Monthly Archives: June 2018

WORLD POLITICS AND SURGICAL FINGER EXTENSIONS. CHAPTER 5

A VULGAR OF POWER

FINGER1

Some things happen over the course of the next few months. They are, in no particular order.

  1. Donald Trump successfully fractures the general public, criticizing not just one news source, but all of them. The chicken people feel confused and are unable to rally. He has them where he wants them. Panic and confusion. Rebels don’t rise from panic and confusion. Panic and confusion is easier to control.

 

  1. He’s gotten a tattoo on his forearm that reads, “My brand is chaos.” Melania said it to him one night after faking another orgasm. She meant it as an insult but he took it as a complement. From that day on, he decided to use it. Everything he said would cause chaos. He would not be a leader that laid a path to a goal. He would be a leader that led a path that led in circles. He would keep the people busy so he could wiggle his fingers behind the curtain and do things like #3.

 

  1. He has personally profited over $150,000,000,000,000,000 (that’s one quadrillion dollars) from the American people paying for him to travel and sleep at his golf resort. The Rebels keep trying to raise the point to the public level but his Drone Army denies it blindly in the face of what most on the world stage would consider mathematical facts. The news was confusing them and it was all working. Everything was playing into his hands.

 

  1. Late one night while watching re-runs of reality TV and having a Twitter war with a late night TV comedian, the president saw an infomercial for experimental finger extension surgery. He knew he must have it. He did like the commercial said and “ORDERED NOW!” He was finally going to have those long fingers he’d always wanted. Maybe he’d even take up piano once he’d broken free of the Kardashian race.

FINGERS2

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BERNIE SANDERS’ LATEST INVENTION. CHAPTER 5

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

Deep inside The Fortress of Socialism, Bernie Sanders’ top-secret underground laboratory in Vermont, the old man himself paces wildly back and forth, his hair making Einstein’s jealous. His team has all gone home for the night, leaving his rambling phrases to echo off the large walls of the empty chamber. Half the conversation is happening in his head and the other half is happening in his mouth.

“Gotta find – way – every person – medical attention – education.” He pushes over a small domino and a large track of them, standing back to back, begin to tumble. He watches them tip. “No reason – can’t have it. Money not everything.”

The dominoes unfold into a picture of a Vermont landscape. Bernie made this. It’s beautiful. He stares at it and kicks a few of the dominoes. His ideas, like his suits, were too big. The tiny brains of the American people weren’t yet ready for it. Not yet. Not from him. But soon. Oh, yes. Very soon.

Bernie had learned a lot when he created Melania Trump. He built her from spare blender parts, a few pieces from a 2006 Dodge pickup truck and six alarm clocks. That’s it. He threw a garbage bag over her robotic skeleton, taped a picture of Caitlyn Jenner to the face-area and allowed everyone to see exactly what they wanted to see – a thing of true and absolute beauty.

That’s half the trick, you know. Just let people see what they want. He learned that one from Trump and it’s a good one.

Bernie strolls over to the iso-chamber and flips a switch. Three iron, air-tight doors open up, releasing a hiss of gas, revealing two bodies that have been cryogenically frozen. The third chamber is empty.

The first tube contains the body of JFK, bullet hole and all. His face is blue and puffy but still somehow stoic. Tubes funnel the DNA of JFK to the second container where Bernie’s pet project grows. And, he sees for himself, is growing quite beautifully.

Bernie enters the third chamber and quietly leans into the slanted back panel. He places a comically oversized helmet on and shuts his eyes. Immediately he begins to feel his thoughts and emotions trickle out of his physical form and into the physical form of he and JFK’s genetically superior offspring.

Bernie opens his eyes and tilts his head to the side, observing his creation. The Creation will have his brains and his ideas but the young vigor, articulation and charm of a Kennedy.

The word “socialism” will be wiped from his vocabulary. The word scared a lot of people. There was too much emotional baggage with it. People heard “socialism” and instead of hearing the actual definition, they heard a definition that they’d made up in their heads. They believed that socialism and communism were the same thing. They also believed that communism was something that Russians did. They also believed that Russians were cold and evil people. Stalin. Putin. Socialism had a bad street name, like alcohol during prohibition. It just needed a little rebirth on its branding.

And this was going to be the marketing move of the century.

Yes. The Creation would inherit the genes of JFK and the brains of Bernie. The Creation has beautiful skin. Is good looking. Has neat hair. His suits fit. And he has the same ideas that Bernie does.

Bernie starts to smile. Smirks.

“The people don’t want a tyrant to rule them with an iron fist. They are innocent sheep and they need a caring shepherd to coax them with the staff away from the slaughter-house.

Bernie had long ago accepted that he would not have his day in The Oval Office. But his ideologies might.

And that would make America great again.

He glances down at the name-plate on the iso-chamber. It reads:

Joe Kennedy.

JOEjohn-f-kennedy---mini-biographyBERNIE

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JOHN McCAIN’S THERAPEUTIC JOURNAL ENTRY. CHAPTER 4

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

In his private sleeping quarters, Senator John McCain records the day’s thoughts in his journal. A small oil lamp burns dimly in one corner. He sits in a wife beater and boxer shorts, scribbling furiously with a quill.

His brain tumor throbs in his head, making him grip the pen and the edge of the table tighter. He stares directly down at the paper and his own mortality.

I have invested my entire life into protecting The United States of America. I traveled across seas to fight her enemies. I put my life at risk to save every man, woman and child that walks on this dirt from a life of oppression.

