used to like to say, sir,” says Robert.

“Who’d Schwarzenegger run against ?” says Trump in angry wonder.

“Jared. Epic landslide.”

“Surprise!” says Trump dryly. “So who’s the Veep?”

“Your old pal Chris Christie”

“What a fuck fest. But Arnold isn’t American born. How’d he get around that?” says Trump.

“The GOP Senate, they changed them laws– ” says Robert, trying not to show his happiness.

The gowned and masked Trump stomps for the White House, “Enough. I am gonna tell Schwarzenegger face to face to get the fuck out of my oval office.”

“America’s hero, um, President Schwarzenegger, he don’t work from here no more.”

Trump stops dead in his tracks and spins to ask, “What? Why?!”

“President Schwarzenegger, you see, he made this here White House into a coronavirus hospital.”

“The White House a hospital?” says Trump.

“Arnold renamed it the White Hospital now. I still work here. Trained nurse now on the front line,” says Robert proudly.

“Two years and none of the vaccines I was ramming through on Operation Warp Speed didn’t get made?”

“Oh they got made all right. Life even started getting back to normal in the summer of 2021. The mutations struck, says Robert sadly.

“Mutations?” says Trump.

“Florida. That fucker DeSantis tried to out Trump you. No masking. No vaxxing. Now, America’s still on it’s ass thanks to the DeSantis Variant.”

“How many dead?” says Trump.

“I gave up checking when the death toll hit 3 mil. Too numb to keep up anymore” says Robert sadly. “And damned if the DeSantis Variant don’t love killing the young. Tragic. At least the Covid-Original like bumping off old people who had lived a full life. Wanna hear the kicker though?”

“Unlike Covid-Orginal the DeSantis variant like killing 3 times more whites than blacks. Some say it’s God’s way of –“

“Fuck all this.  Where do I find Schwarzenegger?” demands Trump.

“Ain’t gonna like what I gotta say on that, sir,” says Robert kicking at the poorly mowed White House lawn.

“Stop fucking around and give me the dope on where the guy who ruined the Apprentice is!” says Trump grabbing Robert by his hospital gown.

“President Schwarzenegger, you see, he works from the repossessed Trump Tower,” says Robert sheepishly.

Trump fumes until he spews, “Fuck me!”

“After all the lawsuits after your — ahem — handling of the virus, well, it was your baby Ivanka’s only option to pay the bills, sellin’ the Tower,” says Robert warily.

“Besides that shit. How’s Ivanka?!” says Trump.

“Holed up at Mar-A-Lago with Jared and your boy Baron. Runnin’ what’s shreds are left of your empire after the IRS seized most your assets.” says Robert taking a long drag on his cigar.

“Ivanka and Jared are with Baron, good. Where’s, Melania?”

“Brace yourself… ,” says Robert hanging his head. “You’re widower now, sir. Poor Meliania passed of the DeSantis Variant October 19th 2020.”

“Cool, cool. OK.  Single man again. I mean that’s terrible!  What about my two son, Eric and Don Jr?  How are they”

“Don Jr’s been in an out of rehab like a revolving door. Kinda lost track of him.” says Robert gently.

“And my idiot son?” asks Trump.

“Eric’s dead.”

“The DeSantis Variant?” puzzles Trump.

“Eric, well, passed to the great beyond just last week. But not of the virus.”


“You really wanna know, sir?”

“Is a Republican as dumb as dirt?” says Trump, masking up.

“Video of Eric’s death went viral. You sure?” says Robert pulling out cell phone.

“Show me!”

Screen Shot 2021-05-16 at 3.38.40 PMRobert scrolls and hits play on YouTube.

The African plains glow in the sunset. Eric and a rugged African hunting guide, Akua, sneak through the brush on their bellies. “I wish my dad had live to see me bag the last rhino on earth!” says Eric. Akua motions Eric to be quite, putting a finger to his lips.

“Huh?” says Eric loudly.

A male rhino charges for Eric.

Akua shouts, “Run!  Run for the Land Rover, you great white idiot!”

Eric defies Akua and takes careful aim at the charging rhino. BANG! A perfect shot the rhino crumbles mid run and rolls forward, crushing the screaming Eric to silence.

“Stop! Seen enough.”

“You sure the part where they pull the rhino off Eric with the winch is — Sorry —  “

“Don’t be sorry,” says Trump waving off Robert’s sympathy.

“Huh? I know you’re tough, sir. But that’s cold. Eric loved you more than all the other Trump children,” says Robert.

“Not cold. It’s fine,” says Trump with a maniacal grin.

“Fine how?”

“Finally got this all  figured out.”

“How so?” puzzles Robert.

“Fever dream. All just a stupid fever dream,” says Trump with a delirious chuckle.

“Wow. Love that shit. But sadly this shit’s all too real, Donald, I mean, sir.”

“Believe what you want. I’m fucking outta here,” Trump storms off for the White House.

“Where you goin’, sir?” says a bewildered Robert.

“Back to my bedroom to wake the fuck up!”

Trump storms off to the White House, determined to wake up from his fever dream. Robert takes a long drag on this cigar and follows after Trump.

“Forgot to ask about Tiffany. That’s my Donnie,” says Robert.


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. Old style radio show audio coming soon to more chapters. Thanks.

Donate for new chapters and audio .

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

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

5/2/2021 New Old Style Radio Show Audio Version Added. Dialogue added for the Butterfly of Truth!

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…

Love Trumps Hate smaller
That’s my love Elizabeth in the Coolest Meditation Ever Antarctica penguin hat.

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…


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.


I’ll get chapter two audio up here as soon as I can.

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.



“Top of the world, Ma!”  James Cagney in WHITE HEAT

White+HEATLOVE MONSTER wasn’t written, the words flew onto my Mac!  Ninety action packed pages worth, like a flock of doves on a mission to spread the word that love is NOT the answer.

Here, in blog-rough-draft style, typos and all, more refined each passing day, presented in fluid form, like an oil painting that never dries and where perfectionism can be put off indefinitely, I invite you, dear reader, to check back once and while to watch this tale of a love’s powerful dark side wreaking havoc on our world evolve into a highly polished novel and screenplay.

Writing has always been a form of meditation for me.  LOVE MONSTER, then, is my darkest and most powerful meditation so far.

WARNING to sensitive souls and young ones under 18; LOVE MONSTER is a dark raunchy R-rated story filled with sex, profanity and violence and not for you!  Stop reading here!

Still with me, age 18 and overs that like a salty tale for release?  Buckle up for a rollicking roller coaster ride of how love can be as destructive as Cagney’s crazy relationship to his Ma in WHITE HEAT.

Love Monster Poster heart


By Ken Sheetz

Once upon a time, in the fair city of Baltimore, there lived a mother who loved her son to death…

A dark tree-lined street smack in middle of Baltimore can hide lots of secrets.  A love monster hangs her hat here.  Her name’s Millie Magoo.  Millie loves her kid Billie.  Loves him so much it hurts.  Loves the spoiled little shit to death.

Millie’s a grossly overweight closet lush who takes solace in romance novels, the Bee Gees and a collection of vibrators she hides under the bed in a hat box.

Millie Magoo is famed in Baltimore for spouting to unsuspecting SUV owners at red lights, “My poor Jake was God damn war hero who gave his young life to fill your fucking gas guzzler’s mother fucking tank!”

But before writing Mildred off as just another angry fat boozy American lost in our over consuming consumer society that’s consuming our planet like a black hole running in slow motion, let’s look back on how Millie Magoo got to be a love monster.


Millie’s sweet 16 birthday party winds down and her school chum girlfriends file out of the Magoo home, giggling and wearing party hats.  But young Millie’s nowhere in sight.  Turns out, Millie left her own party early, sneaking off to a private party in her bedroom to show her favorite uncle her Bee Gees collection.

Uncle Peter, only 5 handsome years older than Millie, holds out a hand and they dance in the little room.  Millie’s shocked as Peter presses himself against the hot looking young Millie, who bears no resemblance to the ruined Millie of the tale’s opener.

“Ain’t the Bee Gees divine?” says Millie nervously.

“How about a sweet sixteen kiss?” say Peter.  Not waiting for an answer he kisses young Millie deeply.

Millie enjoys the kiss, her head swimming as the Bee Gees croon “How Deep is Your Love.”  Millie’s had a crush on Peter her whole young life.  She is into the kiss but now Peter makes another un-uncle-ish move as he squeezes his niece’s tits.

“Uncle Peter!” says Millie slapping Peter tit grubbing hands away.

“You want this, bitch.  You ain’t no a kid anymore.” again Peter kisses Millie deeply, tongue against hers.  Her passion kindles.

Uncle Peter tosses Millie onto the bed and growls, “Let’s get you out of that thong that’s been taunting my dick all day”

“No!  Stop!  Please Uncle Peter!”

Peter whips out his pecker and proceeds to pop his niece. “Tease.  Drop the virgin.  No one can have tits like yours and no —

Millie slaps Peter as she loses her virginity in a gush of blood.  Panicked she shouts, “Help!  Dad!  HELP!”

Heavy footsteps thunder up the hall.

“Stupid little bitch.  Now you did it!” says Peter as he falls in the floor, pants around his ankles.

Mr. Magoo, her bad-ass father, Peter’s much older brother who raised him like a son, bursts in the door and roars, “What is the fuck is going on in here?  Peter?  What you –”

“Millie lured me here like some five dollar hooker!” shouts Pete, pulling his pants up and eying his escape route.

Old man Magoo, sags and glowers at his daughter’s bleeding pussy saying, “That true, Mildred?”

“All I wanted was to listen to the Bees Gees!” Millie sobs.

“Bees Gees?  That old disco shit?  Perve music for queers, queens and niggers!” says Mr. Magoo kicking over the record player.

“Big bro, your hot little Millie got me hot under the collar.  Look at the tits she’s flaunting.  But still I resisted.  Then she drags me up to in her room. First thing she pulls my fucking pants down!” shouts Uncle Peter to big brother Mr. Magoo.

Mr. Magoo buys it hook, line and leather beat.  The enraged father/brother proceeds to almost beat his daughter to death as he bellows,”This is for your own good, Mildred.  I love you too much to see you become God damn whore!”

Peter uses his brother’s father-daughter moment of “tough love” to slither off scot-free back to the rock he lives under when not busy raping nieces.


Still bleeding from her uncle’s rape and father’s beating, her trust in men gone on the snowflakes tugging on her skirt, Millie Magoo sneaks from the back door of the kitchen into the grimy alley.  Tucked in her tattered pink My Little Pony suitcase are all her worldly possessions for starting her new life; leftover birthday cake, a few clothes and her Bee Gees collection of love songs.

Where does a girl with only $89 of sweet sixteen birthday money, no family and ashamed to turn to her friends go?

Millie takes shelter from the freakishly heavy snow storm at the Greyhound Bus station.  Afraid to sleep in the empty station at this late hour, she buys a Red Bull from the vending machine, spending $5 of her precious cash.  She slips on her worn secondhand Koss headphones and cranks up the Bee Gees who sing “More Than Woman”.

Young Millie is whisked away on a cloud of disco euphoria.  She dances solo in the empty bus station.  Disco lights set Millie aglow and now she dances with Andy Gibb while he croons “More than a woman” to her.  Millie is free!

A handsome young soldier in crisp Desert Storm fatigues applauds.  Millie’s disco illusion evaporates.  She blushes and sits down so fast she misses the bench, falling on her butt.  The soldier helps her up.  “Too bad you stopped. I was digging it.”

“Oh no, I suck,” sighs Millie.

“Tip for you, never use the word ‘suck’ with a horny soldier,” the movie star handsome soldier offers with a winning grin.

“Millie Magoo,” she says sweetly offering her little hand to his big mitt for a shake.

“Name’s Jake Biggs.  Where you heading, Miss Magoo?” he says his handshake swallowing her delicate hand.

“Millie, silly.  Heading for New York next.  Just got in from Florida, ” Millie lies not so convincingly.

“Um.  How’d you like to be my stunt girlfriend for a visit to my mom’s?” says Jake timidly.

“Well, I guess New York can wait.” smiles Millie.  “I love being free as a bird.  This is how I do things.  Spur of the moment Millie!”

As they ride through the snowy streets in the taxi Millie can see Jake is nervous about visiting his mom and offers, “My family stinks too.”

Jake is stunned he’s so obvious and says, “Joined the army when I turned seventeen.  Lied about my age just to get the fuck outta my home.  Never thought I’d end up in combat.  But you know what?”

“What?” smiles Millie, trying to hide how much in love with this kindred soul she already is, trying and failing not to come on too fast.

“I’ll take bullets over my head over my nuts family any day.  I should let you out here at the all night Mickey D’s.  Pick you up after.  Such a wimp dragging a stranger into my mess,” says Jake sadly as he stare out the taxi windows.

Millie pats Jake’s trembling hand, “You’re stuck with this strange stranger.  Maybe for life.”

“I’d dig that.” says Jake like he means it, taking Millie’s tiny hand into his.

Millie’s heart soars as the Taxi, with the stone-silent driver, passes the old Catholic church.  A silent prayer of thanks pops into her mind she offers to the statue of the Virgin Mary, “Thank you, Mother Mary, for this miracle of meeting sweet Jake and redeeming my 16th birthday.”

The taxi arrives outside the scary looking Biggs family home.  “Last chance to bail on this,” says Jake.

Millie playfully shoves Jake out the taxi door.  But as soon as she steps into the chilled night air, one look at the strange house almost makes Millie bolt.

Millie sits alone in the dusty living room.  The traumatized teen, who thought her night from hell was over, listens in terror to Jake and his mother argue loudly in the kitchen up the dark dank hall.  There’s a tone of menace is Jake’s mother’s voice that’s demonic.  Millie is sadly learning there are worse parents out in the world than her own.

“I don’t see you for two years, Jake, and you bring some tramp whore off the street into my home?” shouts Mrs. Biggs loud enough to be sure Millie can hear her from the living room.

“Fuck this,” mutters Millie to herself and stomps to the kitchen.  Jake sits head in hands at the table.  His mother sobs, back turned to her son at the sink washing dishes in an OCD fury.  Something softens in Millie at the sad sight of these two fighting.  An all too familiar scene.

