A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER
Wells Fargo stands in front of an organic monitor. He watches Donald pace around his office. Over Wells shoulder, Hilary Clinton gazes. Her eyes are pale yellow. She has four pupils.
Hillary leans down and brushes her tongue against Wells ear. “What is he doing?”
Wells holds up his finger, silencing her. He was frustrated because he really truly did hate Donald Trump and he really truly did think the man was a complete and utter failure at life and all things he touched. And yet…
What was he doing?
How was Donald outsmarting Wells. Was he outsmarting Wells?
No. That’s non-sense. This jewel-faced biped does not have a leg-up on me. He’s just doing something so incredibly stupid that I’m not able to follow him because my intellect does not limbo that low.
“Jewel Face” was a racial slur to the Kardashian people and “biped” equated him to a humanoid, a creature of lower intelligence.
“I think he’s trying to use the Dimensional Interchange.”
I wish Hillary would stop talking. Her breath smells like iced coffee and her perfume is… sniff…raw pancake batter.
“Hillary. I don’t mean to be rude. But get away from me.”
She does so but not before hurrumphing.
She’s right. Wells thinks to himself. He did appear to be tinkering with the Dimensional Interchange.
Mike Pence walks into the room, looking like The Man in the Yellow Hat trying to chase down his naughty monkey. He’s carrying a box and looks worried. Donald nods at him. “From Russia?” Donald asks. “With love,” Mike responds.
Something about the Russia talk made Wells nervous. But even more than that was that Mike Pence actually spoke. Something was occurring. He needed to tune in.
What’s going on?
They know someone is listening.
Do they know it’s you?
They may suspect.
What’s Trump doing?
Mike turns and stands by the couch. Wells can tell he wants to sit down but assumes his hemorrhoids are still acting like crazy. He’d been watching this feed for a very long time. Wells raises his singular eyebrow. Hillary slides back into her skin suit. She’s had enough and was going to investigate this herself. Qink. She’s put her skin suit on backwards. The anal snap attaches to her pelvic bone and she squeals.
Wells leans in closer to the screen. “Donnie, what are you up to?”
Donald locks the door and exhales deeply. Wells scrunches his eyebrows. Hillary unhinges the clasp and groans a sigh of relief.
Donald opens the box and looks inside of it. A large grin spreads across his face. Too large. Too hideous. Too troubling.
“Hills. Something is up. Something is happening. This isn’t right.”
Hillary shouts something in the Forgotten Tongue at him but it goes over his head. Wells failed Ancient Languages in Academy.
Donald hands Mike the Dimensional Interchange.
“This is not regulation. This is not permitted. Donald has just handed the Dimensional Interchange to a human. We need someone in there now.” Wells fumbles for his intercom and hits a code. “D.I. Alert. Pale Blue Dot. A human has access to our Dimensional Interchange. Please respond immediately.”
He tries to speak firmly but he’s fearful. Something is heading south quickly. His switchboard begins to light-up. The first responders. The real heroes.
He picks up a call. “Pale Blue Dot. The Interns name is Donald Trump. He may be armed and is extremely stupid. Please use extreme caution when handling. I believe he’s gone rogue. We’ve got a runner.”
He slams the phone down and snaps on his headpiece. “If he’s trying to make a run for it and gets captured, the punishment is…”
Hillary finishes his thought, savoring each word like a tasty little morsel. “Nationally Televised Execution.”
“Mandatory viewing. If he’s running, I hope he has a plan. And knowing him, he probably doesn’t.”
Wells puts on his headpiece. They’re in it. This is happening.
Rock and roll. Wells thinks to himself. Nothing in the 11 Dimensions can stop a Kardashian.
Outside his door he hears the troops marching past his office towards the Receiving Bay. They’ll be in The Oval Office in a matter of moments. He turns his attention back towards the monitor.
Mike Pence claps the Interchange together and the portal opens up before him.
“Is he sending Mike through? What the hell is happening? What’s in that box?”
Mike looks dumb and lost. Confused. Hopeless. Poor guy, Wells thinks to himself. He has no idea. About anything. He’s probably not even sure what he’s having for dinner tonight.
Then a horrible thought crosses his mind. Something in his intuition. Something deep inside just clicked on. All the lights turned on and he knew what was happening. It was moment’s before Donald pulled the device out of the box. Everything made sense.
The Russia talk from earlier. Something Donald mentioned about Putin and – what was it?
Oh, yes. Wells recalls clearly.