I was shot down in Vietnam, spiraled to the ground, screaming for my life, begging God for forgiveness before my life blinked out of existence. One of my arms and both of my legs were broken upon impact when my jet hit the water.

The Vietnamese dragged my broken body carelessly from the water, threw me in a prison, stabbed and beat me. For five years I sat in Hanoi.

mccain

I came home, back to the land I had suffered for. Back to the people I had almost died for. To the people I had fought for and amongst those people was a man named Donald Trump.

Donald Trump recently ran for President where he called me a “loser” for being captured during the Vietnam War. 

Since the inception of his brain tumor, McCain’s therapist has suggested he start this journal and begin recording some of his more emotional thoughts. The idea was that they are healthier to exist upon paper rather than within the mind and body. And by naming them, we can more readily understand and control them.

His writing began to take on its more aggressive tone as his emotions rose.

That soft-pecker Donald Trump has never volunteered for war. He has never volunteered for his country. He has never volunteered for anything.

He remembers sitting in his therapist’s office last week, crying into his hands. Across the room, an androgynous doctor sits cross-legged on a love seat.

Everything has started to pour out of McCain. It feels so cathartic. He lets it flow. He knows this conversation isn’t being recorded. “I hate him. I hate him so much. I have spent my life protecting-“ he signals to the entire room, the city, the country. “My entire life has been spent protecting this. And now…” he rests his head in his hands and his therapist is silent, understanding that he is referencing the active presence of his brain tumor.

“He called me a loser. Because I was captured in war. Volunteering for the country that he is the president of. At that time I served under President Johnson, who was a goddamn man. And now I have this tumor eating away at my brain and I understand that I’m going to die. I can’t escape this violent enemy.”

He lifts his head and looks out the window, his eyes glistening. He sees a little bird on a branch. It looks around and flies away.

“Why does he do what he does? Why is Trump the way that he is?”

The doctor begins to speak in a voice that is equal parts masculine and feminine. “He makes up for his cowardice, his lack of experience, human virtue and vocabulary by verbally abusing those around him. Because he doesn’t know how to do a good job, he has to tear everyone else down to his level so that he looks like he’s doing better. There’s a kid named Randy that I talk to on Tuesdays. He’s in second grade. Same thing.”

McCain considers this.

“I’m going to die. And I want my last war to be waged against the tyrant, Donald Trump. I have fought and served to make this land the greatest on earth and this man has arisen out of the ashes of ignorance. My final war cry, my final act of bravery shall be forcibly removing the usurper from the throne. I’m going to destroy him.”

“Professionally, I have to advise you that overthrowing the President of the United States is illegal.”

“Is it?”

“I really don’t know.”

“In war, anything goes. If you can’t gut it, I guess you’re a loser.”

In his private quarters, the ink has gotten to the end of the page. He grabs another blank sheet of unlined paper. He dips his quill in the ink (a lost art form) and begins to scribble furiously. He notices that his penmanship has gotten more illegible in the last few sentences. He practices a free-flow journal entry technique that his therapist taught him. She had said, “Just write. Just keep writing. Don’t stop. Whatever comes into your head, just write it down. You might be interested in what comes out.”

And so he writes.

I want to rip out the throat of Donald Trump. He has not earned the distinguished honor of that seat and to remove him would be nothing short of justice. I don’t care about being remembered. I only care about making America great again. I want to save Lady Liberty from the spoiled, entitled frat boy that is trying to date-rape her.

He pauses and taps the pen against the paper, wondering if he should put down on paper (and leave evidence of) the next thoughts that rise into his head. He decides to heed his therapist’s advice and get it all down but he censors himself pretty heavily. Just in case.

I want to find myself in a locked room with him. Five years I spent in Hanoi. Give me five minutes. I would straddle his lap, grab him by his fat cheeks and begin to scream into his face. I would let The War Madness grip me and take over. Senator John McCain would be left in the hallway and Mad Dog McCain would be present. Oh, yes. It’s been a long time. But he’s still there, isn’t he? Oh, yes. Once they’re born in war, the voices rarely go away. Pills. Therapy. They just muffle. They don’t mute. Battle born.

I would carve an M into his forehead with my thumbnail. I would slam my face into his until we both bled and were screaming, he from pain and fear and me from ecstasy and madness, our blood mingling in an orgy of violence.

What would I say to him?

He pauses and thinks. What words would he speak to this man that he hasn’t already said?

I would not speak to him. I only want to hurt him. I only want to destroy him. I only want to over throw him.

My final act upon this Earth will be one of patriotic heroism.

And it’s a cause I’m willing to die for.

He lights the journal entry on fire and allows it to burn to ashes in the fireplace.

 

MCCAIN LOW

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MIKE PENCE AND PAUL RYAN ON HEMORRHOIDS AND ERECTIONS: CHAPTER 3

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

TRUMP_RYAN PENCE

Back in The Oval Office, smelling of sweat, semen and onions, Donald sits at his desk and watches the news. He wonders if he’s dreaming – if this is really too good to be true. I’m the President. He lets the word rest on his tongue for a moment, sweet like barbecue on veal meat.

His eyes wander towards the black orb hanging in the center of the room. A camera. Nothing “hidden” about it. The message is very loud and clear. “WE ARE ALWAYS WATCHING”.

For better or worse, it was true. But who were they? Who was on the other side of that camera? Was it Wells back home? Was it Bernie? That old scarecrow was proving to be not a problem, per se, but a pest. He was like a fly buzzing around on social media. You think you’ve squashed him flat and then he pops back up, reanimated, rambling on endlessly about blah and blah and blah. Universal health-something. Mumble mumble. Shakes fist. Makes joke. People laugh. Donald’s jealousy was starting to shine through so he refocused his attention on his animosity.