She’d been prepared to hoof it back to the bus station, instead Millie offers sweetly, “Need help with the dishes, Mrs. Biggs?”

Jake’s mother slowly spins from the sink, a butcher knife in her hand. “Get out of my house, tramp.”

“Fuck you, Mom! I ain’t nobody’s tramp!” shouts Millie, shocked at her deep rage at this strange lady she just called mom.

Mrs. Biggs races screaming for Millie, the huge knife gleaming.  Jake leaps between the crazed women. “Ugh…”

Both women scream in unison at the knife sticking from Jake’s gut.  The light’s go out in Jake’s eyes before he can even mutter a bad death line.


The next weeks are a blur for Millie of police stations and abusive foster homes she escapes from over and over again. Millie finds a cozy spot over a warm sewer to pitch a tent she steals from another homeless chick.

Despite a parade of endless offers, the hot young Millie refuses to turn tricks.  She prefers the deep dignity of a break she scores with a lecherous old strip club owner scouting runway talent on the streets.  Millie gets a strange kick, dolled up each night as a sexy cocktail waitress in a red light strip club, tormenting horny men like her Uncle who want more, just doing blow jobs while huge bodyguards keep greedy pervs at bay.

Millie makes enough on blow jobs and tips from overly generous drunk strip club customers to get a shitty apartment in a Mexican neighborhood.  Lousy as her apartment looks, its hers!  Milie revels, dancing to the blaring Bee Gees to drown out the Mexican polka music besieging her on all sides.

One day, as she happily does her thrift store dishes to the beat of “Dancing Queen”, Millie becomes dizzy and falls to the floor.

Later puking into the toilet, Millie examines the pregnancy stick that confirms her worst fear: The dirty dishes dancing queen is pregnant with Uncle Peter’s child.

But as a good little devout Catholic, Millie is going to have the child, incest or no incenst.  She decides her new bundle joy’s name will be Billie or Jillie. Names the child-mother-to-be childishly likes as they rhyme with Millie.

Jake Biggs becomes the father in her stories she tells to the girls at the strip club who mercilessly tease about her pregnancy.  But Jake the soldier won’t have died on his mother’s kitchen floor.  No way.  Nope.

Millie’s wants this story to stick and so she weaves it carefully from what she reads at the library about Bush 1’s war to free Kuwait, which will leads Bush 2’s war to kill Saddam, which will lead to Bush 1’s/Obama’s war kill Osama and on and on to wars to kill guys no one’s ever heard of before. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  These are the Desert Storm days of the 90s when America is falling back in love with war after a nasty love affair with that jerk of date we called Vietnam.

One night, in the middle of a blow job, Millie unveils the tale of “Jake the War Hero Killed by Friendly Fire” and gets the biggest tip of her life; $500.  Now Millie tells the tragic death tale, worthy of Shakespeare, to all who will listen so often that she believes it herself.

Thereby tuning out the horrible rape by Uncle Peter forever.  But in the process of numbing her pain with fantasy Millie as lost touch with something precious, a thing called reality.

But Millie’s still enough in touch with reality to launch a desperate search for a stepfather for her unborn kid, using a used computer a strip club regular gives her for a blow job.  Millie’s becomes a whiz with computer dating.  She desperately fishes the cyber waters for a sap.  Though her face pic is hot enough for lots of nibbles, once the long line of horny guys on the line meet her and see some other guy’s bun is in her oven, all run.

This goes on for months.  No dice with dating saps to find Mr. Free Ride, though she does score enough blow jobs to make rent.

But soon there will be another mouth to feed.  Millie is on her own with no family to help.  Millie freaks out to “Freak’ by the disco late comers Chic, crying alone in her shoebox of an apartment, “How can I take care of a baby when I can barely take care of my fucking self?”

Deep into her third trimester, Millie meets a drifter in the Safeway parking lot who gallantly helps the prego Millie carry groceries to her car.  He bows like a court jester and he introduces himself, “Desmond Starseed, Vegan extraordinaire, ET walk-in, at your service.”  Millie giggles as Desmond scopes out Millie’s grocery bags he loads in her trunk.  “This junk food is going to kill you and your baby, who looks like they might be here any minute.”

Now, most people might get pissed off when a total stranger starts critiquing their diet.  But Millie is intrigued for her unborn baby.  “You got the receipt for this crap food?” says Desmond Starseed.  Millie nods coyly.  “Good!  Tell you what…?”

“Millie,” she offers to his charming pause.

“Tell you what, Millie.  Today you are blessed.  You buy me a salad and I’ll teach you how to eat Vegan!” Desmond says with the passion of a convert.

“No, I love my Twinkees too much to ever go veg.  But you show me how to do healthy for my kid,” she says patting her belly, “And you got your salad… and some desert.”

Desmond grins a charismatic smile that gets Millie’s wet in right there in the Kroger parking lot.  She takes Desmond by his bony arm and gets a lesson on Vegan healthy eating at the Safeway and that night he gets the blow job of a lifetime.  Work at the strip club had made Millie a virtuoso BJ queen.

The honeymoon doesn’t last long for this parking lot romance.  Desmond proves to be a judgmental jerk.  One day as Millie sadly complains about her fucked up life, Desmond arrogantly tells Millie that she is “Negative Manifesting”, accusing her of subconsciously ruining her own life.

The “Starseed”, not really a Starseed, just a schtick the criminal drifter picked up as cover story from the One Love Fest in Ojai while scouring trash cans for chow, can barely pay for gas for his beat to hell van he lives in.  And here the fucker is, telling poor Millie again she’s a bad manifester while she blows him.  “Fuck his smarmy ass,” she thinks.  But still she sees Desmond and sucks him silly when he shows up sponging gas dough.  Yep.  “Half a man is better than none for my baby, ” she rationalizes.

One night the cops run Desmond, the Master Manifester of nothing but thin air, off the Safeway parking lot along with his shitty van.  Millie never hears from the New Age wonder again.  “Good riddance to bad Starseeds,” she thinks and means it.


One rainy spring day, while she’s emptying cum tissue wads from the strip club waste cans, Millie’s water breaks.  Tina Turnover the stripper comes to Millie’s rescue by dumping her on the doorstep of a luxury Baltimore hospital before hightailing it back to the strip club.  Thus, besides her beloved Billie, is born a $30,0000 ER hospital bill Millie will never be able to handle.

Millie’s eventual bankruptcy, triggered by the expensive emergency baby delivery job, becomes the heart of the reason Millie votes for Obama when ’08 elections roll around.  Even later, when Obama Care comes out of the oven as mandatory health insurance premiums paid to giant corporations, Millie fantasizes about changing Mr. Hope and Change’s life into something shorter.

Millie got her masters degree in hating her father and a fetus of hate for Obama takes the place of her boy Billie in her womb.  A hate that deepens in her heart with each betrayal of her love for his campaign facade, as Obama swings further to the right than Bush 2 each year.

Baby Billie asleep in her little nylon papoose, Millie lights candles to the Virgin Mary and makes her way into the confessional.  The little confessional door slides open and though she cannot see him except in silhouette, Millie recognizes from his thick Irish she is speaking to the handsome new priest Father O’Hara.

“Forgive me, Father.  My last confession was last week and I have sinned,” says Millie.

“Go on, child,” says Father O’Hara, not much older than Millie, but loving his role as priest.

“I gave oral sex for money,” says Millie.

“How many times, child?” ask Father O’Hara, his voice revealing relief at finally hearing an interesting confession.  This parish was getting to be a drag.

“Twelve or thirteen.  I lose count,” says Millie sadly.  Baby Billie starts to cry.  Millie silences her baby by offering her ample breast for feeding.  Billie’s sucking on her nipples gives Millie deep orgasmic pleasure, but this is something she’s too ashamed to confess.

“The church and social services are a better solution than giving oral sex for money, child, ” offers Father O’Hara.

“I want to show my family I can stand on my own!” says Millie surprised at her angry reasoning. “I have a newborn child and bills to pay.  Father Flanagan usually just listens, forgives me and we move on.  So can we get this over with?”

“This is the holy confessional not a the proper forum for debate. Have you any other sins to confess?” says Father O’Hara, his brogue getting thicker as he becomes more agitated.

“Well, there’s this new hot young Irish priest that just joined the parish who I’ve been fantasizing about fucking silly.  Is that a sin?” says Millie mockingly.

Flummoxed, Father O’Hara is briefly lost for a response, but manages to blurt,  “Yes, child, you have committed a sin indeed of demonic proportion.  Say 500 Hail Mary’s as penance and I will pray for your soul.  Priests married, dear one, to the church.  Any other sins to confess?”

Angry silence answers the righteous Father O’Hara.

“Hello?” says Father O’Hara, satisfied he has crushed the spirit of this brash woman.

“It was a fucking joke.  Maybe not a funny, one, Father O’ Hara, ”  Millie says in mocking Irish brogue.  “Yeah, I know who you are sitting behind your little screen door.  You made me your enemy today.  Chew on this, while you live on my donations, you pious prick.  I am a single teen mother fighting for my survival and my new baby’s life because fuckers like you in Rome make it a sin to have an abortion.  I smell you, Father O’Hara.  And you stink like a rat who hates women.  So I’m watching you like a hawk eyes fucking dinner.  One altar boy gets touched and I will nail you to the cross you hide behind, you smarmy Mick.”  Millie slams the confessional door and storms from the church, baby Billie bawling.

A year later Father O’Hara, despite his best Irish charm efforts, has not managed to mend the fence with Millie.  He may as well give up because all her deep anger with men has found a holy target.  Millie even goes so far as to convince a detective who is a regular BJ customer to run a background check.  But the detective is unable to penetrate the secrecy of the church.

One day Millie sits in the confessional and tells Father Flanagan of her intuitive hunch saying, “Fatjer O’Hara is a pervert, Father Flanagan.  I feel it down to my bones.”

“My child, Father O’Hara, has become an obsession for you.  I assure you he is a good man, with impeccable credentials.” says the elder priest.

“Father Flanagan, I love you.  You’ve been my priest my whole life.  You know what I went through with my uncle and father. Bad as it’s all been it’s given me a sixth sense about evil men.  And I know, beyond question, O’Hara is a bad apple.  No, that’s not strong enough.  He’s a poison apple that might destroy your parish if he molests our kids,” Millie says with all her heart.

“Millie, you need to forget hunches, have faith in me as head of this flock, focus on getting a real job.  Your baby is soon going to grown.  You can be forgiven each week for your way of supporting the both of you.  But you owe it to your Billie boy to find legitimate income.,” says Father Flanagan gravely.

“I love my Billie so much but it’s hard.  I never finished high school and most jobs today want college degrees,” says Millie.

“Love is how you find your way out of the trap.  To find the new way to earn a living you must stop giving oral sex to strange men.  Stop out of love.  Turn all that wasted energy into love for Billie.  Love is the answer.  Put your faith and love in Lord Jesus and Mother Mary.  Love will find the way.” says Father Flanagan.

Millie takes Father Flanagan at his word she quits the strip club.  Millie is truly surprised when Tina Turnover and the gang of strippers all throw Millie a good-bye BJs party.

“How you gonna make it, girlfriend?” Tina ask as the party winds down.

“Love is the answer.  I am going on faith,” says Millie, terror in her voice.

“Well, fuck faith.  If you get in a jam you come running back.  One thing about blow jobs.  They never go outta style!” Tina laughs as she hugs the wary Millie.

“You know, I know old Bob doesn’t really own this joint.  He’s your front right?” says Millie.

“You are one smart cookie, kid.  If anyone can go legit you’re it!” says Tina playfully booting Millie for the door.

Weeks pass and Millie’s meager savings dwindle.  She’s about to give Tina a call when a miracle comes the 18-year-old mama’s way when Billie, who never seems to stop crying, and she are about to be evicted from her studio apartment.  The miracle occurs eviction eve, also Xmas Eve and her fated birthday, at 3 AM while she is desperately surfing for a man, any man with a decent job, when a blind pop up ad pops up.  She hates pop up ads, until this one, promising she can make $3,000 a month sitting at home on her sweet little ass.

And, lo and behold, a few clicks later teen mama Millie transforms into a spammer for an Asian porn site, making a big push into the US market. With a porn power advance wired to her bank from Hong Kong she beats the clock on eviction.

It’s that crazy one in million lotto ticket of a work at home gig.  Now she can love up Billie proper, like the handsome priest told her!  The joy is short-lived when Millie learns she can be carted off to jail in the middle of the night.  You see, this was not just porn… but Asian kiddie porn.

Millie has officially joined the vampires of this world that feed off the weakest of humankind.  Much of the light goes out of her bright eyes forever.

The big issue as far as loving her Billie, is that Millie believes she has no love examples in life to draw on, except beatings from her “This horse beating is for your own damn good!” dad.

Desmond had once said, in one of his better moments as she blew him in the back of his shitty van, “Relax, Silly Millie, you’ll know how to love your baby.  You are made of love.  Love’s not something you learn from anyone, babe. — Now, that’s some seriously sage shit I just gave you gratis.  Can you spot me a fifty for that gem of wisdom I picked up from Osho?”

But Millie dismisses all the messed up Starseed tried to teach her while cumming on her face.  Nope, a slightly used video collection of 60s TV shows she picks up at a WalMart parking lot sale for two bucks comes to the rescue as Millie’s role model of “family love”.

She wants to be the next Mrs. Cleaver, the next Mrs. Brady and Aunt Bea all rolled into one loving mama.  Millie studies THE DICK VAN DYKE show like it’s Tolstoy.  She roars with laughter at the bad ass way Alice stands up the loud mouthed bullying Ralph, who resembles Papa Magoo.

But Lucy is her “I love” favorite.  She revels in Lucy’s amazing comedic dance to always outsmart the bossy anger-fest that is the ranting Ricky.  Millie has no idea the real life version of the Desilu production was a bitter off-screen divorce that left Lucille Ball heartbroken.