Wells pulls off his head-piece and begins walking out of the office, away from the Receiving Bay as quickly as he can. Hillary shouts after him but he just flips her off. Wells is going splitzo and getting the qink out of here. This is going nowhere good.
At the end of the day, a Kardashian saves themselves.
In Wells office, Hillary takes a seat in Wells chair. Hmmm. Softer than I’d prefer. She looks in the monitor and sees Donald carrying a giant explosive across The Oval Office. It looks like a giant black cartoon bomb with an iPhone duct-taped to it. In spray paint it reads DT+VP 4-eva. Mike is whiter than usual. Donald walks with the confidence of a man facing death.
He holds the bomb up to the camera and says, “I just wanted you to know it was me that did this and that I’ve known it was you watching all along. You can’t control me anymore. I’m free.” Because that’s all anybody wants. To be free.
And with that he turns and throws the bomb through the Dimensional Interchange.
“WE’RE MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! NOW, MIKE!”
Man, Mike is really clumsy. He drops the Dimensional Interchange and the trans-world door falls to it’s side. “Pick it up, you idiot Earthling!”
If Mike Pence lived through today, he would have wondered about how strange that specific insult was. Unfortunately, Mike Pence was not destined to live through this day. Not in this version of reality.
Mike panics, as he usually does, and reaches down for the left-hand Interchange switch. In doing so, he accidentally touches the back of the door. Donald didn’t tell him this because he didn’t think of if because he’s not very good at details and planning things but touching the back of a Dimensional Interchange is like throwing a fork in a toaster. A really big fork. In a really big toaster.
A sound frequency higher than what Mike’s body was typically used to shot through his organs and melted them immediately. His innards became his outers as he blew a bloody fart bubble of viscera and ruined the beautiful underwear his wife had recently bought him.
His eyes popped in his skull and his brains became jelly. His tongue swelled and popped like a fat mosquito in his mouth. His teeth shattered all at once and Donald was hit with some of the fragmentation. His skin split like an old apple on a hot day and his skeleton was left vibrating on the carpet.
His bones began to crack and collapse, turning to dust. The dust began to vaporize. And the vapor set off the fire alarms.
This is going all wrong.
The sirens in both the 3rd and 11th Dimensions begin to wail.
What have I done?
No going back now!
Don’t you keep a quantum-revolver in your drawer?
Usually. But it’s out in my $250,000 sports car.
Okay. Think fast. The Art of the Deal!
Donald grabs the Interchange switches just as he hears a distant eruption. The bomb has gone off 11 dimensions up. No time to think. A Kardashian saves himself.
He pulls out the Dimensional Interchange he’d stolen earlier from Wells’ office. Yeah, you didn’t know about that. That’s what stealing something looks like. Donald may not have been a smart man, but there was a thing or two he’d picked up cheating his way through Academy.
In his Introduction to Dimensional Interchange course, he and a couple of his fraternity brothers were tasked with taking their D.I.’s down to 5-Points (what the cool kids called the fifth dimension) to do some bullshit maintenance for something or the other.
Donald and Frank were good friends but Harold was an eggy-colored Kardashian kid that had been paired with them. He was an alright student and a nice enough guy. Truth be told, he was even kind of funny. Donald and Frank just didn’t like him because he was eggy-colored. Eggy-colored people tended to be a little… different. The way they spoke. The food they ate. Donald had even heard that some of the eggy-colored people cut half their child’s genitals off at birth. These tales disturbed him greatly and made him hold eggy-colored people at a safe distance.
In certain regions of the fifth dimension, if you knew the right kinds of creatures and just where to look, you could find an illegal substance called Godplex, which was a drug that caused the illusion of time-stopping. You inhaled it and the side-effects were instantaneous. The truth is the effects only lasted for less than five minutes but within the high, it feels like centuries. The moons and the suns fire through the sky. People around you grow old and die. Mountains are erected. Icons are destroyed. Species evolve. It is a really freaky experience.
One weekend Donald, Frank and Henry got a hold of a suitcase filled with the stuff and lost their minds. They were gone for eons. They were punch drunk on power hour. Their brains were fried and the fronts of their shirts were covered in vomit.
The three of them lying on their backs, staring up at the sparkling sky, Donald says to his group, “Frank. I really like you. I’m glad we’re friends. Henry. I really like you too. I just wish you weren’t so damned eggy-colored. I’d like you a whole lot more if you were more like me.”
As usual, Henry was silent. He wasn’t really sure how to address this obvious racism with his friend. Sometimes it was best to just stay silent and not rock the boat. He remembers a story about his uncle being hanged many decades back.