The worst business man I’ve ever met is Bernie Sanders.

Why?

Because he’s not interested in money. Guys like him are hard to buy or bribe or manipulate. Fine. The old bastard wasn’t a fly. He was a bigger problem than that. And he was starting to lay his maggots all over in the shit of this country and those little maggots were hatching into this damned Rebel Army.

How do we dismiss him? What Would Wells Do?

The words tap him gently on the back of the throat and he speaks them into existence.

“You lie. Endlessly. About everything.” He turns and he looks in the mirror, staring deep into his own predatory eyes. “You take away the meaning of words. You back pedal. You speak in circles. You speak without saying things. You tell them what they want to hear and they-“

On the TV, a group of people cheer. It’s a pre-recorded session of one of his most hated speeches. He pauses it and stares at the screen. His hand is up in a gesture, all five fingers exposed. His stomach rolls at the thought of all those eyes looking at all those fingers. His soft belly exposed. His psychological weak point. He wishes he could wear gloves forever and just stuff the fingers with cotton.

He was just beginning to start his usual afternoon process of berating himself when Paul Ryan and Mike Pence enter the room. Paul nervously paces, occasionally massaging his genitals. Sometimes his penis would slip through the hole in his briefs and he isn’t able to get it back in just by shaking his hips so he has to manually address the problem.

Mike would like to sit down but his hemorrhoids are acting up and his rectum burns with the fierce intensity of a Texas summer during global warming.

Donald turns on them, the bullied turning into the bully.

“Pence. I can smell your ass muscles from over here. Leave and don’t come back until you’ve spritzed yourself with some kind of cologne. Preferably something that didn’t come off the bottom shelf.” Donald knew that Pence was a cheap skate. Even his haircuts looked like they came from the mall… or his mom.

Mike turns and leaves without saying a word. Neither Donald nor Paul were entirely convinced that the man even knew how to speak.

“What do you want, Paul?”

“The insurance thing is all messed up. It’s gone turkey. We thought we had it. We don’t have it. Donald-“

PRESIDENT DONALD, YOU ANOREXIC FACE HUGGER!”

Neither Donald nor Paul knew what a face-hugger was but it sounded mighty mean. Donald felt good slinging the insult and Paul was obviously hurt by it so both parties understood that it had served its purpose.

Often Paul came in just to get throttled by Donald. Like Donald, Paul’s own father also hated him. He just couldn’t help it. He was so sad that he had created a human being that was so ethically bankrupt.

“Where did I go wrong?” was what his father muttered at his college graduation, his wedding day and they were even the last words he spoke before leaving this earth and entering the great endless abyss that is death.

Paul knew that if there was a hell, he and Donald would be there together…

Paul snaps back to reality. His hyper-sexualization of the American President was an unhealthy past time and one he didn’t like to linger on lest his lust for the flesh drive him to do things normally outside of his already questionable social behaviors. Those gym photos he had done were for Donald and they somehow got leaked. It was humiliating. He dreams about how that evening would have played out if it had gone according to plan…

He shifts his package again and notes that it has gotten considerably more “girthy”. He begins to panic, afraid that Donald will see his erection. He sits on the couch just as Mike Pence enters, reeking of Calvin Klein.

Donald immediately throws the spot light on him.

“Calvin Klein is fancy cologne for pooor people. Go give it to the ignorant peasants who voted for me. Tell them it’s my stimulus package.”

Paul allows the word stimulus to echo in his head before he adjusts himself again.

“Pence. Please say something.”

Pence looks around, confused. Tries to sit down. Can’t. A woman enters. Mike panics. Paul’s erection immediately goes away. Donald wants to murder the woman and eat her vital organs but knows that it’s in bad taste.

She drops a pack of Skittles and a financial magazine on the table.

“Get out of my office, before I come over there and grab your pussy.” Donald laughs. He just means it in good fun and he knows the woman knows it. If he wanted to, he could, you know. He could just go right up to any woman he wanted to and just grab her by the pussy.

The woman – she doesn’t have a name – to Donald she is an opportunity to illustrate his superiority and rub his metaphorical, and potentially very phorical penis all over her – smiles, laughs in good nature, turns and leaves. In the hallway, she begins to have her third nervous breakdown since working for the most recent President of the United States. Once she saw Melania in the hall and their eyes met for one sad second. A moment. An eternity. And they both seemed to scream out, “Rescue me.”

There was something about Melania, though. Something cold and disconnected. Something robotic and emotionless. Something inhuman and calculating.

The Nameless Woman enters the public bathroom just as her nerves break and she begins to weep. In the stall she punches herself in the face and yells, “You’re so weak! You’re so fucking stupid and weak!”

In the stall next door, Melania is pooping. She says nothing. Instead, she wonders how long she can stay undercover. She wonders when she will be able to come out from her disguise and show the world what she really is.

Mother of Orphans. Supplier of the Needy. A hand to the Hungry. The Breaker of Chains and the true Ruler of the Seven Continents on Pale Blue Dot, MEL.

M.E.L. Mechanical. Enemy. Liason. Her entire purpose is to infiltrate the inner circle of Donald Trump and send messages back to her creator. She was planted in his life many years ago after she was created by a mad scientist in a lab. That mad scientist wears a name tag that reads: Bernie Sanders.

She thinks of her favorite jacket: I don’t really care. Do you? the thought is electric. It is binary. It is lights on a circuit board. Did she care? No.

But she was programmed to think she did.