The fake Brady Bunch parade of old sitcoms gives Millie about as much emotional nutrition as the Twinkees she’s become addicted to, along with the other GMO hopped up junk foods, that daily erode her figure and beauty.

Such waste of her time these cultural dinosaurs.  Just as the homeless Desmond predicted, while spraying his Starseed in her face, Millie is a natural-born good mother.   Breast feeding is an orgasmic joy for  her.  She loves spoiling Billie with top line Carter baby clothes and pricey Fisher-Price toys.  She loves taking Billie for long walks in the park where she shares her story of Billie’s fallen hero father Jake with other young mothers she meets.

It is the high point of her life, even without a man for sex, and her corrupt career of spreading web filth for a living.  Life is good, at least the best ever for this escapee from an abusive family.


Though she might fool the world about her dirty job, Millie cannot fool herself.  Her endless love for poor kid Billie becomes an act of contrition for her spreading kid porn.  Humans are way smarter than we let ourselves know, especially little humans.  Little Billie smells her excessive love for him really has nothing to do with him.  So Billie’s shields go up around his heart and he never truly accepts his mother’s tainted love.  Millie feels the pain of Billie’s primal rejection at her core like battery acid, leading to her addiction to Prozac.

Rather than get down and dirty to the dirty root cause of this dis-ease between Millie and son, she doubles her mission of loving Billie in one-way fashion.  Her one-way love affair with her son only creates more and more ego in little Billie.  Billie’s ego becomes a vampire that drinks the blood of Millie’s desperate love efforts.


One night Millie cuddles up with Billie on the couch with a huge bowl of heavily buttered popcorn to watch old her TV show love examples.  She roars with laughter at Lucy stuffing her face with chocolates racing down the assembly line.

Billie, now a five-year-old tyrant, blurts in disgust, “What’s so funny about watching this stupid old lady stick food in her mouth like you, mommy?”

Millie bolts up on the couch just as surely as if her father had just whipped her with his studded belt and slaps Billie across the cheek.  Instantly, she regrets her blunder seeing the hate in Billie’s ego-filled gaze.  “Billie!  Oh, God!  Billie, mommy is so sorry!”

“I’m going to report you to the police!” shouts Billie in his mother’s face, then runs off to his overly decorated bedroom.

Terrified about a police visit that may unravel her kiddie porn career and send her off to prison, Millie dashes for her boy’s room.  Billie is on his Iphone dialing 911 when Millie kicks the door open.  By the way, Billie wasn’t then only kindergartener to have one in his new class to have an Iphone.  He hates school, disobeys the teacher and fights with classmates.  None of the little slobs treat Billie like the king he is at home.

Millie grabs the Iphone from Billie just as the 911 operator says, “911.  Please state your emergency.”

“Nothing.  My little boy, uh, was playing with his new Iphone.  Ha ha.  Kids. — Billie shame on you!  — Sorry ma’am!” says Millie disconnecting the call.

“You want to see what happens to little boys who abuse their Iphones?” screams Millie throwing the Iphone out the window.  Broken glass flies everywhere in slow motion.

Millie is having one hell of an out-of-body experience.  She watches herself yank Billie from his bed and throw the terrified kid over her knees, pull his pants down and spank Billie so hard that his little ass turns red as a tomato.

“I am doing this because I love you, Billie boy!  I won’t have my son grow about to be a…”

Millie stops herself short of the word “whore’ but keeps beating the screaming boy, watching helplessly from above the ceiling fan as her unchained bitch-self beats her little boy’s ass to a bleeding pulp.  She fights with all her will to get back into her body and make this child abuse stop, but all she can do is pray for a divine intervention to save her Billie.

“I’ll be good, mama!  I’ll watch your old TV shows!” bawls Billie.

Millie has never before raised her voice to Billie, let alone this crazy shit.  Her kid is in total shock and ego deflation.  At that sad ego-less moment, Millie is finally able to get back in her body’s own drivers seat.  She takes her sobbing boy into her arms and cries with him.  If she could see the deepened hatred that burns in Billie’s eyes over her shoulder, she’d be out of her body again.

Though Billie never tries the 911 routine again, things only become steadily worse between Millie and Billie.   Her over-generous acts to get back in her boy’s good graces, after her repeated maniacal outbursts, only make Billie’s ego stretch bigger.  Soon Billie’s ego is a monster-sized reflection of Millie’s monster love.


Billie is busy in class learning how to never study any faith but the Holy and true Roman Catholic faith, when Millie gets a call from the Catholic school principal Father Flanagan, “Mrs Magoo.  Can you drop whatever you’re doing and come right over to my office now?  We have to discuss a grave matter concerning your son, Billie.”

“Um, sure.  I will be there in 5 minutes.  What is the matter?” says Millie.

“It’s of a sensitive nature best not discussed over the phone, Mrs. Magoo,” says the principal.

“I’m on my way, Father!” says Millie, already double locking her attic office door.

All the drive over in her green Prius Millie is in tears, terrified of her whole life unraveling as she pep talks herself, “Oh my God. Billie’s ratted on me for the beatings.  Well, let’s see how the little rat fink likes life in foster homes when child services carts him off.”

Mille hurries into the rectory building and runs smack into Father O’Hara, knocking a stack of magazines he carries flying.  Millie is shocked to the mags are kiddie porn of little Asian boys.  Porn Father O’Hara whacks off to regularly, but he cleverly says,  “Oh, Millie you, you startled me, lass.  Apologies for your seeing this filth.  I, ah, I am tracking down an Asian porn ring, operating over the web and sending this smut all over America.”

“I, I don’t have time to chat.  Billie’s in some trouble and I, I am seeing the principal,” she says, fearing the police are waiting for her in said principal’s office to bust her for spreading the filth like the Father has latched onto, but in reality would never want to stop the free flow of.

Relieved Millie bought his lie that strangely comes close to the truth, Father O’Hara says,”Just be calm and obedient, love, and you’ll be fine.  Do whatever the old control freak asks of you, even if the old perv asks for sexual favors.  OK?” Father O’Hara wink an Millie patting her hand.

Too shocked and frightened to speak or return his sly wink, Millie yanks her hand from O’Hara and runs off in a cold sweat.

Father O’Hara mutters to himself angrily as he stuffs the smut into his tunic, “Fucking ungrateful fat cunt.”

Millie shifts nervously in her seat as she waits for the principal in his office.  She spots a picture on the wall of Father Flanagan shaking hands with Senator Obama at a Washington dinner party.

Principal Father Flanagan enters reverently, as if still in prayer.  He silently takes his big leather seat behind his oak desk.  He gazes down thick glasses at Millie and says grimly, “Your Billie is a holy terror.”

“I know, I know.  I do my best.  If he’s said something about my spankings.  Well –”

With a raise of his hand Father Flanagan silences the tearful Millie and says, “Your son has been diagnosed as ADD by the school nurse.”

“What’s that?  Is he sick?  Oh my God!”

Father Flanagan clucks, “Ninety percent of the little dears in this school have ADD.”

“ADD… Add?” says Millie playing it stupid as she learned men love in her strip club days.

“Stands for ‘Attention Deficit Disorder’.  When I was your age we called these wild children ‘hyper, ‘” says Father Flanagan, like a genius educating a moron mommy.

Millie sags in a mixture of relief.  She’s off the hook as a child abusing mom.  Society’s lowest of the low.

Now, Millie walks right into the system of collaboration between the big pharmaceuticals, as huge dollar donors of schools in return for drugging our kids into zombies, by asking Father Flanagan, “What can I do, Father Flanagan?”

The priest smiles wickedly, another win for he and the school and kindly offers, “Here’s the name of a fine doctor who will prescribe Ritalin for your dear Billie.”

Millie grabs the note from Father Flanagan like a life-preserver on a stormy sea.

Billie is changed on the outside by the rampant ADD drug turning our society’s kids’ brain to mush.  He’s strangely calmer.  Less prone to emotional outbursts.

The co-conspirator pharma/school system doctor explains calmly to Millie that each year they will examine Billie to see if her boy can be taken off the Ritalin.  But Billie boy will use the drug, a form of speed, and many more drugs to come from the “good” doctor, his entire life.


To compensate for her guilt over drugging her little boy, Millie tells her “little man”, as she calls Billie often, how amazing he is every hour without fail.  She accomplishes this feat of compulsive love giving with a reminder she sets on her Iphone that sends forth a harp tone on the 12s.  This gives her an excuse to get off the “damn computer” as she calls it and love Billie up with hugs and kisses, then back to kiddie porn spamming.

Billie often hides from Millie when he hears the angelic harp tone.  She is smothering the kid and she knows it but pretends to herself not.  Billie seeks escape in the basement, light off, hiding from the love monster behind the rusting old water heater.

Millie makes Billie special foods, fatty unhealthy GMO foods like she loves to overeat on, like a love pig getting ready for a love harvest that will never come.  Billie eventually becomes overweight too, but Millie reassures him, “It’s only baby fat, baby boy.”  When Millie and Billie shop the Wal-Mart, people giggle at the chubby pair behind their fat butts.


One afternoon, while Billie is at school learning to be a good little Zombie, hopped up on sugar and dumbed down by Ritalin, Millie decides after 5 years off the market it’s time to date again.

She tries on many of her old dresses… but somehow they’ve all shrunk.  So she settles for a set of designer Juicy sweats she wears as she slaves, hunched over the computer each day spreading kiddie porn.  She hurries off with the excitement of a school girl for her first blind date ever with a doctor!

The meet-up is at local Greek coffee shop that’s seen better days.  Starbucks has wiped out every other coffee shop, but the stubborn Greek owner keeps his coffee shop going out of spite alone.

The holistic doctor date is hunkered down in a huge window booth.  He does not recognize her as she waves to him.  Millie walks over as he tries to avoid eye contact.

“Bob?” she says timidly.

“Are you one of my patients?” Bob says.

“I’m Millie.  Millie your blind date?”

“What is it with you web broads?” Bob grouches as Millie takes the booth seat opposite, uninvited.

“Huh?” is all Millie can offer.

“How old is the picture you sent me?” Bob sighs into his green tea.

“Um.  I dunno.  Recent.”

“So you’ve recently swallowed a baby elephant?” Bob chuckles.

“You are rude.”

“And you, my dumpy dear, are a fat fatty, who, if you don’t get your act together will be diabetic by 35.”

Millie is stone silent.  She looks at her flabby reflection in the coffee shop front widow as the asshole doctor smugly sips his green tea.

“Wake up call!”  Bob says  watching Millie touch her fat cheeks, like someone must have pulled a fat mask over her beautiful face.  Until this horrible instant, Millie honestly had no idea how ugly 30 pounds of GMO generated lard makes her look.   Millie’s gorgeous looks had always been the one thing she loved about herself.   Now it seems gone in an instant.

The holistic doc offers, “I look like my damn picture. Whereas you, my fine fat ass –”

Millie projectile vomits her pea soup in the doc’s smug face.

“Linda Blair cunt!  This suit is brand new fucking Armani!” the holistic doctor, not so holistically shouts, pea soup dripping off his long crooked nose.

Embarrassed beyond words, if oddly pleased with herself for shutting up the Holistic terror,  Millie silently excuses herself to clean up in the bathroom of the seedy coffee shop.

The holistic prick skips on the check while Millie is busy crying her heart out.  She’s relieved when she exits the ladies’ can that her blind date from hell is gone.

The youngest son of the owner, a handsome young Greek, smiles at her, “You’re better off that dude’s gone, ma’am.”

“How about a quickie…, Aros?” Millie offers, reading his name tag.

“Uh… Thanks but I have a, um, girlfriend.” Aros says, mopping up Millie’s green vomit.

Millie staggers from the restaurant.  No one has ever rejected her before.  She’s the hot lady always in charge.  Now, back to back she’s been shunned.  Shunned hard.  The ride home is a haze of lights and noise.


Millie finds herself lighting candles at the golden Virgin Statue in the Catholic Church that is her sanctuary.  She’s been debating for months about confessing her spamming kiddie porn across America.

Millie rehearses her confession, “Father, forgive me.  I am dying inside.  My evil work is killing me.  I have a drugged up out of control little boy and no one else to support us.  I had to take the job, but I hate myself and it’s all making me so fat and ugly!”

But every time she gets to the part where the Irish priest would ask, “And what work is so evil that it’s killing you, angel?”  Words fail her.  Her shame is so deep that she’s not sure she can be forgiven or if the seal of confessional would protect her from jail.

The horrors of young Asian girls being fucked up the ass by beefy old men in leather masks plays on the movie screen of the inside of her eyelids and she weeps in the confessional. Millie curses herself under breath, her knees hurting on the prayer pew board at her excess weight.  Praying is harder when you’re fat.


As Millie waits her turn to confess her sins, she recalls painfully that she resigned last week.  The reason?  A big-ticket kiddie snuff film the Hong Kong office was telling her to push.  She watched the video in horror as a homeless bearded man that strangely resembles Desmond Starseed strangles the life from a 16-year-old Asian girl.  After sending off her resignation to Hong Kong with a defiant click she remembers how quickly her heart filled with angelic light, burning away the crude kiddie porn’s dark vines tying her up heart.  But before she can celebrate sweet redemption, the kiddie porn site’s owners in Hong Kong send her a personal email:

Dear Mrs. Magoo:

You fine American woman.   I respectfully would not accept resignation.  Can assure that all you saw of dead choking girl was actor acting and special effects, my Baltimore friend.  No different than you see in video games or American movies.  Take it easy.  Life is joy.

Your work is super goodness and now I happy to offer you big time surprise.  Stay on the job and $50,000 bonus is in your bank tomorrow and we double your pay per click! 

You deserve this happy time bonus!  Your dead husband Jake would this for you and Billie.  Be smart.

Much loves,

Mr. Kim Yung Ho

Director of Marketing, North America

Of course she’s back in the kiddie porn biz, held like a fly in an amber of easy money.


Millie hears Father O’Hara wrapping up a scratchy voiced cancer victim confessor in the opposite chamber and she bolts from the confessional.  Her flight from Catholic penance knocks an elderly man on his ass.

