Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 4 – Dancing With Sean Spicer

Over my 24 years as a filmmaker and writer of modest notoriety, I have come to see there are basically two kinds of storytellers; those who plan it all out with detailed outlines and notes cards and those, like me, who write organically, allowing the story to evolve and grow as we write.

Which is better who can say? All I know is I love being an organic storyteller because allows me to enjoy the unfolding of a story almost like you the reader. Big plus too is my style is perfect for riffing on the day’s crazy news, all of which makes me want to scream, “TRUMP!” at the top of my lungs into the red rocks of Sedona.

TRUMP

Jesús wept, I read yesterday morning the Trump the Great suggested injecting disinfectant into the body to fight the virus. Seriously, no fiction writer can make up a horror story worse than his reality. And to hell with any Trump-spirit folk telling you he meant with ozone not bleach.

If you have even an ounce of common sense, Trump’s idiocy makes your head spin!

Be sure to read chapters 1-3 of TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM, here on the blog, before or after reading chapter 4, to see how we got to this feverish point where Trump’s fever dream shifts to fully into comedic nightmare mode.

CHAPTER 4 – DANCING WITH SEAN SPICER

Trump’s twisted view of the deranged Hilary Clinton strangling him fades to the blackness of death. A small yellow speck dances in the distance. Marimba music slowly rises in intensity.

Trump looks down at himself, thrilled to see he’s out of his paper hospital gown and spiffed up in his favorite blue pinstripe power suit. He stares downward, surprised to see he’s wearing shinny red vinyl dancing shoes that match his clown-like for width long red tie.

Dancing With Sean SpicerThe bouncing yellow speck grows in size to form a Marimba dancer, complete with Carmen Miranda’s famed fruit hat. The dancer rockets up to Trump, who is stunned to see the dancer is none other than Sean Spicer, in Marimba drag!

Sean sweeps Trump into a passionate dance. Trump laughs and says, “See you learned a few things on Dancing With the Stars, Spicey.”

“Touche!” shouts Spicer, spinning Trump like a rolly-polly punching doll.

“Enough!” growls Trump as the Marimba band’s black leader pokes his pointy baton into Trump’sabundant ass, sending Trump back to into Spicer’s eager waiting arms.

“We’ve only just begun, sir!” sings Spicer operatically with a spin of Trump. “And please sing your words. This is a musical and the judges are watching.”

Trump notices the dance judges are one other than the nine members of the Supreme Court. Bret Kavenugh sneaks a swig of beer and flashes Trump a thumbs up who grouses, “Fuck this. I will not dance for the likes of libtard Ruth Ginsberg.”

“No choice, sir. We stop dancing before our time is up the court sentences us both to telepathic death.” sings Sean sheepishly. “And please sing your words, sir. Sing like your life depends on it… because it does!”

“I am not baby to be bossed around!” shouts Trump, folding his arms and pouting like a “239” pound baby.

Trump tries to struggle free himself of the dancing drag queen Spicer, but the smaller man is supernaturally strong. Sean yanks Trump by his long red tie down to his eye level and whisper sings in Trump’s ear,”You don’t understand, sir. Sing and dance or the judges give you a death sentence with their hive mind.”

Trump yelps as Sean yanks of his red tie so hard he sends Trump spinning like pinball into a giant pinball machine set. Trump, a red, white and blue blur hits a bumper that lights up:

IMPEACHMENT FARCE – Ding, Ding!

Trump flies, screaming towards more bumpers that light up in rapid succession as he rolls into and off them:

1 MILLION LIES AND COUNTING — Bing!

WORST PRESIDENT EVER – Bing, Bing, Bong, Bong!

CHEATS ON PREGNANT WIFE WITH A PORN STAR – Dong, Ding!

TAX CHEAT – Wha -Err-Err!

BRIBE-O-RAMA – Cha-ching! Cha-chong!

RELIGIOUS FAKE – Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

BLEACH DRINKER – BOOM!  BAM!- GAME OVER!

Bursting from a cloud of smoke, Trump tumbles out of the giant pinball machine and falls on his orange face to the black shinny stage floor. Shaken Trump struggles to his two left feet to the wild applause of a zombie audience of Trump rally goers.

Sean snatches Trump into the dance again. “Many of your followers took your advice and, um, well, they’re DAED. But see, your Trumpies still love you, sir!”