MEL wipes her tears, then her brow, then her butt before standing up and quietly exiting the restroom. She had a mission to complete.

She was going to lead the world’s largest coup against one of the world’s most deadly men.

Her own husband.

TRUMP_RYAN PENCE

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CHAPTER 2: DONALD TRUMP IMPRESSES THE HIGH COURT.

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

Intern: #2719

Alias: Donald Trump

Country of Origin: America

Current Status: President

Planet Local Code: Earth

Project Name: Pale Blue Dot

Population: 7.4 billion

Economy: Livestock

 

The Attendant rolls her eyes as Donald Trump steps onto The Receiving Bay, an old dark room filled with whirring, buzzing, booping and bopping noises. Colored lights flash on panels. The attendant looks like she might be from New York. Or her skin-suit does. In any event, Donald ignores her. She’s lower level.

Great move on the power-play! No eye contact equals no acknowledgement equals no respect.

He has a moment to think to himself that he could buy a hundred Earth-women (or men) tens times as beautiful as this hunk of grotesquerie to suck his nub for a handful of copper tokens. It really doesn’t take much to bend Earth-humans to your will. They’ll do nearly anything for money and the rest they’ll do if you are able to leverage their emotions. What Donald cleverly thought of as their “ape-motions”.

On Earth, I could walk right over there and grab her by the pussy. No questions asked. That’s the power of money. And that’s why I love it.

 He unconsciously sniffs his fingers before continuing down the hall, under a large archway with a stone engraving that reads Populus Esca Inc.

It was latin. Donald couldn’t read latin. And he thinks they spelled ink wrong.

He really was a creature with whom normal social boundaries and etiquette did not apply. Saddam Hussein was known to do the same thing. Rape was, after all, the ultimate demonstration of a power-play. And because grabbing a human being by their genitals without their permission was how rape was defined, Donald Trump was a serial rapist by his own admission.

I’ve been called worse, he thinks to himself. And then, as an afterthought, often times by Melania.

He trips over a small step-up he didn’t see and quickly glances around to see if anyone were watching. Empty hall. Good. He continues down the winding hall towards the office of a hideous creature that went by the name of Wells Fargo, his superior (no relation to the Earth bank). But not for long! Oh, no. Donnie would be cutting ties with his employer permanently very, very soon.

Donald had become committed to getting out of this broken system. For good. He was too damn smart for this dead-end job. President of the United States. Third Dimension. No thank you. Donald was so much more than the manager of a glorified slaughterhouse.

Approaching his boss’s door he decides to aggressively shove it open and set the tone of the conversation. Show the dynamic. Power-play the boss a bit. Why the hell not? He was feeling cocky and proud.

And so he does. He shoves the door open. And halfway through the movement he knew it was wrong. It was too forceful. He had made a mistake. He pulled back mid-swing into a gentle whisp.

Then, his boss’s voice. Shrill. Hideous. Feminine. But not female.

“Open my door without knocking again and I will have your fingers shortened another quarter of an inch.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Art of the Deal! Art of the Deal! Art of the Deal! This had become Donald’s personal mantra, his war cry, a chant to pump himself up. You can do it. You are Donald J. Trump. Maker of Deals, Executor of Executive Orders, Grabber of Pussies and President of the United States of America!

“Get in here, Donald. Make yourself comfortable. You really do look terrible, you know?”

“I was just telling myself that earlier today,” Donald agrees.

Wells is already out of his skin-suit so Trump takes a cue. Reaching into his mouth he pulls a clip from behind both top molars. Grabbing his upper lip, he pulls his face up and back, over the top of his head. It was freeing but it also gave him the creeps – the way the synthetic face could stretch so effortlessly.

He slithers his wet, black body through the face hole and grimaces as it plucks from his dirty anus with a soft pop. He steps through, effortlessly freeing himself from his human form.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Wells asks, expecting no answer.

“Yes, sir. Damn good,” Donald answers anyways because he’s not really sure when to be quiet.

Talking has always been a problem for him. Sometimes he thinks something and he wants to tell people what the pictures in his brain say but he can’t. The road between his neural circuits and his mouth was a windy one. What usually ended up coming out was mere exclamatory statements like “so good,” and “very exciting,” and “really, really wonderful,” and, “going to be the best.” This wasn’t an altogether terrible thing as Donald J. knew that the American people didn’t want details – they wanted to watch wrestling and be told that everything is wonderful and someone has it all under control. Nothing to worry about. Eat your TV dinners and grow plump.

And so he talks. And he talks and he talks. And more often than not, halfway through, he forgets how to connect the two thoughts and then he has to improvise. He really hates it when he has to improvise.

He’ll say something that sounds nice in his head but then it comes out of his mouth and sounds horrible and awful. A few of these examples were:

“I wouldn’t mind a little bow. In Japan they bow. I love it. Only thing I love about Japan”

And.

“I thought it would be easier,” referring to being President.

And.

“There is a chance that we could end up having a major, major conflict with North Korea. Absolutely.” This was a real problem, as you’ll soon see.

And.

“I’m the Ernest Hemingway of 140 characters.”

The truth was, anything beyond 140 characters was hard for his mental framework to process. Thoughts larger than 140 characters were like trying to put a mini-van engine in a sports car. The thing was just going to sputter and die.

He improvises. And he hates it. He knows he isn’t good at it. He knows that everyone knows that he isn’t good at it. But he keeps talking. And talking. And then it starts to fall apart when his face starts doing that thing it does and trust me, he has spent countless nights on YouTube watching his speeches on repeat from different angles. Why does his face do that?