Millie races straight home to Billie in her Prius, dismisses the babysitter, and swears off dating and confessions for life.  She uses the kiddie porn bonus to fulfill a secret passion to fix up classic cars.  A passion she had always hoped to share with a man, she shares instead with little Billie.  A ’57 Chevy becomes her pride and joy and for a time she loses herself in her new hobby.

But falling behind on her bills for pampering Billie with the latest of everything, she soon resumes her crazy 24/7 work schedule that leaves Billie needy.  She consoles herself seeing Billie crying in his loneliness that her boy is better off with her brief love on the 12s than getting her beatings.  She only breaks from work with Thomas Edison like naps and Red Bull to keep her typing away endlessly night and day.

Mille sells the ’57 Chevy that’s been gathering dust at a heavy loss.  She gets even busier on her computer, surprised that’s possible.

Millie’s a one-woman army of a smut spreader, possessed by her growing pile of Madison Avenue must-haves filling the house to bursting.  She’s a salve to her master the computer to generate the dough to buy the endless wish list of things Billie sees on TV that he MUST have to be happy.

Ah.  But it’s her genuine two-way love that can still free Billie.  A sliver of hope remains for Billie that get smaller each day Millie does her automated love monster thing on the twelves.


One day one, on her five minute breaks she takes on the twelves to shower Billie with love, her growing boy asks, “What do you do all day and night in the locked attic room on the computer, Mommy?

Millie, the queen of fantasy, has been preparing for this moment since she first answered the pop ad.  The lies pour from her mouth with the ring of truth that would win her an Oscar, “Oh, I can’t lie to you sweetie.  Mommy is part of super secret CIA operation called OPERATION LOVE MONSTER.”

“Love Monster why the CIA call it that?” puzzles Billie eating a Chee-toh Millie feeds him like some junk food baby bird.  He swallows the Chee-toh and Millie’s lie both whole.

“I’d say sweetie, but it’s top secret.  That’s why mommy has to lock the door and poor you has to be out here all alone most of the day,” says Millie.

Billie’s satisfied and feels better about his loneliness.  “Can you tell me what you do for Operation Love Monster, mommy?”

“Well, if you cross your heart and promise to never tell a soul,” says Millie in a whisper, like the kitchen might be bugged.

Billie crosses his heart as he says happily, “Cross my heart and promise not to tell a soul!”

“Your Mommy is cyber warrior!” says Millie proudly, because in her heart she is a warrior giving her Billie all she can earn.  Her life savings are meager like most over-consuming Americans.

“Wow. What’s cyber warriors do, Mommy?”

“Well, I trust you, Billie boy.  Mommy is fighting a cyber war with Chinese hackers who keep trying to get into our defense systems!” say Millie, giggling at her boy’s wide eyes at her tale.

“Wow!  What the bad Chinese hackers trying to do to America, Mommy?!”

“The bastards want to blow up America with our own nuclear weapons,” says Millie hatefully.

“Wow!  Oh, Mommy! Do you know Kung Fu?!”

“Of course!  In fact, your bad ass mama knows a martial arts even better than Kung Fu, Billie.  Part of my basic cyber wars training, ” grins Millie to her boy.

“Teach me!  Teach me!  I wanna beat the crap out of the bully Jack Steward!” says Billie.

“Well, that might not be such a good idea, honey boy.”

“Why not?” demands Billie.

“Um, well, I can’t share the reason why.  Sorry, baby,”  says Millie, worrying she is out of believable lies.

To her sudden silence Billie says, “Would you have to kill me if you taught me Kung Fu?”

Millie nods “Yes!” with a relieved conspiratorial giggle.

“I love you, Mommy!” Billie says, his little heart full of love. He hops from his chair and hugs Millie with all his loving might.

Her fantasy of her boy finally being affectionate with her has come true.  But oddly, this makes Millie very uncomfortable.  She carries Billie back to his chair and pulls him off her, “Um, uh.  Mommy has to get back to the cyber wars.  You, you have all the snacks and videos until my next 5 minute break on the twelves?”

Billie nods sadly.  He feels once again his mother’s inability to accept love,  Millie is all one-way going out.  His one and only attempt of giving love will be his last for the rest of his life.  The sliver of hope is gone forever from Billie’s heart.  As an adult he will never truly know true love.  Sex will be what he mistakes for love.


Millie packs on more weight as the years glued to the computer spreading porn as cyber warrior fly by, eventually needing bigger and bigger desk chairs for her growing ass.  Millie stops going to the park to exercise where all the other mothers are losing their figures too.  America is getting fatter while most of the rest of planet is starving.

Eventually, as she works herself steadily towards an early diabetic grave, in an economy where the dollar steadily buys less security, Millie’s entire social life centers around Billie’s pathetic athletic skills.

One spring day Coach Simmons spots Billie playing his new Gameboy on the soccer team bench, “That tears it!  I am not running a fat farm, here, Billie boy.  I need bench kids who can move!  Now grab your little Gamebooy and go back to your Mommy in the stands.”

Billie teammates laugh as Billie runs bawling for the stands to Millie.

A few minutes later Millie taps Coach Simmons on the shoulder.  As the big jerk turns to face her he spouts, “I don’t care what sob story you have to sell me about taking you fat kid –”

Millie knees Coach Simmons to the balls.  But nothing happens.

“Crouch protector, bitch, ” says Coach Simmons, hamming to his team who applaud him.

Millie lashes out with martial arts blow to the asshole coach’s throat.  Windpipe crushed, Coach Simmons goes down like a ton bricks.

A short time later in the principal’s office, Father Flanagan scowls down as his thick glasses at Millie to the sound of an ambulance racing off the soccer field, “If only they had Ritalin for parents!”

On the way home, over a celebration dinner of Big Macs, fries and malts, Billie worries to his mother, “You Kung Fued Coach Simmons good, mommy. Aren’t you afraid the CIA will find out?”

To back up her lie to Billie about her Operation Love Monster fantasy, Millie has manged to squeeze in some martial arts classes which have only, up until now, made her secret beatings of Billie worse.  She had planned to surprise Billie with some secret cyber agent lessons and now its all turned into this mess.  But Millie says bravely, “If anyone ever hurts you, Billie, that’s a risk I am willing to take.”

Beneath  the fiberglass statue of Ronald McDonald, Millie waits for that special hug again.  After all, she may face jail time for taking the asshole coach down.  But Billie’s heart closed for biz from her rejection and abuses where love on the 12s means the opposite many times.  Billie just smiles and nod his thanks as wolfs into his Big Mac number two.


Despite all her twisted love, Billie’s never happy.  He’s a miserable zit faced fat fuck with zero friends.  No friends for Billie, only tormentors, because no one else treats him like a king the way mom does. He fucking hates all his classmates with a searing passion.

One day, hiding from Millie the love monster’s hugs and beatings in the basement, Billie finds, hidden in a damp box of old dusty dildos, a snub nosed 38-revolver from Millie’s dangerous strip club days.  As the fat kid searches for bullets he fantasizes…

Billie strides the school soccer field, dressed in black leather head to toe like a chubby mini-Neo. The soccer kids and all the kids in the stadium stands all laugh.

Coach Simmons spots Billie and roars, “You little fat fuck!  I thought I told you –“

Billie whips twin Uzis from his black leather trench coat.  The first bullets make a dancing puppet of blood of the big coach.  In sick slow motion, soccer kids run for their soccer moms.  All are mowed down by Billie’s rage and a blaze of bullets and blood.

Millie is a fat cheerleader shaking pom poms and shouting, “Billie!  Billie!  He’s our man!  If Billie can’t kill ’em no one can!”

Father Flanagan and six nuns bite the AstroTurf.

Millie’s cheerleader shouts of, “Billie!  Billie!” become the real Millie’s real shouts at the top of the basement stairs.  She spots her boy with her gun, and worse, her dildos. “No, Billie!”

Millie races down the stairs for Billie. He raises the gun to Millie and shouts,”Stay back!”

“Why… What?  I am your mother and that’s my damn gun!” Millie shouts.  “Give me –”

Billie cocks back the revolver.  “One more step I’ll shoot!” shouts Billie, so loud Millie feels it like a slap in the face.

“Billie!” says Millie starts to cry, wondering if she left any bullets in the gun when she hid it with her dildos.  She takes another step and Billie pulls the trigger.  Millie flinches expecting a gunshot.  “Click!”  Nothing.

“I said stop!” shouts Billie cocking back the trigger for another try at this mother/son game of Russian roulette.

Something takes over Millie’s mind as she sees in sick slow motion there is now a bullet in the chamber as Billie clicks back the trigger again. Amazingly light on her feet for such an overweight woman, Millie soars into the air and knocks the gun from Billie’s hand as the gun fires. BANG!

Billie yelps in pain.

Time freezes as Millie watches her little boy’s angry face twisted in pain. “Oh my God!  Oh, my God!  Did the gun shoot you, honey?”

“You broke my hand!” Billie holds up his right hand that is blowing up like a balloon.

In the Prius, racing to the hospital, Millie squirms in her driver’s seat, still in shock her boy almost killed her.  She had no idea the depth of his hate until this instant.

But they need a cover story and there’s no time to feel sorry for herself.  And Millie, a master of lies, says, breaking heavy the silence, “It’s my fault leaving a loaded gun in basement.  You’re just a little kid.  Mommy apologizes, Billie.”

Millie has become expert in dealing with the Narcissist ego monster she’s made of Billie.  The hate goes out of his eyes as he gets a huge dose of what the shrinks call Narcissistic Supply.  Billie offers a guilt trip to Millie, not an apology, as he says, like a junkie who just got fix of Millie self-deprecation, “I thought the gun was empty.  Bad Mommy!”

Overjoyed her Billie is lording this over her, Millie almost swerves the Prius off the road as she kisses Billie’s head. She says joyfully, “OK.  We need a cover story.  Just like mommy has for Operation Love Monster.  Ha ha!  People think I sell sports magazines!”  Note how deftly Millie slips her occupational lie into Billie’s brain.  She dreads the thought of her son ever discovering the smut she spreads for a living as a fate worse than death. “We need an airtight alibi.”

“I got my hand stuck on a bear trap? ” says Billie as winces in pain.

“Sorry Mommy kicked you so hard.  My cyber spy training got the better of me, ” says Millie, reenforcing her gathering doll reality of lies on lies.

“You should be sorry! Ouch!  You’re a lethal weapon!” cries Billie.

“Only five minutes to the hospital, Billie.  Hold on!” says Millie, cutting off a school bus full of screaming kids.

“What should I say to the doctor?  Ouch!  What, Mommy?’

“Got it!   What happened was, you say to the doctor, you and Mommy were trying to swat a big rat in the basement.  And silly mommy stomped on your hand by mistake,” demands Millie. “Say it back to me!”

“Father O’hara taught him lying was a sin and I’ll go to hell,” says Billie timidly.

“Fuck Father O’Hara!  The church is built on lies.  But it’s all we got.  Say it. ‘Mommy and me were chasing a rat and when she tried to stomp it my hand got in the way.'”

“Mommy and me were chasing a rat and when she tried to stomp it my hand got in the way,” says Billie, terrified of the fire in his mother’s eyes.

“No, Billie!  Say it like it’s true, honey.  In Hollywood it’s called acting.  Say it like a secret cyber agent like your mommy.  Say it again, like it’s true.  Like our lives both depend on everyone believing you.”

“”Mommy and me were chasing a rat and when she tried to stomp it my hand got in the way!” says Billie convincingly.

“Yes!  Oh, honey.  Mommy is so proud.  Say it again like it’s real!”

Mother and son will have their lie perfectly rehearsed by the time they reach the hospital.  Over the months Billie wears his cast, with no autographs at school from his classmates who all hate him, Millie and Billie will both tell the lie of rat chasing over one thousand times.  So many times, in fact,  they both will almost come to believe the lie to be true.  The incident with Billie pulling a gun on Millie is somehow never spoken of again.

With this tangled web she weaves about her boy, Millie now adds “liar” to the twisting of Billie’s emotional DNA.  Graduation.  Billie’s now a perfect Narcissist, casually manipulating truth at the drop of a hat to feed his bottomless ego.  Billie Magoo forever lives in a virtual reality of his own making, without a care for the real world unless it is serves Billie’s World.


Father O’Hara sits in the tattered booth at the Greek coffee shop, nervously eying the front door.

The burly father of the young Greek Millie once made a pass on, Aros Sr., “Ever gonna order something or you just take up my space, padre?”

“Um, I’ll take one of those Geerohs.” says Father O’Hara.

“Gyros!  You can pay?” says Aros Sr.

“Of course,” says Father O’Hara flashing his stuffed wallet.

Agent Smith enters the coffee shop.  This Smith grew a trim mustache after getting teased often about his resemblance to the famed Agent Smith from the film THE MATRIX.  He spots Father O’Hara and takes a seat.

Aros Sr. says to the agent, “What can I get you, sir?”

“Gyros and privacy, ” says Agent Smith flashing a chilling smile that sends Aros Sr. off in a hurry. “Forgive me father for dragging you out of your church.  I enjoy Greek cooking.  What have you got for me?”

Father O’Hara slides a thick envelope across the coffee table with a deep sigh,  “Please open it later.  The sight these poor Asian boys getting raped is saddens me deeply.”

Agent Smith pushes the envelope back across the table to the priest, “I need names not smut.”

“As I have told you, sir, the seal of confessional prevents me –”

“Cut the fake accent.  I know how you came by this porn.  I want to use your unique position to find the big fish behind all this yellow journalism.  We’ve narrowed the search to this area of a web genius.  Unless I get some fast results you’re going down.  And I don’t mean on altar boys, ” says Agent Smith wolfing into his gyros.

Father O’Hara has lost his appetite and pushes his plate away.

“If you’re not going eat your gyros, can I make it to go?” says Agent Smith.

“Be my guest. – What should I be looking for?” says Father O’Hara.

“Someone who works on the web for a living.  That’s all I need to track this,” says the agent.

“I don’t generally ask people what they do for living in my line of work.”

“You do now.” says Agent Smith.