Trump bows for his zombie fans and gloats, “Yeah! I still got it, Spicey!” grins Trump in triumphant song to his wildly applauding zombie followers.

“Amen, sir,” sing Sean doing a back flip that no one reacts to.  All eyes are on Trump beaming a million watt smile in the spotlight.

“Now, tell me about that hive mind thing,” demands Trump as Sean switches up into a tango so fast it sends a bunch of his fruit hat’s grapes rolling across the dance floor through the spotlight.

Sean hums to Trump, hinting that he must sing. Exasperated Sean sob sings, “I keep telling you, but you never did listen to me. Oh, how did I ever let you make me start with the press that you inauguration crowd was YUGE?!” Sean falls to his knees beg singing, “You must sing and dance your question to me, mein President! To answer again without song is to suffer the hive mind’s wrath.”

“Oh, that bitch Ginsberg, bet she’s the hive mind’s wicked queen! Isn’t she?!” says without singing.

“Actually the evil masterminds are Gorsuch and his lackey Kavenaugh in tandem.” sings Sean like he performing a dirge.

“Both Trump appointees. I’m gold as usual!” gloats Trump and the judge all raises their right hands, ready to flash the thumbs down because the stubborn Trump is no singing.

Sean breaks a sweat and sings loud enough for the dancing duo, “No, sir. Once Brett and Neil joined the hive mind, because, well, ah, after all, more people in America are liberal, they both dumped their doltish Republican brethren like a rock. Now sing or we die.”

Trump rolls his eyes and finally sings,”Alright, Alright. I’ll sing you bums a tune. People say, they say to me, ‘Sir, forget real estate forget the presidency. You more fantastic a song bird than Sinatra,’ So I’ll sing you a question, Spicey: What’s a hive mind?”

“The Supreme Court is a subset of the hive mind invented in 2023 by Elon Musk. It began as Telsa auto experiment with 5G. Sadly, even now the evil liberal Supremes struggle to gain exclusive control of the hive for their own wicked liberal gains,” sings Sean.

“The judges call themselves the Supremes? Ha. That was a band of hot blackie chicks weren’t they?” sings Trump.  The Trump zombies erupt into tortured laughter.

“Do not make fun of the Supremes, sir,” sings Spicer, beaming a fake smile at the scowling judges.

“I do what I please! I am the president of, well I was,” says Trump, going into a fab tap dance number. “Look at me!  Look at my tap, tap. Best ever. I am the most super epic tap dancer who ever tapped a tune!  Yeah, baby!”

Sean panics and yanks Trump back into a Marimba and whisper sings, “Sorry. The judges hate tap dancing!”

Trump breaks free and goes into a defiant tap dance as he glares at the judges. The zombie audience is hypnotized by Trump crazy beat. Trump sings gloriously, “Watch my toes fly. Watch my ankles kick. God knows I am the greatest tapper! Screw the judges and their jive hive mind!”

Spicer falls to his knees sings pleadingly to the judges, “Trump’s got Corona fever. Please forgive him. The hive mind is divine and not to be questioned. You divenest Supremes have used the hive mind to make war was a thing of the past. The dawn of hive mind has indeed ushered in an era of unbridled peace and prosperity, all under President Cuomo!”

Trump backhands Spicer, sending his fruit hat tumbling and roar sings,”Cuomo?! I should get the credit for any cures that spun out of my masterful handling of the virus! My genius was to delegate all Federal responsibility to the fucking states! Their struggle to sink or swim with the virus is what generated this  hive — Wait, why can’t I hear this hive thingee?”

“Apparently, uh…”

“Uh what?

“Um… Apparently, your IQ is too low,” sings Sean, rolling into a terrified fetal position and sucking on his thumb.

Steam literally shoots from Trump’s ears. The zombie crowd of Trump backers go mad with applause. An old zombie Trumpie claps so hard that his left hand crumble to rotting dust. Two high fiving zombies knock each others arms off.

Sean, his voice muffled from his still being in fetal position and sings “Bravo, sir.”

“Fuck you, Spicey!” shouts Trump so loudly that he goes into a coughing fit. Trump’s orange face goes blue and he collapses to the dance floor. The crowd goes insane with joy. Trump bolts to sitting up, his eyes bulge as he glares his disloyal Zombie followers to silence.