When I’m improvising, my eyes get squinty and my jaw hangs slack, making me look like a mule who has recently had a carrot inserted into the rectum without proper lubrication.

 Republican U.S. presidential nominee Donald Trump speaks to the Detroit Economic Club at the Cobo Center in Detroit, Michigan

“Donald, where the qink is your brain right now?”

Donald snaps back to his sad, broken version of reality. Qink (pronounced kink) was part of the local language and could be used like The Earth F-Word which is so awful and offensive that we cannot even mention it here.
Common examples of qink: Where the qink are you? Why the qink did you do that? You are a qinking qink. Qink off. Go qink yourself. Wanna qink?

He laughs and tries to make a joke of it. Play it cool. “I was day-dreaming, sir.”

“You’re a complete idiot, Donald. What did they call you at Academy? You seem like the type that would have had a nickname. A really terrible one.”

Donald didn’t want to say but he didn’t think he could lie. Not to Wells Fargo.

“They called me Idiot Boy.”

“Fitting.”

“I agree.”

Donald hangs his skin-suit from the coat tree before slithering his black, boil covered body to an armchair and coiling deep within its worn grooves. Empty eyes gaze out of hollow sockets. Skin like watery mold drips down his many tentacles. Hundreds of slapping gray tongues under his loose appendages lick and moan against the plastic furniture of Wells office.

He was more at home in his true form, but he did not feel true in his home dimension.

Wells breaks the silence. “Pale Blue Dot. How is it?” His voice sounds like an octopus choking to death on oxygen.

“We almost have full control, sir. Things with Russia are progressing nicely. Once we join forces, no military on the earth will be able to stop us.”

A chill runs down his spin. King of the World. Oh, yes. He could just taste it.

“Delicious. Then we should be dining soon. You were just named President. That’s the highest the country has, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Very proud.”

“Idiot Boy, let me cut to the point. Most rookies take control of their planet within the first few years. This work is easy. They wrangle the people, get them through the gate and pow. Our Blood Boys down on the floor handle the rest. What we do here is not brain surgery. We operate a slaughterhouse, Donald. Control the animals.”

On a small screen was a security camera that showed the killing floor. Somewhere, Donald wasn’t sure where, a room of humans were being led single-file down a chute. They had all been winning contestants on a game show and were led here by guise of a Hawaiian cruise that they had won. Three nights, four days. They had all signed up for the game show from ads they saw during reality TV fixer-upper shows.

At the end of the chute, someone would greet them, ask them for their credit score, their social security number and their date of birth. The human would hand them the very, very important documents that they’ve protected their whole lives and then they would be led into The Box.

Inside The Box, one of Wells employees would put a Whisper against their head (a Whisper was slang for a quantum-revolver. A quantum revolver was like an Earth revolver but it shot quantum particles into the targets energy field and rendered them motionless. It was called a Whisper because it didn’t make a noise and because quantum-revolver wasn’t as sexy a name), pulled the trigger and lights out. From there the human was quartered, frozen and all parts were dispersed to all major grocery stores.

The humans were lesser intelligent creatures and so this was okay. It wasn’t quite apples to apples but it was cattle to cattle.

Actually, a better comparison would be chickens. Humans were much more like chickens, clucking mindlessly, endlessly, chirping on and on – twittering – in between bouts of plucking each other’s eyes out. You could even stick their sun behind their Earth and the effect was the same as shoving a chicken’s head under its wing. Idiots. Chicken People. All of them.

Wells had been doing this job for a long time. Longer than he had planned when he was first hired. He glances down at the placard on his desk. It reads:

WELLS FARGO. EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR. HUMAN LIVESTOCK. THIRD DIMENSION.

And then, below that:

CONGRATULATIONS ON 100 YEARS OF SERVICE!

Qink. 100 years is a long time, Wells thinks to himself. And where has it all led me?

Donald’s people believed that humans were here for their consumption. They would stuff themselves with manburger until they wanted to vomit. Debbie’s Place was a delicious restaurant down the street from Wells single bedroom apartment and they did an all-you-can eat buffet on Thursdays for crazy cheap. They even had a cage where you could pick out your own human and have it prepared fresh. That was kind of gross but Wells appreciated the option. He usually ordered Thigh Manzini. It was lightly breaded, fried, and topped with lemon zest and just a pinch of cayenne pepper.

Wells was personally very excited about his most recent invention. He thought it might even win him an award in his field. He had planted a device on earth that allowed people to eradicate walking from their lives completely. He called it a hover board. He looked down at Earth and saw all the children using them. That juicy child meat swelling with flavor. Veal. Unused muscle. His mouth begins to water and he turns back to Donald. He hated this guy and wanted to get him out of his office as quickly as possible. Best to get on with the business at hand.

“The people of Earth are stupid. All of them. Even the brightest amongst them – they’re HUMANS. They exist on the third dimension. Most of them are still hypnotized by the God Delusion hypnosis effect and their minds are still garbled with thoughts of existing within time. Simpletons! Rats! Vermin! And you are being publically humiliated by the great lot of them. Donald. This is unacceptable.”

“Sir, I can explain-“ Donald begins, but Wells cuts him off by simply lifting his chin a quarter of an inch. So much power. He didn’t even have to speak. Donald, on the other hand, used rambling incoherent phrases because he didn’t know how to drive the language car.

Wells. “Let’s not waste our time making you recite it twice.”

Wells slips on a swirling turquoise ring. There is a logo of a bisected avocado on it. Avocado was the company that designed the rings. An avocado was a green fruit that existed on Pale Blue Dot. The top of their turquoise ring was crowned just the absolute smallest, faintest hook, no bigger than a single thread of velcro. Wells swipes the ring through the air. The hook catches on Space and pulls a zipper straight down to the rug, creating a torn-sheet effect in the nature of reality.