At twelve, Billie tries out for a position requiring no athletic skill; altar boy.  Billie’s the perfect lamb to Father O’Hara’s predatory flattery.  Finally, Billie has found in Father O’Hara another being like his mother, who thinks he can do no wrong.  But one who is gentle never beats him.

“Jesus, himself would weep tears of blood at the grace with which you hand me his holy chalice!” Father O’Hara says one day taking Billie into a manly hug.

As Billie gazes up the padre, tears in his young eyes, Father O’Hara seizes the moment and kisses Billie squarely on the lips.  Billie is swept up with passion and holy rapture and the devil priest slips him some tongue.  And the fun does not stop there.

One day on the twelves as Millie hugs her little Billie, the truth of his rape by the not so saintly priest pours out.  Millie’s first thought is,”God is punishing my fat ass for not confessing my sins as spreader of yellow kiddie filth!”

Soon, though, her red hot guilt cools to form an ice shield of hate over her heart.  Her rage is so intense she does not care if she is caught.

“The child fucker must die!” she says  heading to the new safe she’d put her gun into in her attic.  But as she’s dialing her safe combo, a better plan to rid the earth of Father O’Hara for violating her one love fully formed.  It stuns her that her mind computed this without conscious effort.

That dark November night, dressed in black as a plump Juicy ninja, Millie squeezes herself underneath Father O’Hara’s, overly ostentatious for a priest’s, wheels, a Lexus SUV.  Millie’s faded auto preservation hobby gives her the needed skills to quickly locate the brake lines and a few quick snips with a wire cutter pliers later, the job is done.

The next unseasonably warm sunny day, Father O’Hara takes a frumpy looking young woman named Marsha’s cash donation that she pays him for his expert advice on the Byzantine procedure of annulment.  “You’ll soon be free as bird. It will be as though you and the cheating scoundrel Martin never met.  Soon, Marsha, you’ll be ready to remarry your new love Oscar in the church like a virgin!” the Father tells the divorcing mother of three, sounding like more like a salesman than a priest.

And with good reason,  annulment fees, where you pay to have you marriage disappear since divorce is a sin, have become a huge revenue source for the Holy Roman Church.  Not that this sweet lady’s money will ever reach the hands of Rome’s bureaucracy.  You see, Father O’Hara keeps his stolen dough in an offshore Caman islands account.

As soon as the session with the annulment scam is done — “Sniveling cunt,” he mutters to himself waving good-bye to her from the parish window — the Father heads for his Lexus and his safety deposit bank box.  Father Flanagan looks the other way on this fine young priest’s Lexus auto Father O’Hara drives, not standard priestly wheels by any means, as the two are lovers.

A busy highway has grown up around the weed choked old Catholic church, and as Father O’Hara rolls to the edge of the driveway leading onto the road… his foot on the brake finds it strangely unresponsive.  The ill-gotten Lexus rolls straight onward into heavy oncoming traffic.  Father O’Hara only has time to scream, “Forgive me for all my wicked ways, Dear –”  He’s cut off on his self-last rites as a 16 ton Mack truck plows into his pearl white beautiful SUV.  BOOM!

A bystander captures the resulting ball of flame on his handy Android phone.  Father O’Hara’s tragic death becomes YouTube gold. 1 million views a day of the priest’s awesome demise makes the bystander a new YouTube celeb.

A Vatican investigation into potential foul play in young Father O’Hara’s untimely death comes to an abrupt end when the true identity of “O’Hara”, in fact a Polish priest named Rand Yabloanski, with 10 counts of child molestation to his name, is uncovered.  It’s swept under the mat as a “problem solved” case.

The fates of justice have smiled on Millie and she has committed the perfect crime on the perfectly evil victim.  No bad karma points for erasing this slime ball priest.  Millie proudly shares her secret with Billie.  Her terrified kid gains not love, but fearful new respect for his crazy killer mother.


The drunken sailor’s genes unexpectedly make Billie a brain at school.  He may not be athletic, but Billie’s a super nerd.

Millie busts her kiddie porn spreading ass to put Billie through Ohio State’s law school.  The law professors spot a supremely confident man in Billie.  A man without love or compassion.  A man born to lie and lie well.   A man born to be a lawyer.  Billie has a bright future serving corporate America.

After a sweltering graduation ceremony where he barely speaks to Millie, preferring the company of his fellow future sharks, Billie moves, not back to Baltimore to be near his love monster mom in Baltimore, but to Chicago to work for a big five law firm.

On the kudos from his law professors, Billie is put on the Monsanto account as a grunt, suing independent farmers.  Will, as he now prefers to be called,  becomes a serious fucker of farmers and quickly gains the nick name “The Grim Reaper”.  Billie’s heartless demolition of the lives of innocent farmers, whose crops became infected with Monsanto GMO seeds, makes him a very successful young shark.

Barely squeezing in 5 minutes once a week to answer Millie’s daily calls, Billie lives like a prince, renting a Chicago high-rise and buying BMW on his flawless young credit as a rising star in the big law firm.

Billie goes vegan, joins the East Bank Club and loses his GMO bulges.  The ugly high school duckling is replaced by a slim shark lawyer.

One Saturday on the busy East Bank club running track, a Jewish princess named Mago Stein spots Billie and decides to cut this one from the herd.  Mago trots her great ass carefully just ahead of Billie’s watchful eye.  Mago takes a dive on the track and Billie tumbles over her.

Mago, a dazzling brunette with deep chestnut eyes, laughs as she untangles herself from Billie, knowing all the right places to rub her ample breasts all over Billie boy.  “Sorry.  Clumsy me.  These tits.  Never can see I what trip over” says Mago pointing a a towel she dropped for this show.

“‘Clumsy me’ falling over you, ” says Billie as a big guy runs by who it so happens as had this same deal done to him my Mago.

The big guy tips his ball cap to Mago and chuckles to himself as he runs on, “Better have your A game on, buddy, Mago’s amazing in the sack.  Call me Mago when this whimp falls on his limp dick.”

“Fuck of, Mark!’ says Mago playfully with a sexy laugh.

“Let me buy you a OJ?” says Billie.

“Ojs!  And we can talk BJs?’ purrs Mago.

At talk over OJs and BJs Mago brags, “Why Sexaholoics Anonymous?  Duh.  Great place to hook up, silly Billie!”

“Don’t call me that,” says Billie.

“Call you what?” says Mago.

“Silly Billie.  My mother used to call me that.  Hate that name.  I’m Will.” says Billie, worried he’s blowing his potential first score.

“Well, Will.  Have some mommy issues do we?” teases Mago.

“No.  I just like being call, Will.  No biggie,” lies Billie.

Mago smiles, seeing right through him and says seductively,”I can fuck your mommy junk away, Will.”

“Nothing to fuck away.  I have no mommy junk.  But, you have my attention.  Go on,” says Will taking the bait.

“I’m expert in Tantric sex.”

Having trouble hiding a killer boner he has in his flimsy running shorts, Billie asks, “What’s Tantric sex?  Sounds Titanic.”

“Where’s you place?” says Millie downing her juice, ready for action.

“FAnswer my question.  What’s Tantric sex?”

“My question was my answer.  Let’s fuck at your place if it’s nearby.  I will fuck you silly, Billie.”

“Right now?”

“Oh my god.”


“You poor thing.  You’re a virgin aren’t you?” giggles Mago.

“Ha.  You wish.” says Billie almost believing himself.

“No I don’t wish.  Nothing’s worse than breaking in a man in the sack.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.  Come to my place and I’ll show you.” says Billie signing for the tab.

“Don’t mess with me, Will.  Fucking is my national pass time. Fuck the Cubs.  I like to fuck all night.  You up for my ‘fuck you silly action‘, Silly Billie?” says Mago, fire in her eyes.

All the way to his swank bachelor pad Billie’s nervous as a virgin, because technically he still is a virgin.

But Billie the virgin pulls off a miracle to match the one of his childhood faith.  Mago and Billie fuck like rabbits the rest of that Saturday and most of Sunday.  No love from either of these “lovers” from the heart.  Billie and Mago’s are love energy twins.  It’s all down low, including eating pussy to keep Mago purring, as she swats him with her little horse whip in never-ending rapture.  She’s found her sex slave mate and he his master.

Actually it wasn’t such a miracle.  Just a few months ago Billie made a trip to Thailand for a sex-cation.  There, under the tutoring of a 16-year-old pro of Thai hooker he met before he even left the Bannock airport, Billlie technically lost his virginity.  Mago will never learn in their entire sex crazed relationship the truth of Billie’s sexpertise.


Dirty shame that Mago is a total egocentric hard-hearted bitch.  This ego match draws Billie to Mago like a magnet more than the great sex. All he’s done is trade a Millie the love monster for Mago the sex monster.  Mago loves Billie as much as she loves an ATM.  Sex for her is a way to shut off her noisy brain, nothing more.

Ironically, Mago is a Bee Gees nut like Mille.  Mago digs the sexy beat and, lo, Billie learns to love the disco he hated when his mom flooded the Baltimore house with night and day.  Dancing with him to beat, a flabby jiggling dancing queen way past 16.

After a few weeks of unmarried bliss, Mago is getting sick of Billie’s constant complaining about his mother. During the sweaty after glow of a goof fuck is the one time Billie heart door creaks open a sliver.  Mago begins playfully pointing this out habit, “I want to fuck not talk about how your mommy fucked you up, Will!”

But Billie, ego monster that he is, hears only, “I want to fuck” from Mago’s declaration of war on talk of Millie and says,”Once I called 911 to report her beating –”

“Shhh. Millie the love monster’s not here.  It’s all in the past, Silly Billie.  You’re with Mago the fuck monster.  Fuck me up the ass.  That will take your mind off that ancient shit and get you present!” says Mago, who has been studying on being a sex therapist.  Billie accepts the challenge and has his first anal sex and does indeed forget Millie as ramps for an epic cum.

After he’s pulled out of Mago’s ass at last minute and exploded all over her soft tight butt cheeks Billie says, “Man, I have a craving for Chee-tohs. What the hell?  Ah, the love monster used to force feed —  Fuck caught myself!  Sorry, Mago.”

“Yeah!  Catch the past and shove it back in the drawer where it belongs.  Now get down and suck my pussy as penance, Catholic boy!’ kids Mago, all to hide how miffed she is about all this mommy fixation shit that’s bringing her sex high down.  As Billie eats Mago out like his Vegas hooker taught him, but instead heading for sexual Nirvana Mago finds herself reliving Billie’s stories of Millie’s beatings. “Change the fucking channel,” she pep talks herself.

“Huh?” says Billie not taking his mouth off Millie’s bikini waxed pussy.

“Suck and shut up!”

Mago waits for an orgasm to shut up the chatter box that is her mother Ellens pesky voice: “This one will never do.  He’s too much of mama’s boy and a goy to boot!  Oye!”

Mago, is another breed of ego monster from the light end of the spectrum.  She’s blessed has two adoring Kosher as hell parents.  She has no clue or sympathy with Billie’s dark and sick childhood but she knows money machine when she sees one on Billie and the boy is bottomless pit of sex drive.

“Fuck off, mommy!” Mago says to get her mother out of her head.

Billie think Mago is empathizing with him and pulls his tongue out of her and says,”Right!  My fucking Love Monster of mother had this harp tone she’d set on the phone of hers on the twelves.  It used to strike terror into –”

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Mago screams, shoving Billie away.

“I, I, I want -”

“Just fucking listen to, Silly Billie! I am sick to fucking death hearing you rag about your dear old Love Monster mom!  Rag!  Rag! You sound like a god damn queer!” Mago says turning her back on Billie in the California king-size bed where they always fuck like there’s no tomorrow.

“Queer?  Some thanks for spraining my tongue on your twat.  Never eating you out again,” says Billie turning his back to Mago back.

Mago offers up the olive branch to theri first lover’s spat and turns to press his hard nipples into Billie’s back and says, “You need to cut that wicked woman out of your life.  Millie Maggo in a tumor.  A cancer eating away at our love!”  Mago is surprised to find herself crying.

Billie sighs as gently turn to her and wipes tears from Mago’s cheeks, “You’re right, baby.  I promise you’ll never hear a thing about the “LM” again.

Mago hops onto Billie and beams.  The super turned on brunette, who loves to fight and fuck up, has never looked more gorgeous to Billie with the blazing Chicago night skyline as her backdrop.  She yanks Billie by his strawberry blonde hair to a swollen nipple. “Who’s your mama, now, Silly Billie?” commands Mago.

Billie says between sucks of her amazing tits, “You, Mago.  You!”

“Millie Magoo’s not invited to our wedding, Silly Billie, is the Love Monster?!”  Mago says in full command of this new sex addict where she is the drug.

“You know when you call me, Silly Billie, I kinda like it, sweet tits,” laughs Billie.

“Answer me, Silly Billie!” says Mago, grabbing a small baton she lightly bats Billie on the head with. “Say it.  ‘The Love Monster is not invited to our wedding!’  SAY IT!”

“‘The Love Monster is not invited to our wedding!’ Clean break.” Billie says, getting hard as steel.

“How clean are you willing to clean break this thing off with your crazy bee-yotch mother?” Mago says mounting Billie.

“Clean as fucking farmer’s bank account after I Monsantoize his rube ass.  I’ll never speak or talk to or about the fat fuck Love Monster ever again!” says Billie in rapture as Mago rides him like the Thai pro who coached him ten days in the sack for this epic fuck to end all fucks with the fuck of his life, Mago.


Over the next few months Billie prepare for wedding like one his flawless legal traps he lays for Monsanto violators, as he calls the innocent farmers he fucks up the ass harder than he pounds Mago .  And true to his word, and happy to accommodate Mago, Billie breaks all ties with his mother Millie.  Not by telling Millie that’s what he’s doing.  That would require love.  Billie can only take not give love.  No, Billie simply stops taking Millie’s calls with a block.

“He’s blocked my calls!” Millie realizes one sad day, “Like his mother is nothing more than god damn telemarketer!”  For a few weeks returns Millie’s panicked text message with max four word texts like, “”Too busy blame Monsanto.” Then it’s just smiley faces “:)” to her two page angst filled texts and emails, The one day Millie realize as she weeps alone Billie has dropped her like a hot rock.