Watching Trump regain control his followers sends Kavenaugh into a beerful spit spray. He wipes off his sleeve with black judge’s robe and shouts to Gorsuch, “Trump’s gaining control of the Trump zombie hive mind, Neil! Do something to stop Trump!”

Gorsuch pulls off his head of neat grey hair, only wig. His eyeballs begin to glow white hot. Laser beams shoot from Gorsuch’s eyes, setting all the zombie Trump followers ablaze. Trump collapses into a heap of coughing defeat to the dance floor again.

Ruth Ginsberg brains Gorsuch with a huge gavel. As Gorsuch falls his laser beam eye cut Kavenaugh in half at the waist, “Ha ha. Spilt decision.” Kavenaugh’s cut in two body slips apart with a sickening slurp, falling upon Gorsuch’s dead body.

“I am coming, Donnie my love!” sings Ginsberg as she leaps from the judge’s box like she’s twenty. She dive slides on her knees right up to Trump and sings, “Get ready! Mouth to mouth time, Donnie dear!”

Despite her shocking passion to save him, Trump fights off Ginsberg, coughing his words into her loving weathered face, “No fucking way!”

Ginsberg sings, Trump cradled in her spindly arms, “Oh, Donnie, it’s always been you. Let me kiss the air back into you! But please drink this bottle of bleach first. I insist.”

Trump smacks the bottle bleach out of Ginsberg’s hand, “No! Anyone but you, Ginsberg!”

“Oh, heck. I’ll take the chance you have the virus. No bleach then. Here. Let me mouth to mouth you, Donnie,” coos sings Ginsberg, who has surprisingly young voice. She leans for the choking Trump, her ancient lips in a pucker.

Ginsberg’s kissy face transforms to Trump personal attendant Robert’s mouth to mouth giving the unconscious Trump of good old present day 2020. Jared and Ivanka, dressed to a glittery hilt for a formal dinner, look on nervously.

Jared whispers to the sobbing Ivanka, “Should Robert be reviving your dad?”

“So what if Robert’s black? Father is no racist!” sobs Ivanka loudly enough to interrupt Robert.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re always so critical!’ bitches Jared.

Robert stops mouth to mouthing Trump and says drolly, “Kids, do you mind putting your the universe-revolves-me shit aside for 5 minutes while I –”

“Shut up. Does OUR father have resuscitation order, Robert?” shouts Jared to the incredulous Robert.

Ivanka beats on Jared’s tiny chest,”JARED! Let Robert try to save Father until the paramedics get here.”

“Ah ha. I get it. Make it look like we care. But seriously, Father dies we get can take over the presidency ,” whispers Jared to Ivanka, who finally gets it with small nod of collusion.

“Hmm. Robert. Um, does my father have a resuscitation order?”

Robert rolls his eyes at Jared and Ivanka and goes back to saving Trump with mouth to mouth.

END CHAPTER 4

PS My apologies to Ruth Ginsberg for the tough role she played in Trump’s fever dream.

 

TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM – CHAPTER 3 – HATE IS A VIRUS

This is a hard fictional story to write as it makes my heart, mind and soul hurt deeply watch President Donald Trump fail to daily take responsibility for his slow and poor response to the #coronavirus. His daily “briefings” have become a near total scam of free campaign media where he lies and send s his followers to their early deaths. Still, an angry media desperately tries to wake up him and followers up before Trump sends us all back to square one by encouraging insane end the stay at home protests. Stupidity on scale never seen before.

I see dumb people

Topping this Trump has halted funding the World Health Organization in the middle of this pandemic to, IMHO and many others, deflect blame from his YUGE ego. This is terribly dangerous and stupid all at once. In other words, the Trump brand of leadership.

 

But the show must go on. Let’s catch you up.

In chapter one we meet Trump’s fictional personal attendant Robert, a handsome young black man who gets along well surprisingly with Trump. Robert runs off for help when he realizes Trump may be coming down with a case of the coronavirus. Trump immediately passes out when Robert leaves. Trump begins to fever dream and is whisked two years into the future on the wings of a giant cosmic butterfly.

In chapter two Trump is dumped by the great butterfly into the White House Rose Garden. Two years have passed and Trump is furious to learn from Robert that the USA is now under the leadership of President Andrew Cuomo and that the White House has become a hospital for VIPS.