Wells had just gotten a raise and he had used his first paycheck to buy himself this cool new ring. It was the first time he’d had a new piece of technology right when it came out and he was pretty proud. He didn’t want to deal with those clunky brass knuckle devices any more. He would be traveling through dimensions in style now. He takes a moment to register that his old brass knuckle set is resting on the end table by Donald right now. He makes a mental note to put them away later.

Look at Donald sitting over there. He’s not like the other interns. There’s something different about him. Something creepy. Something that makes even my skin crawl. His ineptitude is somehow troubling. As though he could do great things with his stupidity. He could lead herds of lemmings over vast cliff faces. He would be a God amongst the chicken people.

Wells pulls back the reality-curtain, ducks his head and steps through, leaving Donald alone in his office for just a moment.

Just a moment that is just long enough to look around and think to himself, It will be me laughing in the end when I am in full control of Pale Blue Dot and I break away from this dead-end job forever and I run and I break the Dimensional Interchange which brought me here and you’ll never find me. And I will be free. Free from you. And free from this place. And free to be who I truly am. King. 

No. There’s more.

Yes. You could be King as Donald Trump. You could rule them. You could rule them all.

But what else? What else could you do?

I could reveal my true form.

What would happen if I did?

The people would be terrified. So many limbs…

Yes, yes. At first. But then? Given time? Shown your strength. Your intelligence.

You could convince them that you were… More Than.

Superior.

I need to write this down.

“Step through the door, you Day-Dreaming Idiot Boy,” Wells shouts back through the gateway. The sound, coming through the reality-tear seemed, as usual, to be equal parts muffled and far away simultaneously. Kids called this strange effect blurring.

Donald steps through, feeling the cold breeze of InBetween (the space between worlds) curl up his body. On the other side is the Higher Courtyard. Tall backed chairs sit in a tiered fashion, eight rows deep. The seats have all been filled. Sagging gray faces with eyes the color of horror gaze down upon him. They are all his species: Kardashians.

The Kardashians were a race that existed on the 11th dimension and who strongly believed they were better than everyone else. Unfortunately, the terrible, objective truth (which could be clearly stated by anyone in the 12th dimension) was that they were just as lost, alone and afraid as every other living creature on the face of realty, regardless of dimension.

All the eyes made Donald nervous. The polls showed that he never tested well in front of large audiences.

“Donald J. Trump. This is your Surprise Pale Blue Dot Status Update Conference.”

“I – I wasn’t – I didn’t know there was a Status Update Meeting.”

“It’s a Surprise Status Update Conference.

Donald stands up straight, hands cupped gently below his leprous midsection. His face, as usual, is cold and emotionless. Amongst his own people this is standard form. The Kardashian face is not known for having a wide emotional spectrum. A Kardashian face says BLAH! And it says it very boldly. The face of a Kardashian is like that of a cocker-spaniel – placid and resigned confusion. Happy but simple.

It’s much more difficult to replicate the Earth-face emotions; the gentle nuances in a face, the delicate intricacies of an eyebrow twitching mid-sentence, a blink at just the wrong time, paced too slowly, a smile that feels natural and warm and inviting and not cold and desperate and hungry.

Their faces are a language that I am not very fluent in. Another reason to hate myself. Maybe Wells is right. Maybe I am terrible at this. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I should be down there on The Killing Floor with the Blood Boys pulling the trigger on those Whispers. I’m not cut out for this president stuff.

Donald tries again to be stoic. His shoulders had begun to slump and his mouth was slightly ajar.

Stand up straight!

He does. A quiet hush falls over the humming silence. The only sounds are the muffled farting gurgles roiling inside of Donald’s undulating mid-section thanks to having chili for breakfast. Again.

A male Kardashian named Barnabas Berrymore stands up and speaks into his Avocado ring. He’d just purchased one recently as well and loved it. Definitely worth the asking price. The kids were calling them Cado, short for Avocado. The little devices really did everything.

Barnabas speaks directly into the microphone in his Cado, which is connected wirelessly to the speaker system (also Avocado brand) of the auditorium. His voice, sounding like dirty cotton tangled with brittle twigs, is instantly broadcast for all to hear and bear witness to.

“First,” Barnabas Berrymore begins, “Let us turn our gaze towards our Banner.”

Every eye in the place rises towards the ceiling as a perfect projection of their higher symbol is cast before them. It consists of shapes and colors that only exist in higher dimensions so I can’t really tell you about it.

They all stare at the rotating form, unblinking. Blinking while gazing upon The Banner is considered disrespectful.

Barnabas lifts his tentacle and places it over his eyes. His audience, his congregation, his army, does the same.

In a cold and emotionless drone, the creatures all speak at once, repeating the words from memory, digging them deeper into their psyches.

Repetition is the key to success. Repetition is the key to success. Repetition is the key to success. Repetition is the key to control. Repetition is the key to mind control.

“We turn to Banner, our symbol in all things of Power. I stand before Banner as an individual. But together we stand before Banner united as one. Banner is a symbol of our unity. Banner is a symbol of our family. Banner is a symbol of our history. Banner is a symbol of our Higher Power, eternally blessing us with all things, guiding us towards our truest place in all Eleven Dimensions, at Banner’s right side. With Banner we stand and with Banner we rise. With Banner we shall destroy our enemies from the 11 Dimensions. With liberty and justice for all.”