Billie studies the Torah and converts to Judaism.  Giving up on Catholicism is not exactly hard, given his dark past.

One day Mago’s mother Ellen and Mago are mailing out invites.  Ellen puzzles to Mago, “Mago, why are there no Magoo’s on the invitation list?”

“Billie has no family.” says Mago, sensing an Ellen the shrink lectures coming on.

“Honey, you’ve bent my ear a at least a dozen times about Billie’s mother troubles.  Not inviting her to the wedding is no way to solve that.”

“Mom. Don’t bring me down.  Billie and I make the guest list.  Not you,” says Mago firmly.

“The more we push our pain down the more it comes back to haunt us.  And it’s you my daughter who will pay the price with a loveless marriage,” Ellen runs a successful shrink practice.  One Mago thinks she love more than her.

Mago gets migraines over Ellen’s endless psychoanalysis.  Desperate, she throws Millie, a woman she’s never met, under the bus, “Millie beat the hell Billie from the time he was five, maybe before.  To top that off she neglected him daily while she locked herself in her home office doing god knows what on her computer.”

“Angel, why are you marrying into this mess?  How many times have I told you,  ‘We don’t just marry the man we marry his whole family history.’ You’ve grown up in a peaceful family.  You’e no idea what a can of worms you –”

“Stop!  You’re giving me one your headaches.  I’ve made my mind up!  I am marrying Will Magoo.  Just lick the stamps and leave me alone,” sobs Mago.

“Mago, Mago.  I love you.  I’m just saying it’s not too late to call off the wedding.  Your father –”

Mago’s father Lee sticks his head in the kitchen, “Ellen, please.  Millie’s 26, she can run her own life.”

Mago runs to Lee and hugs him.  Ellen sighs, “As usual; father and daughter against mommy the evil shrink.  But, Lee, I swear to god when Mago gets her heart broken by this distubed young man, too stuck in the goo of a past to invite his own mother to the wedding. Well, there’s no wedding bouquet for any of us in this disaster waiting to happen.”

After many behind the scenes moments any reality show producer would kill for as the closer the wedding date gets the more manic Mago gets and the more worried Ellen gets.  Billie and Mago are a united front, high on the marriage system of America that’s become Xmas and the 4th of July out of what used to be a simple pledge between two consenting adults.

At last the wedding day arrives.  Mago has talked her father into springing for a sheik Lake Geneva Wisconsin resort they book out for Mago’s giant family from all across North America.  Billie’s wedding guests are all his pals from the law offices.  His best man is a guy he’s known for a few months who thinks Billie is a dick.  But his own inflated ego digs the best man role.

The overly lux reception kicks off.  A lame Jewish wedding/bar mitzvah band badly plays the Bee Gees “How Deep is You Love” as the wedding song.  Billie protests, “Aw, Mago.  Find someone else older from your family.  You know I can’t disco, baby.”

“Just try, Silly Billie,” says Mago pulling the shy Billie onto the floor past her father Lee, a great disco dancer.

“Will, don’t take guff, even from my loving daughter Mago, on your wedding day!” say Lee joking as he downs a champagne to laughs of the wedding crowd. “Give her to me.  I can still disco!”

Mago shoves her father back into his seat and tugs Billie for the dance floor. The handsome groom looks like he has two left feet.

The real surviving Bees Gees take over from  the lame band and hit the chorus “How deep is your love?  How deep is love?'” and suddenly Billie is out dancing Travolta.  He tosses Mago spinning into the air.  The wedding crowd goes nuts and cheer the wedding couple on as disco light erupt.

Even though its the Bee Gees, his mom’s favorite band from the disco era she was not part of but loves, not even for a spit-second, during this wedding dance that Mago forced Billie to take lessons for, does Billie experience a single regret his mother is not being at his wedding.  In the wedding pictures Billie looks wildly happy.  It is in fact the happiest moment of his life.  He’s ready to start a new life but too clueless to realize he’s about dump all his unresolved mommy stuff onto his new bitch of a bride.

As if reading Billie’s mother-devoid mind, Ellen leans to whisper in the father of the bride’s ear, “Will’s mother should have been invited her to this wedding.”

“From what Mago tells me about the Love Monster of Baltimore, no big losss!” says Lee loudly, drunk on champagne.  Lee motions to cut in on the dance with Billie but Mago shakes her head NO! with a defiant laugh.

Ellen leans to whisper in her man’s ear again, “Mago’s made a perfect ass of you, Lee.  Hope you’re happy for spoiling your little angel.”


Right in the middle of Billie’s and Mago’s wedding dance, back in Baltimore, poor Millie’s is of course heartbroken.  She also listening to the Bees Gees HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE as she leafs through a picture book of Billie growing up and fatter.

She weeps at a picture of him just around that last time he ever tried to show her love with the hug she rejected.

“How could this happen?” Millie ponders, still missing the boat on all this being a mess she created in making Billie into a ego monster..

MIlie’s drinking worsens after the kiddie porn company can’t compete with all the free amateur kid porn flooding the web and her income flow stops.

She’d be happy to retire except life savings have just been snatched by the hospital ER Billie was born in.  All thanks to a new Obama bill that finally passes two years after Obama has left office.  The draconian law repeals all bankruptcies for individuals in favor of the big corporations and Millie’s old $30,000 debt comes back from the dead to haunt her with 15 years penalty interest.  Bam!  Just like that, Millie is flat broke and out work.

Corporations can still bankrupt, of course, and this is how Millie loses all her 401K plan, the last of her safety cushion.  So Millie, who has gotten away with murder, renews her fantasy to kill former President Obama, now on a million dollar book tour and soon to visit Baltimore.

Millie has only one family person to turn to.  But Billie does not even return a single call, Skype or email. Not one.

One day as she searches for jobs on she stumbles across Desmond Starseed’s blog.  The fake Starseed, bald now, his long hair gone, grins a toothy insincere smile at her that makes Millie giggle.  Desmond is a surprisingly good writer, and though his heart is as closed as Monsanto executive, he does have the rap of spirit down as cold an insurance salesman out to fuck the farmer’s daughter..

Desmond’s overblown blog, peppered with sexy aliens and Starseed images he’s ripped off without license, makes a damn good front for his real job, secretly working for Homeland Security.  The fake Starseed paycheck now comes from Uncle Sam, who now makes Orwell’s Big Brother look like Mr. Rogers. Desmond’s daily mission is find stupid subversives that answer his blog post one day with their passionate:”Fuck the good ‘ol USAs!” one night and find themselves on their one-way flight to Gitmo the next morning before Corn Flakes.

Desmond writes floridly on his blog, “Beloved Starseeds!  Please comment!  Once you get you negative into your PC, darkness no long be festering inside you, my dear ones of the cosmos!  Please share any negative feelings you have against our wicked government that daily robs us of dignity and our heritage is the second coming!”

Fortunately for her, Millie does not share her dream of making sure Obama can’t fulfill his dream if being the first president ever to serve more that two terms since FDR. She fed up with computers.  They are poison to her now.  So instead taking Desmond’s NSA bait, Millie writes with pen and paper.  She always had great marks in school for penmanship before she dropped out of high school, never finishing her senior years.

As she listens to the Bee Gees sing “How Deep is Your Love” MIllie pours her heart to her Billie boy, writing at the kitchen table where they once shared a passion for junk food as their only bond.

Dear Bille:

Little man, I had so much hope you would be the answer that would change my life.  I grew up in a home without love.  And so all my love went to putting you where you are today, top of the world.  But having reached your high destination you’ve forgotten those in the basement who put you where you are today.

Worst of all you’ve become a slave to the corporations destroying our world.  Evil Monsanto is your master now.  How could someone raised as a liberal eco lover turn out to be such conservative planet killing monster?   You have broken my heart, Billie.

As for the future?  You can —

Millie can’t write anymore.   This writing has only made the pain worse. She feels the knife in her back from Billie’s betrayal.  She stuffs the the half finished note into her purse as she bawls her heart out.  She tries to stuff down her tears with Doritos made with GMO Monsanto corn.


We are all connected and in this crazy world, and though her half finished letter has not made Millie feel any better, it sends a shock wave through the Morphic fiel, all the way from Baltimore to Chicago.

Billie is in on the phone in his new junior partner 10’x15′ office, feet up on his fake mahogany plastic laminate desk, berating a farmer.  “Fuck you back at you, sir.  You have two options to save your farm.  You can –” Billie chokes up in mid sentence with the same words as where Millie letter to him stopped.

“I can what, asshole?” Shouts the defiant farmer, who has been refusing to pay damages to Monsanto for the soy bean seeds whose pollen as infected his crop that’s been in his family 40 years.

“You can –”  the words catch again in Billie throat and he goes into a coughing spree.

“Ha!  Choke to death, mother fucker!  Choke!”  the farmer shouts on the speaker phone.

Billie disconnects the call.  “What the hell is this?”  He says choking and gasping for air.  A harp tone rings on his phone that makes him jump up from his chair.  Millie’s haggard fat-faced photo appears on his Iphone.

Billie ponders between coughs and harp rings.  “I thought I blocked her fucking calls?!  Could this cough attack be guilt driven?  Would answering Mom’s call save me?”  Note, he cares only for how he feels.

But more afraid to offend his Mago to break his mother’s heart more he lets the call go to voice mail.  Afraid that Mago somehow will know he broke his word to her in talking to his mother.  And there would go his marriage and sex life.  Can’t have that!  He coughs of a little blood and spits it into the waste can and worries to himself, “What the fuck?  Blood!”

Managing partner to the rescue, Mr. Shiff, enters with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.  “Relax, Will, you’re having a killer heartburn attack.  Here try one my prescription antacids.  Gotta get you back on the job.”

Billie gratefully accepts and down the pills.  He’ll soon add these antacids to his Ritalin and other meds he pops each day.

“Career liability.  Stressful taking down these thick-headed rubes.  You do it well, young man.  A little heartburn is a small price we must pay.”

The pills work fast.  Billie catches his wind.  “Thank you, Mr. Shiff!” he says as the harp tone ring starts again.

“Need to take the call?”

“Uh, no.  Just my mother,” offer Billie apologetically.  “I tell her never to call during business hours, but she’s, well, a little crazy.”

“No one’s a little crazy, Will.  You may have to be the Grim Reaper like you’ve been on the Monsanto account with your mother.  Tough as that is, we’re your family now.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“My door is always open.  Take care.” Says Mr. Shiff shaking Will’s hand confidently, an angel of tough mercy.  “I’ll leave you to it, Grim Reaper.” and the silver-haired legal eagle flies off.

Will turns off his new Iphone8, silencing Millie’s harp tone ring.  He makes a mental note to change said ring tone to the Bee Gees, her favorite group as that harp tones sends him back to the Baltimore basement hiding from the love monster, Millie.  Better still he makes some quick adjustments and blocks her damn calls for sure this time.  Problem solved.

Feeling great about himself, his budding ulcer under control, Billie happily returns to the job of protecting Monsanto Corporation from the evil farmers by fucking them up the ass legally.


FBI agent Smith addresses a cramped dingy meeting room full of FBI stiffs, “Ladies and gents, Asian kiddie porn is flooding our great nation.  For example.”

A series of disgusting kiddie porn still flash across the presentation screen.  One more disgusting than the next.

“Sorry to offend the weak stomachs among but our new President Benton is already thinking reelection 2020, and the last thing he wants is Obama to beat him for the Republican nomination in his bid to be the first president to serve a third term since FDR.  And so, boys and girls, busting this Asian porn ring that’s been loose on soil for twenty some years has been made our top priority.”

A photo of Millie’s Baltimore Catholic church pops up with Father O’Hara looking angelic and he smiles at Billie in his altar boy outftit.
“The best lead we had in 2002 an informant, one Father O’Hara, who met a not so accidental death.  But the killer left no clues and eventually the Vatican dropped the case.  We are going to begin our investigation in Baltimore where our cyber leads strangely get cut off by the most impenetrable fire wall the FBI has ever run into.  So we are doing this one old school,” says agent Smith to the groans of the agents.

Agents Smith passes out the NSA files of every parishioner.  A young Agent who gets the Ms admires a old photo of Millie when she was a hot teen.


Millie squeezes herself into the center seat of American Airlines flight 312 to Chicago.  She complains to a slim elderly couple who are kind about Millie’s girth squishing them in their seats.  The elderly husband on the aisle volunteers, “If you’d like my seat the aisle will give you more room, ma’am.”

“Why thank you, kind sir.  And that way you’ll be able to sit next to your wife,” Millie says squeezing out of the seat and doing a dance with the elderly man to exchange seats.

“Oh, we’re not married, ma’am,” says the old man with a wink.

The old woman giggles as she offers, “We’re living in sin.  Our first vacation together.  What takes you to Chicago, dear?”

Millie briefly considers the truth of her visit to her Billie who has broken off all contact.  But she says instead with a brave smile, “Seeing my son and his new bride”

“How nice for you.  Neither of us ever had kids.  Too selfish.” says the old man.

Millie opens a magazine with the cover of former president Obama on the cover, posed with his new book “THE NEW RIGHT.”

“Ah, you could have knocked me over with a feather that Obama would turn out more conservative the Ronald Regan.” chuckles the old man.

“Did you vote for him?” asks Millie.

“First term no.  Second term, yeah.  He was showing so much promise killing Osama and keeping Gitmo going. I signed the petition that will allow him to have third term.  How about you?”

“Obama’s a fucking traitor to the liberals,” says Millie, menace in her voice.

The elderly couple never speak to Millie again for the rest of the flight to Chicago.


Millie arrives at the 208 South LaSalle Street building.  The historic landmark building looks like Al Capone could walk out the door any minute.  Millie struggles in the lobby with her carry on bag.  Fearing Billie won’t admit her showing up unannounced, she’s not booked a room.

The receptionist slyly eyes Millie Magoo, mother of the Grim Reaper.  Millie learned her fashion from her strip club days and it shows.

“Has my son said if he has time to see me?  This was an impulse visit and I’d be happy to come back if my Billie, I mean Will is –” Millie  jumps as the phone rings.