Boy, I’m just happy I’m not being beat up and killed by these two. Maybe I should just be happy!
Meanwhile, Donald was thinking to himself, You know? There was a time when my relatives would have beat up and killed this little Egger! The term “egger” was also a local racial slur. I’m pretty civilized by comparison. This guy is pretty lucky to be friends with a swell guy like me, Donald congratulates himself.
A bit later Henry had dozed off while Donald and Frank had stayed awake late into the night, discussing how much they hated their fathers and how really, all they wanted was for someone to be proud of them.
The two young men eventually grew bored of each other’s company and turned towards entertaining themselves in other ways. At first they began by drawing a picture of an enormous penis on Henry’s jawline, making it look like the tip was just about to be inserted into his mouth. On his forehead, like a crown of thorns, they inscribed “EGG”. They were going to write “EGGER” but then realized they had been writing too big and didn’t have enough room.
Both men just laugh.
Then they escalate it a bit. A lot actually. They escalate it quite quickly.
Frank tells Donald that he knows a way to jail-brake his Dimensional Interchange so that their two D.I.s could be tied together into a kind of space-loop. It was like a bug in the system. Frank snickers and shows Donald how to make it work.
They open up one portal and lie it flat on the ground. Then they open up the other portal and prop it against a tree. Then they pick up Henry by his arms and legs and carry him to the Floor-Door. He starts to wake up just before they toss him in.
“What’s going on? What’s going on?” He struggles to get free but Donald and Frank have him too tightly. “What’s going on!?”
The men release their friend and he falls through the door with a scream. Moments later he is thrown from the Tree-Door and rocketed back towards the Floor-Door. Donald and Frank both cheer and laugh as they watch Henry get thrown in a large loop.
After the 15th or 16th pass, Donald asks, “How do we get him out?” Harold’s screams were really starting to bother him now. They sounded unnatural, like he was choking.
“I think we just shut one off.” Franks heads towards the Tree-Door and clips the Dimensional Interchange or D.I. together. In his intoxicated state he doesn’t time it properly and cuts Harold’s legs off as the portal slices shut. Harold spends the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
Well, at least they didn’t hang me, was something he thought to himself quite often. He also never spoke to a Kardashian of Donald’s color ever again.
Back in The Oval Office Donald attempts to re-work this school-boy prank gone horribly awry into a political coup. He stacks the doors in front of each other and props them up.
This should stop them from getting through.
It was a shame that Mike had passed on. That really wasn’t necessary and certainly wasn’t part of whatever loose plan Donald did have. Mike could have been useful. It was always nice to have a lapdog that you could kick around or a stress ball to squeeze.
The explosion is enormous and Donald feels it in his liver. He shoves his considerable body weight against the door as the fire and screaming rips through Door-A and makes an instant connect with Door-B. A tunnel of fire is formed from one side of The Oval Office to the other. It is truly a sight to behold.
For a moment Donald thinks he hears the sounds of Hillary Clinton and yes, he would be right. She had entered the Receiving Bay just as the explosion came through and was incinerated in a matter of seconds. The last thought to cross her mind was, “Bill is a wonderful saxophone player.”
On the 3rd Dimension, in The Oval Office, the Secret Service, namely Agents Bender and Beekman, kick in the door, guns drawn, black sunglasses on.
“Freeze, mother fuckers!” Bender begins firing wildly into the room at nothing in particular. Beekman is too awestruck by the fire-nado to respond.
Donald turns on the men. “Today you shall both sit at my right hand!” And with that he reaches up and unhinges his face. The time had come. He wasn’t expecting it to happen like this but he knew instinctually that it was now or never. Like a virgin on her wedding night, Donald reveals his true and terrible form to the men. “BEHOLD. The Trumpet sounds.”
A great black squid thing gyrates through the face-hole of Donald Trump’s skin suit, tearing at the mouth and eye sockets, screaming for eternal freedom from the simple illusion. Black tentacles slap at the ground, moistening the carpet. A thin membrane covers his body, holding back his amorphous form, his gelatinous shell, his oozing, translucent life-blood. The face of a depressed mollusk bites and gasps at the air, forming hissing words.
Donald stretches out and moans.
Both men drop to their knees.
“Every knee shall bow. Sanders. McCain. Rocket Man.”
“How can we serve you, Master?”
Master. Yes. He liked the sound of that.
“First. Bring me the foreskin of Paul Ryan. I’d like to chew on it while I discuss our future partnership together.”
The two men immediately exit without speaking another word.
It had begun.