The Earth-people did not know that their last line was taken from the Kardashian’s own Pledge of Tribal Allegiance

The Kardashains all sit. The action sounds like a tumble-weed being thrown onto a pile of crunchy snow and then turned up really loudly.

Then, silence.

Uncomfortable silence.

Donald Trump, in his true alien form, oozing a puddle of mucus onto the floor, stands in the center of the Higher Court, every gaze upon him. He doesn’t know what to do. He glances at Wells Fargo. Wells nods so gently to the left, only once, indicating, you’re on your own now.

“I am Intern #2719. The Earth people call me Donald Trump. President Donald J. Trump. I was elected to the highest office in their country by a minority vote of the people.”

“How were you elected to the highest office this country has by a minority of the people? We would never allow a minority to control us!” It’s a faceless screeching question from an anonymous attendee.

“Voting is staged. It gives the Americans the illusion of control in their lives, which, coincidentally makes them easier to control. The illusion of control makes them placid. The choice of leader is made by a select group of people known as The Electoral College. They are, with the exception of a few Rebels, our people.”

Why were you not able to get a majority vote?”

Just then, Hillary Clinton uncoils in the stands. “Usurper!”

She sits back down, dabs some hot sauce on a raw human arm resting beautifully on a bed of rice and then takes a bite before queefing softly and not excusing herself.

Donald continues, un-phased. “In the Midwest, we have full control. I am driving wedges between families and friends by using mind control.”

Bill Clinton stands up, a joint dangling from his puckered lips. “Hang on, man. Hang on. Mind control? The whole nation? Come on, now.” He inhales deeply, coughs and wanders out of the room to find something sweet.

Donald stands up a little higher. Finally. Some recognition for his brilliance.

“Not only am I using mind control. It’s working. Incredibly well. The entire Midwest is ready to kill for their flag. And who controls their flag? I DO! The Mid-People will do as I command!”

“What do you mean? How can this be?”

It is you that should be sitting down here, being interrogated by a group of thoughtless fools while I drink the blood of my enemies.

Donald rises up even taller but no less disgusting. He takes on a more presidential tone. Something the Earth people have never heard him do.

“I gave them ethical license to be evil by telling them that God approves of their behavior.”

“How would you be able to speak for… what is it? God?”

“Who knows! They never ask me that! HAHAHAH!”

A small murmur. They’re impressed. “You mentioned Rebels?”

“McCain. Obama. The usual. There are a handful trying to break away but they’re presently of no true concern. The bigger issue is Bernard Sanders as he is currently leading an uprising with The Exposed.”

“Expound.”

“The coastal cities tend to be filled with a wide range of humans. Different races, different religions, different sexual orientations, different political beliefs. Their exposure to one another has made them… tolerant.”

The entire room hisses in disgust. Tolerance was a weakness.

Donald continues. “Counter-point. Mid-West people live in Copy Villages – everyone is the same. Race, economic status, faith and political viewpoint. All identical. This causes great fear amongst this group as they’ve lived their lives sheltered from the world. Have you ever seen a house cat stand at the open door and stare outside, into the front yard, unable to leave for fear of all things new?”

He let’s them chew on this before continuing.

“Thankfully, the coastal cities look upon the Mid-West with great disdain, which helps drive the wedge I’ve placed even deeper. They look down on them, thinking them less intelligent. We leverage the coastal cities smug and superior mindset to our advantage. Either way, we win. Our course is to disrupt and divide them all until…”

Until they were able to take control of the wild third dimension inhabitants and devour them.

A bell rings and a naked man is brought out, tied facedown to a long table. On top of the table and under the man is a long white serving tray. The man tries to scream but his tongue and vocal chords have already been removed by the chef. Screaming ruins dinner.

A small cap has been placed on the man’s head. At the very top of the cap, a small hole has been cut, revealing the crown of the man’s freshly shaven head.

Wells picks up a long metal straw and places it in the hole, allowing the man to feel the warm object placed against his skin. The humanoid begins to writhe against the stimulation. Wells liked this part. It always reminded him of cracking a crab leg.

He picks up a small hammer and tap tap taps the straw into the man’s head. A line of Kardashians begins to form, saliva dripping from their face holes. Wells takes the first slurp. The man feels his memories fade away. He also feels his life slipping away. He’s also being blinded by the blood running down his face. He is also feeling confused.

Wells says, “Donald, you know I dislike you. Please enslave Pale Blue Dot as quickly as you’re able. Now please leave. Your natural form is even more disgusting than your human one. Meeting adjourned.”

Everyone spits on Donald.

Back in Wells office, Donald steps back into his skin-suit, drying the spittle from his sludgy exo-skeleton as well as he can. Their spit smells like dried cat piss.

Wells pours himself a drink and lights up a pipe filled with cheap hallucinogens. It takes effect immediately. “You know what, Don? Something you should consider. The news. I’m only telling you this because I feel sorry for how stupid you are. The Rebels in the coast cities – if they’re presenting a problem, it’s because they are becoming too knowledgeable. They are reading and putting the information together. You aren’t seeing this happen in your Copy Villages because those people tend to…”

Wells lifts an eyebrow, encouraging Donald to finish the thought. Donald blinks and then guesses. “They get their news from… only one source?”

“Correct.”

Donald’s pride swells. He did good!

Wells presses further. “Is their one source a good source?”

Donald turns it over in his head, pulling advice from one of his professors at Academy. “If you only get your news from one source, it is never a good source. A full picture is a well-rounded one. How do I make the coastal cities watch only one news source? Do I blow up the competitors? I think Putin might be able to help with that. He mentioned something to me about explosives the other day.”