The receptionist answers and listens then calmly says, “Mr. Magoo says he can squeeze in 5 minutes.  He’s due in court at 10.”

“Oh… I can come back this afternoon if –”

“Will is booked solid all week.  You’re in luck getting this little slice of his time.  Just head to the right once you are past reception and down the marble hall.  He’s about halfway.  Name plate on the door: Will K. Magoo.” says the receptionist pointing the way.

Millie swallows her pride, happy for even just five minutes with her Billie.  She hurries down the long morgue like hall, flats clacking on the white Italian marble floor.  She checks her watch, “It’s taking so long to get up this fucking hall.  I hope this doesn’t count against my five minutes!” she worries to herself loudly.

Billie pokes his head out of office about 10 yards ahead. “Keep it down, Mom.  This is a law office.”

“BILLIE!” shouts Millie as the runs, shoes clapping up the hall.  Now a few lawyers poke their heads out of their offices and Billie puts on a show opening his arms to his mother.  She starts to bawl and picks Billie off his feet in a bear hug.  “Billie, my Billie boy!”

Billie shushes Millie and says, “It’s Will now, mother.”

“Oh, sorry… Will!  So professional, my boy is now!  Mama is so happy to see –”

Will yanks Millie into his office and offers her a chair. “We don’t have much time.  Have to leave in three minutes for court.  Sit!”

Millie obeys likes a trained dog on command and takes a seat.

Billie walks around to the his executive swivel, the desk full of Monsanto papers between he and his nervous mother and says, “You didn’t say you were coming or I might have had Mago join us to meet you.”

“Can’t we still do that after you are done with work?” says Millie hopefully.

“Let’s drop the crap shall we, Mom?  What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I came to see my Billie boy.  The love of –”

“Fuck!  I was clear on the phone, clarity is what I do for living, that I never wanted to see your fat ass again.  Now you show up here dressed like a hooker who just rolled off Rush Street, un-fucking-announced!  How much?” shouts Billie.


“How fucking much money do you need now that your Asian kiddie porn gig is up?”

“My what?” says Millie, feeling like the whole world is melting.  Mrs. Magoo feels stuck in goo.

“You think I didn’t know about the filth you spread for a living?  You’re disgusting!”

“I was a single mother with mouth to feed.  I did it for  –”

Billie pounds his fist in the desk and shouts, “Don’t say it!  There were a million other ways you could have earned a living besides spamming people with filth!”

Millie is speechless.  Billie may as well have shot his mother with her own .38 revolver.  The last shreds of her self-respect fly out the window and into the cloudy Chicago sky.  “How much you need?”

“I, I didn’t come here for money, Billie, WILL!  You can’t just write a check and get me out of your life.  I’m your mother, god damn you! I washed your ass!  I cleaned!  I cooked for -”

“You ruined my childhood with your fucking fake fatty cooking!  Know what the kids called me at school?  Porky.  Porky the fucking pig!  Well, your the pig now, Love Monster!”

Millie dives over the desk swinging at Billie.  She manages to grab him by his silk tie and the two go crashing to the floor.

Billie is buff and been taking martial arts.  He flips Millie onto her back in the flash and rears back ready to throw death blow.

“Do it you fucking, pussy.  Kill me and put me out of my fucking misery!” says Millie defiantly.

Billie sucks in a breath, fist trembles readying for strike, “I’ll get off on self-defense, you fat cunt!”

The managing partner rushes through the door and dives on Billie. “What in hell’s name is going on in my offices?”

Millie comes up swinging. “Leave my Billie, alone, asshole!”  Millie lands right cross that sends the managing partner flying through the plate glass window partition.  Blood and glass fly.


A few hours later, her hair bird’s nest of a mess, Millie stares at bar of her jail cell from her cot.  An Asian hooker smiles down at Millie from the upper. “What you looking at, lady?”

The Asian hooker laughs her ass off.  ”

What the hell is so funny, lady?”says Miller.

“You!  You calling me “lady, fat hooker,” laughs the beat up looking Asian hooker.

Millie rises to feet to meet the cold gaze of the Asian hooker. “Keep your slant-eyed cunt mouth shut if you want to keep your teeth… lady.”

A female jailer walks up to the cell and unlocks it, “Your son Will, a hottie, got you off on all charges.  You’re free to go, hon.”

Millie gathers her things and flips the Asian hooker the finger.

“You be back, crazy tough guy.” says Asian hooker with a Chessar cat-like grin.

Millie slaps the grin off the hookers face.  The jailer laughs, “You coming?”

As they head though the county jail past lowlifes of every kind and color, Millie asks the jailer, “Is he, my son Billie, Will, is he still here?”

“Nope.”  As Millie starts to tear up the jailer adds, “But his wife, your daughter-in-law, Mago is though.  Says she has a check for you.  Must be your lucky day.  She looks like a total JAP.  Don’t get frisky or you’ll be back in a cell with Ms. Vietnam.”


Mago and Millie sit in the filthy waiting room beneath a one-way mirror that shows a warped reflection of the pair, as if things were not twisted enough.  Mago is elegantly dressed in black with pearls for a dinner party, in great contrast to Millie’s torn up hooker-like dress of clown colors.

“Not how I hoped we’d meet,” offers Mago to break the silence.  But Millie only looks away. “I have a check for you.  It’s all our wedding gift money.”

“Yeah, thank for inviting me.” says Millie.

Mago arrogantly waves a check in the air and says,”$10,000, all our wedding gift money, but you only get in on one condition.  And I am sure you know what that condition is… Love Monster.”

“Love what?” says Millie.

“Monster.  Love Monster is Will’s pet name for you.  Ha.  I thought you knew,” grins Mago.

Millie breaks down into tears, to Mago’s pleasure.

“Keep your damn wedding money.  You’re going to need it for plastic surgery after I rip that smile off your kike face,” glowers Millie.

“There’s a guard watching.  Try anything more like the 30 stitches you gave Mr. Shiff, and he will press charges.  Will too.” says Mago defiantly.

“You think I care about prison, you stupid bitch?  You stole my son’s love, fucker!”

Mago motions to the one-way mirror and jailer enters, billy club in hand, “Let keep it civil, ladies.”

“You never even met me.  Why turn my son against me?” offers Millie sadly..

“All I had to hear from Will, as he endlessly bitched about what shit mother you are, was how you made a living, with, you know, the, uh, kids?  That was e-fucking-nough for me.  Take this check or I will tell the fine officer here a little story about your fine work with children, Mrs. Magoo.”

Millie slumps and says softly,”Ah, well, OK.  Keep your lousy check then.  My wedding gift.  I’ll stay out of your lives.  No charge.” says Millie. “Aw what the fuck I am saying.  Give me the damn, check.  A girl’s gotta eat.”

As she reaches for the check Mago snatches it away with a mean giggle. “And you eat big,  Deal, you stay out of our lives, Will’s and mine forever?”

“Gladly.  You two are made for each other.  My Billie died a long time ago.  You’re welcome to, WILL,” says Millie, her voice ash as she takes the check.


As soon as Millie’s back in the Baltimore airport she spot a TV flat screen where Fox News announces that the surprising hero of the conservatives in his last term, former President Obama himself, is coming to Baltimore.  In the blink of her bloodshot eyes, all Millie’s rage with Billie and Mago turns on Obama.  She vows in her mind, “I will end this fucking traitor or die trying.”

Millie rushes home and digs out .38 snub nosed revolver.  She wolves down six Swanson chicken & gravy TV dinners and heads straight for her old refuge, the Catholic church.  For it is here that Obama will be appearing next morning.

Millie waits all night in the gathering crowd of conservatives who love this miracle man with a passion.  She waits for Obama, the Regan of the 21st century, as Bill O’Reily, has crowned him, to show up so she can crown his with the gun in her purse.

“Millie Magoo!” shouts a voice in the crowd.  Millie turns to see Desmond Starseed grinning at her.  Desmond in is wearing an “Obama III Term” hat to hide his bald head.  He gives Millie a big hug,

“Oh!  There’s so much more of you to love, Millie Magoo!” says Desmond warmly.

“Desmond fucking Starseed!  How did you recognize me?  25 years changes a gal.” smiles Millie genuinely happy to see Desmond.

Desmond has secretly been spying on Millie online for the NSA, because when drunk in bars Millie loves to spout to whoever will listen, “My dead war hero husband would be rolling over in his grave if he saw how this fucker Obama turned out to be a traitor to the liberals!”

But Desmond has a stock line ready for such cases, “Found your name on Facebook, silly Millie.  So tell me, Mills.  What bring you to rally for Obama’s thirds term run.  Are you a fan of our man, Barrack?”

“Hate the traitor’s guts.  Just turning out for the freak show that’s come to my church,” says Millie.

“Millie, you shouldn’t talk like this.  It’s not 2013 anymore.  You could be arrested,” offers Desmond like he’s talking slow like Millie’s a moron.

“Wow.  You’re an even bigger fucking pussie than I remember, Des.” says Mille and walks off.

Desmond shouts after Millie, “You’ll be regret saying that, Millie Magoo!”

Millie spins and flashes both FU fingers at Desmond and vanishes in the gathering crowd.

“Fucking bitch.  You’ll be in jail by this time tomorrow or my name isn’t Desmond Starseed!’ shouts Desmond gathering looks from people in the crowd. “What the fuck as you sheeple looking at?” says Desmond heading for the Homeland Security van he’s based in.  He slips inside when no one is paying attention.


An FBI agent, agent Smith, who looks a lot like the famed agent Smith from the Martix except, he sports a trim little mustache, gazes up from the camera counsel as Desmond enters. Smith quickly gets back to watching the monitors, “Mr. Starseed, I thought told you to work the crowd?”

“I have.  I’m here to report an assassination suspect,” says Desmond acting saintly.

“Listening,” says agent Smith not taking his eyes off the monitors where Obama’s motorcade is being covered with a helicopter shot as he arrives on the grounds.

“Listen then, ” Desmond plays the recording he just took of Millie.

“So tell me, Mills.  What bring you to rally for Obama’s thirds term run.  Are you a fan of our man, Barrack?””

“Hate the traitor’s guts.  Just turning out for the freak show that’s come to my church,” says Millie.

“Why didn’t you arrest her on the spot?” says agent Smith turning to glare at Desmond.

“And blow my cover?”

“Mr. Starseed… Or should I say Mr. Martin?  You are an operative with a duty to arrest all haters of the American Presidency, past or present.  Now get your worthless butt over here and find this Mills woman.”

“Mills is a pet name I gave her.  25 years ago when she was a hot teen she gave the best BJ I can –”

“Spare me details of your pot head sex life.  I need her precise name and current physical description,” says agent Smith calmly.

“Millie Maggoo.  Brunette, some gray, age 42, about 240 pounds now, greasy complexion from bad food.  Shouldn’t be hard to spot, ” says Desmond scanning monitors.

“You are aware that 90% of American’s a grossly obese these days, or his your head still back in the 90s getting a blow job, Mr. Martin?  Find Ms. Magoo or you’ll be in jail for your back taxes by the time Obama third term finishes his pitch speech.  That is if he’s not assassinated by this decenter thanks to you,” says Mr. Smith dryly.

Sweat beads on Desmond’s forehead as she searched the monitors in vain, “You’re right she blends in with this crowd of hogs!  Fuck me!  ”

“Fuck you indeed, Mr Martin, “says agent Smith as he types: Millie Magoo into his computer.  Millie’s profile pops up, still sporting a pic of her from the 90s when she was a hot teen. “This can’t be her.”

“That’s her, from 1996!  What a hottie. ” Desmond says dreamily.  Losing focus on his crowd search momentarily.

Agent Smith punches in some more commands and Millie current driver’s license pops on the screen and then:



“What the fuck?” says Desmond.

“You never saw that info screen that, Mr. Martin, are we clear?” says agent Smith touching his gun holster.

“What screen?  I, I was so busy looking for the Millie in the crowd that -” Desmond interrupts himself and shouts. “There she is!” The fake Starseed beams at Smith.

“Good!” Agent Smith hits a button and the image move to the main screen in X-ray view.  “That’s a loaded .38 I see in the purse.  But what is that other object.  Small explosive device?”

“Dildo.  I’d say.  Millie used to do herself while she blew me.” say Desmond dreamily.

“Sick.  OK, get you sicko bullshit butt out there!  Take three of my men and get to the fucking church!  Go!”

Desmond dashes out the van’s back door.  Agent Smith bolts the door behind him.  Smith darts to blank wall of the van and places his eye over a peep hole.  “Agent Smith confirmed,” a computer voice sounds and secret control panel swings into position. Words appears on screen:


Agent Smith dons a high tech helmet that cover his entire head making him look like a big silver, well, dildo.

Inside the helmet Agent Smith is inside a live virtual model of the church grounds.  He floats like a ghost over the heads of the milling fatties that look like hogs ready for slaughter.  “Locate Operation Love Monster subject Millie Magoo.  Give me full background info Security clearance ‘Fuck Buddy’,” says agent Smith.

“Complying.  Subject Millie Magoo recruited in 1996 for Operation Love Monster under cooperation with South Korea kiddie porn front.   Single pregnant mother with partitioned personality from abusive childhood was deemed ideal subject for indoctrination.  Subject located.  Instructions, agent Smith,” the AI computer says as Smith is brought floating to earth beside Millie.

Obama is only 100 yards from Millie’s positions.  “Snipers 1,2 and 3.  Do you have the angle on subject Millie Magoo?”

“Sniper 1 responding, sire.  I have the best angle.  Shall I take the shot?” Smith hears via the Millie’s voice.

“Hold for my command.  I am going to try something to save this fat fuck’s life.  Millie’s been a valuable servant in the cyber wars for 25 years.  We owe her that much…” Agent Smith dives into the statue of the Virgin Mary.


Millie looks thrilled Obama is heading right for her, only 70 yards.  Nearly firing range!

The freshly painted smiles Virgin Mary statue, spiffed up like the rest if the church for form President Obama’s visit, blinks it eyes and smiles at Millie.   Millie gasps in shock.

“Morning, Millie, ” the Virgin Mary’s voice says in Millie’s head.