And now, without further ado I painfully present…

CHAPTER 3 – HATE IS A VIRUS

Robert gazes over his surgical mask at the full moon hanging over the White Hospital, formerly the White House. His deep brown eyes, which were all smiles a few minutes ago chatting with his mysteriously returned boss, are now filled with contempt.

In the distance, Trump tires to bully his way past a short, overweight and disbelieving Hispanic security guard.

“I tell you I am President Trump!”

“Hola. And I am Barrack Obama.”

“You’re almost the right color,” says Trump bitterly.

“Got any ID, smartass?” says the security guard dryly.

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I ah, I got here buck naked on the back of this, uh, yuge time traveling butterfly?” says Trump, absentmindedly kicking a cigarette with his inflamed barefoot.

“Look, whatever kinda butterfly you rode in on, Covid-Kid! With no ID I don’t let you in. This here is a hospital. We got sick dying VIPs here aplenty and without no ID you ain’t no one.”

“Rudi Guliani in there?” says Trump trying to muscle past the smaller guard.

“Top secret!” says the security guard shoving Trump so hard that the would be king stumbles backward.

“Nasty! You’ll be sorry you laid hands on me!” says Trump dusting himself off from imaginary fleas.

“Right. So sorry, President Trump. Now hop back on your butterfly and buzz the fuck off!”

Fifty yards of social distancing away from arguing the Trump and the stone faced security guard, Robert pulls down his surgical mask to light up a cigarette. Cigarette smoke glides in the moonlight and takes the shape of an old woman’s face for just an instant.

“Grandma…,” whispers Robert to himself.

Robert closes his deep brown eyes and looks deep into his recent past with his inner eye. He is back in his family’s rundown DC apartment, He gazes sadly down upon his dying grandmother Annie, a beautiful light skinned African American, well into in her seventies.

“Breathe deep Grandma. Relax. I got you. Please breathe,” says Robert patting Annie on her back.

“How’d I get this damn virus walled off from the world?” says Annie going into a coughing fit.

“I think the devil himself musta gave it to me. Then I gave it to you.”

“Not your fault Trump infected you, Bobby.”

“I had a test. Musta been a false negative. Trump never did standardize tests fore he vanished.”

“If we’re lucky, maybe all that hate he had for our people turned his fat ass to dust,” laugh coughs Annie.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the ER, Grandma.”

“No! I don’t wanna die in one of them zoos — cough — they call a hospital. I’ll die right here in our family home just like your father and big brother,” says Grandma in spurts. “Now, Bobby. You’re gonna be all alone. So can you promise me one thing?”

“Anything, Grandma.”

“You mighta caught Trump’s covid but don’t catch his hate.”

“Aw, don’t ask me that, Grandma… cause I think it’s too late.

“Hate’s a virus you know,” says Grandma Annie patting Robert’s hand.

“I know, Grandma. I know all too damn well. But after losing Dad and –”

Grandma Annie stops breathing and goes into a violent seizure. Her tender eyes go still.

Robert’s teary vision returns to the present. He grimly watches Trump idiotically arguing with the stubborn security guard.

Trump rages,”Look you Mexcian pinjata brain, just let me take off my mask you’ll see who the hell I am!”

“Pull down that mask, I shoot dead you on the spot,” says the security guard pulling his gun.

This only infuriates Trump more and he bellows,” A gun?! You pull a gun on the President of the United States! I’ll have your peon job! What’s your fucking name, Jose?”

“Now, you sound just like the Trump! It is you, you racist pandejo!” Jose pulls back the trigger hammer on his gun, murder in his eyes.

Robert jumps between the angry men, “Carlos, Carlos. take it easy, bro.”

“Stay out of this, Roberto!” says Carlos the security guard.

Robert amps up his charm and points to the masked Trump, “Jerry here’s just my covid crazy patient. He ain’t no Trump.”

Trump keeps his big mouth shut for the first time in his life.

“He sure as fuck sounds like the US Hilter!”

“Nah. I took old Jerry here for a walk in the Rose Garden. Idiot fell into the rose bushes. Gotta get some meds on his scratches. My fault he don’t have his ID. Can you let it slide, amigo? Let me put his fat ass back to bed?”

Trump almost breaks his silence but being held at gunpoint he instead bites his tongue. Literally bites his tongue. Robert sees as a spot of blood appears on Trump’s mask.

“Well? What you got to say for yourself, Jerry?” growls the Carlos the security guard.