You’re saying too much, Donald! Rope it back. Rope it back.

“Donald. Do I have to put on your skin suit, travel to Pale Blue Dot and pretend to be you? Get your shit together. Think a thought. Qink. Listen to me. Your Rebels are getting a well-rounded picture because they read more and they watch multiple news sources. You can’t make a person watch one news source so you have to…”

Donald stares at Wells. Donald feels stupid. He also looks stupid. His mouth is going into that slack, stroke face when he’s trying to improvise. He makes a long grunting noise that sounds like, “rrrrrrrrrrrrrp.”

Republican U.S. presidential nominee Donald Trump speaks to the Detroit Economic Club at the Cobo Center in Detroit, Michigan

“The Rebels are pulling together because they have information. They get that information from the news. You need to tell them that the news is fake. Call into question the validity of their news source. Call into question the validity of their facts. Call into question the validity of their natural reality. This will cause division between the Rebels and it will also keep your Copy people thinking that they have the only real truth. They’ll cling to their one simple news source as tightly as they cling to their paper Bibles. Everybody loves to be right. It’s a win / win and you are a qinking loser. Get out of my office.”

Donald turns to leave and, as he does so, he becomes certain that he will never have to speak to Wells Fargo ever again.

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Chapter 1: Donald Trump Steps Out of the Oval Office

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

President Donald Trump sits in his office, the oval office. The Oval Office. Couple of capital Os in there, huh? he thinks to himself as his pasty belly skin pulls itself taut against his seven-thousand dollar belt. I can’t believe ol’ D-Berry has made it this far. He kicks his feet up on the desk as he dramatically whispers, “Pretty. Impressive,” punching each syllable with a gummy fisted lip sandwich before tipping backwards in his chair and hitting his soft head on the hard floor.

He quickly pulls himself upright as he adjusts his red tie. You fool. You phony! You were born to money! You have no real talent! Your businesses have all failed! You’re an imposter!

 No. I am successful. I. AM. he insists to himself.

When you have no friends, speaking to yourself is something you become quite good at.

LIAR! And they all know it. Your worst nightmare has come true. You’ve finally become THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA – the spotlight is all yours – and everyone knows you are a counterfeit. A fake! You do not know what you’re doing.

It’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true.

Yes, it is. They all know. And everyone you work with knows. The entire white house – sorry. White House. Capital letters. They know what you’ve always known. You are a bully backed with a financial fist. Sue me, sue me! You’ll run out of money long before me and I’ll win. Nobody can stop me! You’ve been born into too much wealth to ever fail.

Fine! It’s true. So what? I can’t help it. But you gotta give me some credit – even for being a dummy, I’ve gotten pretty far!

Sure. Buying your way to the presidency. Congratulations. It must have been wrought with peril.

 Donald glances in the mirror and sees that his usual wasp nest of a haircut has become a disgusting tangle of rat-tails. Pull yourself together, Donald.

From the top of his absurdly large mahogany desk, atop a pile of unsigned contracts and dirty kleenex, he grabs a red hat that has the overly wrought patriotic phrase of “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN” stitched across the front. Looking back in the mirror as he slips the hat over his puffy cranium, he thinks, there’s the old man. Looking sharp, tiger. Let’s show ‘em who’s boss.

And then. Is that mustard on the corner of your mouth? You slob. God, you look just like one of them – a pooor person.

And he thinks of it just like that – with three Os because they are especially pooor. The Pooor People out there, he thinks, all of them wandering around, looking at me to fix their problems, their hands stretched out as they lay palm fronds at my feet.

It’s like daddy-T used to say. “Sorry. Can’t solve stupid.” No, you sure couldn’t.

 But I can leverage that stupidity and use it to gain the presidency. And for that, I am grateful to you. Every one of you. Sincerely. Thank you. For without your blind faith in my cause, none of this would have been possible. Your small minds have brought me to unthinkable power and together we can move mountains.

Oh, but how he hated the pooor people, though. They always wanted to shake his hand. They wanted to touch him. He would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel just a little Christ-like (bring me your sick!) but, truth be told, he thought their dirt and germs and dismal IQ scores might be contagious. How else could there be so many of them?

He sighs heavily. Sadly. He really does hate himself. Sometimes he lies alone at night, Melania far away. As usual. And he cries. No one knows The Real Donald. The Real Donald is tender. And likes chicken nuggets. And painting. With his fingers. Mostly still life of flowers but sometimes also nudes of himself. He finds his own grotesque human form somehow… sexually appealing; the way his jowls hang from his face like a bulldog’s maw and the way his hard and calloused pink nipples sit lifeless on his chest, covered in a violent mat of gray pubic fuzz. His skull is the shape of a Neanderthal’s.

He had the body of a gorilla.

And the mind of an absolutely brilliant chimpanzee.

You should smile more.

I can’t. I still haven’t figured out how. And when I do try my very best, it looks haunting. As though it causes me pain. Which it does.

He reaches into his desk drawer, the drawer in The Oval Office, and pulls out a small contraption which resembles a kind of sci-fi invention that would open a portal to another dimension. There are two of them. They also kind of look like a pair of brass knuckles.

He slides them onto each hand and then rubs them together in tight, concentric circles. He touches the front sides together and they immediately begin to glow blue. He waits a moment. They turn green. Green means go. He separates his hands wide, holding his arms out like a cross. Within the movement, a throbbing doorway opens in front of him, formed between the brass knuckles. It appears to be made of liquid electricity and stretches forward through time, space and possibility.

He steps through the strange doorway and the Dimensional Interchange slams closed behind him.

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