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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 5 – THE DESERT SICKNESS

Meanwhile one timeline away….

Trump blinks his open bloodshot eyes and squints at the blinding glare of surgery lights overhead. He struggles to sit up, but restraints hold Trump in place.

A gowned, masked Dr. Fauci notices Trump stir and says in his best soothing tone, “Please don’t struggle, Mr. President. You’re lucky your body man Robert kept you alive with mouth to mouth until the paramedics brought you here. Um, not so lucky, you’ve come down with a severe case of the Coronavirus, sir.”

Trump tries to speak, but the pain is so intense he cannot.

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

Trump nods “yes” curtly.

“Now, Mr. President, serious question I need a serious answer for if I am going to have a chance to save your life. Here goes: Have you taken any Hydroxychloroquine?”

Trump nods yes sadly.

“And did you drink any disinfectants today?”

Trump nods grimly while making the hand signal for “a little.”

“Lysol perhaps?” says Fauci, resisting the urge for to do a face palm.

Trump shakes his head “no” rapidly.

“Sorry. Brand’s immaterial. — Did you orally ingest any sort of bleach?”

Trump nods “yes” reluctantly.

“OK. It’s 2 AM. I’m gonna name some earlier times from today. Nod when I’m close to the time of day you drank the bleach.”

“Midnight?”

Trump nods, impressed Fauci guessed right on the first try.

“Nurse, stomach pump! Stat!”

An older nurse wheels over a stomach pump.

“Donald, I’m placing you on anesthesia. After pumping your stomach the nurse will immediately intubate you. That is if your damaged esophagus can handle it. But before I put you in that coma, uh, there’s an old friend here who must have a word with you,” says Dr. Fauci as he steps aside to reveal a gowned and masked Mike Pence.

“Hey, buddy. It’s Mike, 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 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, sorry about that expression! — Um, what with how my Veep pick and you, um, have had a little run-in on Celebrity Apprentice –”

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

“Sorry. — I’ll cut to the chase.– Donald, we need to reunite the country in this dark time. The markets have crashed three times in the past 24 hours. The Dow is down 5000 points. Banks are closed to prevent runs and bankers are demanding $3 trillion in aid –” Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.

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

Trump writhes and groans in agony that his fever dream about Schwarzenegger as president in 2022 might be turning out to be prophetic.

“Swell, Donald. I’m going to take your reaction as a definite “yes” and announce you’re in total and complete agreement to make Arnold  my temporary VP, assuming I can get a Senate waiver on his not being American born,” says Pence as Trump writhes in agony. “See? That wasn’t so bad now was it? Okie dokie. I turn you back of to the good Dr. Fauci here. Get well soon, buddy,” chirps Pence.

Enraged, Trump struggles mightily to free himself of the restraints. Pence gives Trump a peck on his sweaty forehead. Dr. Fauci injects the writhing Trump. The surgery room and the worried face of Mike Pence fade from view.

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

WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA

Trump’s blurry twisted vision of an old town of the West fades into confusing view. Town folk, half of them wearing blue colored western bandit masks and half mask-free with red cowboy hats, mill about on the dusty street.

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

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

Oblivious to the gunfighters, Trump stares into the desert sky, fascinated as it keeps shifting back and forth between being the sun and an overhead surgery light.

The man in the red hat spits and shouts, “Bugs ya I love Sheriff Trump more than you, Nephew. Don’t it?”

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

“Draw, nigger lover!”

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

BANG!

The blue masked young man watches in shock as blood spreads from a hole in his white shirt. He falls face down in the dirt street.

The man in a red hat snarls over the young man’s body, “Worthless, mask lover. Give my regards to my slave loving sister in hell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rudy falls into the canyon below, joining the dead.

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

Back in town, Trump works out a kink in his back, squirming on the porch bench of his sheriff’s office, and belches loudly. Trump happily notices he’s dressed as the town sheriff, tin badge, six shooter and all.

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

Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. She’s dressed in a frilly pioneer frock of the day. Kellyanne swings opens picnic basket and chirps brightly in a thick southern accent, “Hey, sleepy head. Have a nice nap?”

“Kellyanne?” says Trump, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Haha! That’s my name alright, sleepy bear. You sure do dream deep. Made your fav, hon. Burgers and gravy. Just the thing to wake you up!” coos Kellyanne, uncovering her steaming masterpiece. Kellyanne lovingly tucks a napkin into Trump’s dusty shirt.

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

“Another customer for Rudy. Desert Sickness keeps takin’ people from the Right we won’t have much of a Right left,” says Trump with a shrug as he digs into Kellyanne gravy soaked burger. 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,” purrs Kellyanne.

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

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

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

“Finished with what, Billy?” asks Trump.