“I, um, apologize,” says Trump in defeat, making the first apology of his long spoiled life.

“That’s more like it, pandejo.” Carlos says as he begrudgingly holsters his weapon and angrily stands aside.

Robert pats Carlos on the shoulder and says brightly, “Thanks, man. You’re the –”

“Shut the fuck up, Robert. Get me to my presidential bedroom!” demands Trump.

Robert makes a cookoo sign behind Trump’s back to Carlos and follows the fuming Trump.

Trump rips off his mask as he storms up the paneled hallways that uis lined with hospital beds. All are filled with the sick and dying VIPS from religion, business and politics. Some are on on ventilators, some dying for lack thereof.

Trump breezes arrogantly past it all,  muttering, “All a bad dream. Can’t wait to get back to my bed and –” Trump spots sick Fox News star Sean Hannity waving him over to his hospital bed and shouts joyfully, “Sean!”

“In the flesh. What’s left of –” Sean answers with a racking cough that cuts his punchline short.  Robert silently looks on, trying to manage the rage boiling up in his eyes.

“Easy, Sean. Wow, you still rate to end up in my White House,” says Trump brightly. “Hate what that prick Cuomo’s done to my place. Finally had it back in shape after that Kenyan Obama and his brats ran it into the  — ”

“Wouldn’t get down on Cuomo or Obama if I were you, Donnie. The libtards are running the show. So where you been for the last two years, pal?” advises Sean.

“Nowhere,” says Trump vacantly.

“Nowhere?”

“All this is just bad batch of Mickey D’s I had before bed. Not real,” says Trump brightly.

“Oh, buddy boy, it’s all to fucking real. Lucky thing you weren’t around the past two years to see the liberals destroy all you and I did together,” says Sean, a tear rolling down his sallow cheek.

“Twelve million US citizens dead and counting do mess with one’s popularity, ” sadly says Robert.

“Well, been nice, uh, catching up, Sean. Um, see you when I wake up,” says Trump shaking Sean’s trembling hand.

Sean jerks Trump’s hand to his lips, kisses it and says, “Stay, Don. This is curtains for me. Not enough ventilators. Too much of the world’s factory workers got too sick too make –” Sean goes into racking dry cough, his familiar Fox face going beat red.

Trump pulls his hand free like Sean’s kiss was a ticket to a ventilator.

White Hospital stairs“Let’s go, Robert. My bedroom. Now.” says Trump ditching his pal Sean coughing.

“Still love you, man!” coughs Sean as Trump vanishes around a corner.

Trump shimmies through a tight spot in the hallway past familiar shocked faces of religious politicians and business leaders of both parties.

Trump spots his reflection in mirror and Trump in the mirror says, “Feeling anything in that black heart of yours yet?” Trump staggers on not answering his conscience in the mirror up the ruined White House staircase.

More sick VIPS in hospital beds fills the former meeting area between the White House presidential quarters bedrooms. The noise of all the ventilators is deafening.

“You ain’t gonna like the changes Cuomo made to your bedroom, sir,” warns Robert as Trump throws opens the door.

Trump’s jaw drops at the sight of six patients jammed into his old presidential layer. Trump races to a hospital bed right cradling a frail old woman, exactly where his California King used to reside and orders Robert, “Get all these sick losers out of my bedroom. I want my bedroom back exactly as it was now!”

The wasted old woman in the hospital bed slowly blinks opens her eyes. Her sagging face is filled with confusion that quickly gives way to wide eyed rage. “YOU!” rages Hillary Clinton, the old woman, as she dives onto Trump.  With a super human strength Hillary  tackles Trump as she digs her bony hands into his windpipe.

“Robert, help!” chokes Trump.

Robert calmly sits down in a tattered armchair and says with a wicked grin, “Where’s some damn popcorn when you want some?”

“Bastard nigger. After all I did for –” says Trump in fits of coughs as Hillary maintains a death grip.  Hilary cackles. Her superhuman strength allows her to easily continue ringing the last breath from Trump as she screams,”This is for twelve million of Americans you killed with your stupidity and arrogance!”

Robert lights up, ignoring the murder of one Donald J. Trump and says sadly to the smoke cloud he puffs, “Sorry, Grandma Annie. Trump’s hate virus done got me.”

Trump’s vision of his crazed executioner, Hilary, fades to the darkness of death.

END CHAPTER 3