Millie almost faints and think in her mind, “Mary?!” as she gazes into the Virgin Mary’s deep glowing blue eyes.

“Yes, Millie,” says the Virgin Mary, “I am speaking in your mind so the we may chat privately in this loving crowd.  Millie, surrender your weapon.”

“Obama has taken everything from me.  He must die,” says Millie silently.

“Hate does not belong in my Son’s house.  Turn away from sin, Millie,” says agent smith as Mary.

“This is wrongl!  You’re not, the Virgin Mary. — I see it all now.  I was, I was never spreading Asian porn!  You used me!  Stole my beauty!  Made me fat stuffing my face with you GMOs while used my life as a hacker! ” screams Millie out loud, drawing stares from the crowd.

“You’ve always had such an overactive imagination, child,” says the Virgin Mary statue. “What would your Billie think if his mother becomes an assassin?  You’ll break his heart, dear one, ” says agent Smith as the Virgin.

“My son was lost to me when I fought day and night with no, rest not a single day off, for 25 years ,against the fucking Chinese!  He’s a lost cause as am I.  You killed us both, whoever is running this hologam!”

The Virgin Mary tosses pink rose petals into the air and the crowd freezes.  Millie giggles seeing a frozen Desmond bald head poking from the crowd.  Angelic harp music plays from cupid like angels floating in the air.  Dazzled out of righteous rage over her stolen life she whsipers, “Heaven on earth….”

“Yes, Millie,  And President Obama is making it happen.  You don’t want to kill our savior,” says the Virgin Mary as beam of light breaks from the clouds to shine on Obama walking for her, looking as holy he looked to her in 2008.

“Barrack…” says Millie nearly swooning from love for Obama.

The Virgin Mary steps from her statue podium and takes the trembling Millie into a loving hug, “Millie.  You love your Barrack. Take the gun from your purse give it to Desmond.”

“Ha, ha,  He’s frozen.”

“Behold!” Agent Smith as the Virgin Mary waves an arm and Desmond transforms back to his youthful self, free of the frozen spell.

“Desmond… You’re young again!” giggles Millie, losing herself in the illusion that have enslaved her for a quarter of century.

“So are you, Mills,” beams young Desmond.

“Desmond is right.  Look at yourself in my mirror, Millie,” The Virgin Mary says as she hold up a golden mirror.  “Your beloved Uncle Sam has taken nothing from you.”

Millie gazes in wonder.  The fat of  25 years as government slave has vanished and she says in wonder, “I seventeen and gorgeous once again! Thank you Mother Mary!”

Desmond holds out his hand. “Give me the gun from you purse, Millie then let’s pick up where we left off with BJ for old time’s sake.”

“BJ?  It’s time you went down on me, mother fucker!,” shouts Mary

The Virgin Mary turns angrily to Desmond. “You stupid son of bitch.  I almost had her!”

Millie slams her hands to her head, “Get out of my fucking head, you mind controlling cunt!”  Millie takes a swing but her fist passes harmlessly through the smiling Virgin Mary’s head.

“I’m sorry, Millie, ” says agent Smith, meaning it as steps, from the Virgin Mary Statue. “Fire!”

Millie’s head explodes from the sniper bullet that passes right though her and through Desmond’s heart.  The illusion explodes and the crowd is pandemonium.

Secret Service men dive on Obama, only 10 feet from the bloody corpses of Millie and Desmond.


Upon hearing the sensational news on Fox News, Will Maggo Esq., Billie boy, feels vindicated for his shunning Millie.  He elects to skip Millie’s funeral on Monday.  Will and Mago fuck for the entire weekend in secluded orgasmic celebration of Millie’s death to avoid the press.

Monday at work, his fellow lawyers are not quite sure how to handle Billie’s new fame.  Not a single lawyer or clerk return his shark smiles as Billie struggles his way up the long marble hall, past one rejection after another.

“Well, Mr. Shiff backed me ejecting Mille from my life.  The fuckers  juniorsI work with will all come around.  For the golden rule is: He who has the gold makes the fucking rules, baby!”Billie thinks to himself as he pops his head into the managing partner’s huge office.

Mr. Shiff, bandages still fresh on his 3o stitches is on the phone.  When Mr. Shiff spots Billie’s “hello” the silver eagle silently swivels his chair to face his back to Billie and goes on with call like Billie is invisible.

Mystified at Mr. Shiff’s rejection and hoping this is all just his imagination getting the better of him on Monday.  Billie saunter up the hallway to grab a coffee to shake off the Monday blues.  He smiles at the passing receptionist who has had plans to fuck  him at the office Christmas party in a few weeks. “Morning, Gabby!” says Billie brightly.

But the receptionist pretends to get a cell call and breezes past the stunned Billie.

Billie feels the shift of attitude toward, like a boulder on his back, as he finally reaches the sanctuary of his newly repaired office.  He closes the door behind himself, out of breath by the gantlet of stolen dirty looks he just ran.

“What the fuck was about?” Billie asks to his reflection in the repaired glass partition.  “Work.  Yeah.  Fucking some farmers over will clear my head,” says the Grim Reaper says, giving his reflection a pep talk.  Feeling back in control, Billie hits the phone’s speed dial.

“I got nothing new for you, shark.” says the farmer, reading his caller ID and getting the jump on Billie.

“Morning, Mr. Johnson.  Will Magoo here.  Have you reconsidered Monsanto’s kind offer?”

“Jesus wept.  You’re working?  Thought you’d be at your mother’s funeral today.  What the fuck is the matter with you, son?  Your mama’s a god damn war hero!” growls, Mr. Johnson.

“War hero?” says Billie in shock.

“Where you been all weekend?  Under a fucking rock?” laughs the farmer.

“My wife Mago and I have been in mourning and -” says Billie

“Spare me the crap.  Only people with a heart mourn,” says the farmer.

“Fuck you, Mr. Johnson.  I loved my mother, until I found out she turned to crime as a spreader of Asian fucking kiddie porn.”

“You are clueless.  That kiddie porn thing was bull.  The news broke on China state TV.  The Chinks celebrated the death of the American cyber warrior Millie Magoo.  They were fucking dancing in the streets now that your mother’s defensive hacking in gone,” says the farmer.

“What?  That’s just shit she talked to me about!  Fantasy!” shouts Billie.

“I saw this on Fox News.  The entire covert opp Love Monster is blown.”

“Covert what?  Ha ha!  Love Monster was my name for my smothering pig mother,” laughs Billie. “She was a crook who made a living spreading kiddie —

” Your the smothering pig of  a worthless son!  I told you the Asian kiddie porn thing never happened, idiot.  You beloved mother was kept secret even from herself of own great mission.  Hey, maybe you’re really a great guy yourself and just brainwashed like your mother was into not knowing her own greatestness,” laughs the farmer.

“‘Greatness?’  My mother’s fat ass was the only thing great about her.  You smoking the hemp you grow, Mr. Johnson?  You high?” says Billie and laughs at his great jokes.

“Stop wasting my life!   Turn on your fucking TV and learn what hero your mother really was, you ungrateful pup, before I drive my ass to Chicago and — Ah you’re not worth my anger.  You ain’t worth spit, Billie boy.  And soon the world will know like I do.  Peace.”

The farmer hangs up on the stunned Billie.  Billie remotes on his TV.  There on Fox News Bille conservative hero, old Bill O’ Reily himself, is thrilled to be back in the saddle demolishing former President Obama as in the old days.

“This will sounds more like a science fiction plot of a new Speilberg film, but it’s real, folks.  Deep cover CIA mind-control experiments begun in the 1960s, kicked into high gear under former President Obama.

Man, and we thought Obama’s NSA scandal, one that ultimately made him a darling of we duped conservatives, was huge.  And consider me the biggest pinhead ever for Obama, dubbing him the “New Regan” when I should have called him the “New Nixon” by a power of ten!

Millie Magoo, was an orphan teen selected as an experiment, dubbed Operation Love Monster by an undercover CIA operator in a Baltimore strip club, where the orphan was struggling to survive after escaping a violent father and being raped by her uncle which drove her to the streets.  It’s a sad story worthy of Le Miz.

The CIA operative, disguised as a drunken sailor on leave, got Millie to his van after drugging her drinks.  The fated teen was taken a a black opps center in DC where her mind, already partitioned from her abusive childhood, was taught cyber hacking, given another personality and fake memories about a bogus job as a Asian Kiddie Porn Spammer.  Wonder who came up with that twisted cover identity.  I mean how low can our government sink, people?  If you’re going to keep someone’s good deeds a secret from themsleves, at least give them an identity that does not make them live in false shame each day!

But, that vile fake life aside, where Millie thought her nearly 24 hour a day work pattern, with only short naps was stealing her youth and beauty, the poor thing was chained to her computer thinking she was spreading filth when she was a tireless cyber warrior, wow, for once one of governments mind control experiments worked.

Big Brother eat your heart out.  Obama, if the leak proves as accurate as Millie Magoo’s story, took her extraordicary success as unconscious serverant of the people and create, get this 50,000 other robotic human servants with fake memories just like her.  In other words, 50,000 people scattered across America out there need to be deprogrammed and brought in before they go off like emotional time bombs like poor Millie Magoo.

Former President Obama took a forgotten 60s CIA wet works project in poor Millie Magoo and set off 50,000 time bombs ticking all across the great nation.  I’ll let that sink in.”

O’Rielly pauses for effect.

Former President Obama you make Big Brother look like a weak sister!  Already, public reaction has been swift, with protest marches dogging Obama across the planet.  So let’s thank Millie Magoo, people, that Obama stands zero chance of a third term bid.  Thank this sleep walking guardian angel of love as many as calling Millie Magoo, as we switch you live now to her funeral where a 21 gun salute of cannon’s is about to take place.”

Not wanting to hear the cannon fire honoring his mother, Billie mutes the TV where a young photo Millie beams a him from the flat screen, where he is 5 years old sitting on her lap in the kitchen as she feeds him Doritos.  Billie has an out of body experience and fly from his office through the flat TV screen.  He lands beside his mother’s coffin, a ghost that none of the 400 some funeral guests can see.  He stands in shock. watching the weeping crowd.

Father Flanagan straightens his tunic, hamming for the cameras, his words are nonetheless sincere as he says, “Poor Millie Magoo was a hero unaware of her daily battles against the dark forces of China.  A yellow peril out to launch our own missiles against us.  During 24 years of almost 24 hour a day service that aged her beyond her years, this mother to us all loved her son Billie as best she could.  Loved him through a fog of illusion, spells of endless obedience to Uncle Sam.

Millie Magoo did her best by setting her phone as reminder to escape the cyber world for brief few minutes to give her boy Billie as much as she could before the program returned her slave at the computer, protecting us all with one part of her mind, secret to even herself and only discovered by the Chinese, who hated the mystery savior of America, upon her death.  How the Chinese managed this feat after falling to find the master hacker for 24 years and countless failures, so that we’d know to honor this poor fallen solider with honor, is truly a sign of a kind merciful God.

Surely, the operation that stole her life, code named Operation Love Monster, though a success that should terrify each of us into waking up to the dangers of an American government without a soul, missed the mark on that name!  Operation Love Angel would  have been a far more appropriate a title for this hero of the cyber world who watched over 400 million Americans for 24 long years.  A guardian angel sent from heaven to protect us all from nuclear war!”

Billie is stunned my the long cheer that rises up from the funeral gathering.  Father Flanagan basks in the glory of this moment that will make him Pope in time and finally motions the crowd

“As proof of this love angel’s amazing soul I want to read you half finished love letter to her precious son, strangely absent from today ceremonies,”offers Father Flanagan.

“I’m right here!” shouts Billie.  But no hears the ghost son.

Father Flanagan open the blood stained letter and reads:

Dear Bille:

Little man, I had so much hope you would be the answer that would change my life.  I grew up in a home without love.  And so all my love went to putting you where you are today, top of the world.  But having reached your high destination you’ve forgotten those in the basement who put you where you are today.

Worst of all you’ve become a slave to the corporations destroying our world.  Evil Monsanto is your master now.  How could someone raised as a liberal eco lover turn out to be such conservative planet killing monster?   You have broken my heart, Billie.

As for the future?  You can —

“The letter stops here.  Never finished, never delivered to her boy.  I hope in whatever rat hole this ingrate of son has himself holed up his is somehow seeing this,”  Father Flanagan nods to a soldier.

Billie nearly jumps out of virtual skin as a 21 gun cannon salute shakes the hills.

“Now hold up you phones and let’s honor the Love Angel.  Set forth the harps!” shouts Father Flanagan as the thrusts his cell phone to the cloudy sky.

The 400 funeral guests all set their cell phones ringing Millie harp tone.  Billie falls to his knees in the virtual snow slams his hands over his ears but the piercing harp tone of Millie the love angel is relentless.

Meanwhile, deep in a hidden bunker agent, location unknown, Smith watches Billie writhing on the law offices floor on his big computer monitor, as he sips a coffee.  A wry smile on his face agent smith says, “For you, Mildred Magoo.”


Love Monster Poster heartCopyright © 2013 Ken Sheetz

WGA Registration

LOVE MONSTER by Ken Sheetz

Registration Number: 1665277

Roll Credits to the tune of the Bee Gees HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE

I know your eyes in the morning sun
I feel you touch me in the pouring rain
And the moment that you wander far from me
I wanna feel you in my arms againAnd you come to me on a summer breeze
Keep me warm in your love and then softly leave
And it’s me you need to show
How deep is your love
I really need to learn
Cause were living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me I believe in you
You know the door to my very soul
You’re the light in my deepest darkest hour
You’re my saviour when I fall
And you may not think
I care for you
When you know down inside
That I really do
And it’s me you need to show
How deep is your love
I really need to learn
Cause were living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me I believe in you
You know the door to my very soul
That’s a wrap.  To read behind the scenes about how one of Patrick’s inventions, the Nuerophone, that boosts intelligence as measured by written IQ tests, helped make me smart enough for the complex LOVE MONSTER to be a breeze to write, click on this link: I WAS A TEENAGE LOVE MONSTER AND HOW I GOT CURED IN SEDONA