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.
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.
The bouncing yellow speck grows in size to form a Marimba dancer, complete with Carmen Miranda’s famed fruit hat. The dancer rockets up to Trump, who is stunned to see the dancer is none other than Sean Spicer, in Marimba drag!
Sean sweeps Trump into a passionate dance. Trump laughs and says, “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?”
“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. This was written before her passing. RIP RBG.