“Why, paintin’ every dang front door in town of the Confederate homes red and the Union homes blue. Just like you ordered, sir,” says Barr.

Puzzled to say the least, Trump runs a hand though his long head of silver hair as he says uncertainly, “Lemme see, our brave Confederates… they don’t wear masks, right?”

Kellyanne brightly offers, “Them Union folks are chickens who are slaved to wearing a mask and keeping their distance! Silly old blue bellies are terrified of the desert sickness.”

“Stupefyingly stupid. Right, sir?”

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

“Got anymore of them delicious burgers and gravy in your picnic basket, Kellyanne?” asks Barr sweetly.

“Never forgit my favorite deputy. Here ya’all go, Billy boy,” says Kellyanne offering deputy Barr a gravy soaked burger.

“Billy, why in holy hell is the dang General Store still closed?!” Trump says, angrily pointing to the General Store across the street with a freshly painted blue front door.

“That uppity nigger Bobby Tulsa, says he ain’t opening our fair town’s only General Store ’til Doc gives everybody a checkup for the desert sickness,” grouses Kellyanne.

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

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

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

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

A short time later Trump Trump glares over the cash register at the blue mask wearing Robert, his Black personal valet in DC of 2020. The same one who saved his life with mouth to mouth, and who is now in this reality the general store owner 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 Yankees gottsta realize this here sickness serves God’s purpose. It’s like the wolves. They thin the herd! Get it? Huh. Gotta tweet that today.”

“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 you’d be still picking cotton in Georgia where you belong!”

Robert shakes off Trump’s hand on his shirt and angrily says, seething hate welling in his normally soft eyes, “No doubt as a slave. Nevada’s a free territory, Trump. And I am a free man. My store. My rules. And my rule is 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 to see you lynched –”

Trump shoves Barr aside and bellows, “Shut it, Deputy! I give the orders in this here town! And I demand this here General Store reopen today and you get your lazy black ass back on the job, Bobby boy!”

“You know, runnin’ this little store I get to know a few personal things about the folks in this town. And Sheriff, to be honest — And it’s nice nice to be honest. You should give it try once and while just to keep us guessin’ — There’s a whole lotta things you don’t want me tellin’ your fourth wife Kellyanne about. Like, for example, your “Stormy” twice a week deal with the town whore,” calmly offer Robert.

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

“I am already sorry, Donald. Sorry I ever moved to your piece of shit you call a town,” says Robert taking Trump and Barr forcefully about the shoulders and escorting them out of the store with a shove and they fall into the dirt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Worse?”

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

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

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

“Already done. The blackie gets most of his supplies from a damned Chinaman who visits Corona once a month. In fact, I have conspiracy theory all my own that Bobby was responsible for helpin’ the Chinese bastards spread the desert sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”

“Hell, yeah! That must be why Confederate folks are getting sicker faster, ain’t they?” ponders Trump, loving Barr’s conspiracy theory.

“Yup. Though, a course, Doc said it could also be because, uh, we red doors don’t wash our hands and wear masks,” offers Barr feebly.

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

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

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

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

Townspeople, red and blue alike, hide the fear in the eyes that the Sheriff is talking to a horse who they only hear neighs and whinnies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trump makes the noise,”Whirrr whirr whirr? “

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barr opens the note and his eyes go wide.

“Whut?” growls Trump.

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

“Well, read it!”

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

“Louder!” yells Trump.

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

Townspeople red and blue stop dead in their tracks.

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

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

Time shifts into high gear. Citizens, masked and unmasked, race up the street as the sun rockets overhead across the western sky. Eight hours pass in the blink of an eye. Night falls like rock.

Trump happily finds himself on the outskirts of town, standing beside a hanging tree, dressed in a KKK robe, the hood down.

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

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

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

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

Barr discreetly pours his mug of piss into the sand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But lookin’ on the bright side….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is all I got. America was built on the backs of my people and the extermination of it’s native –”

Trump smacks his son Eric horse on the butt.

The KKK men cheer with Trump as Robert chokes.

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

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

“You traitorous nag!”

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

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

The KKK thugs all fire. All miss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trump groans in agony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Be Continued in Chapter 6 – Mt. Rushmore and the Bunker Rebels

REAL FEVER DREAMS

Sadly Covid-19 patients can end up intubated in an induced coma on a respirator for weeks on end. The odds of a virus patient ever regaining consciousness drop daily the longer someone remains on a respirator. Strangely, Trump’s terrible fever dreams of choking and dying over and over again in elaborate ways I depict in this story are something I intuited weeks ago before this story from Atlantic.

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

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

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

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BONUS CONTENT: A NIKI MINAJ CONSPIRACY THEORY