THE ROCKET MAN PRESSES A BUTTON. CHAPTER 11

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

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High above the world, Kim Jong Un gets his hair cut by his mother. She’s just finished trimming the sides. “I would like some milk, Mommy.” She unsnaps her top and inserts her dark nipple into his eager mouth. He suckles deeply, allowing the white gold to drizzle down his gullet. “Thank you, Mommy. So sweet.”

“Nobody laughs at my little Rocket Man, do they, Kimmy?”

He pulls his mouth off her teet with an audible pop and swallows deeply. The warmth of mother’s milk swells in his tummy.

“No, Mommy.” Her breast sprays him in the face and her milk gets in his eye. He grows irritable, jumps off her lap and scowls

“Don’t be mad, Kimmy.”

He liked it when she spoke to him this way. She didn’t want him to be mad. He could control her when she was like this. Like most women, she was soft-minded.

“Kimmy, please. Is there anything I can do?”

Instead of answering, he just stands up and exits the room.

Walking down the hall he passes a great number of guards that he’s commanded to be physically shorter than he is. Because he really liked Gi, a soldier with a soft mind and a hard body, he elected to pay for him to have his legs surgically shortened. Good help is hard to find and he liked to take care of his people.

Kim enters the deck and gazes out at space. There she is. Earth. Way down there. Trump thinks Kim is building a nuclear weapon to blow up Washington. Think again. He’s building a bomb nicknamed Power House that will annihilate the entire planet. He and his crew have enough food and water on board to last them 100 years, long enough for Kim and his mama to live and die. What happens after that to his crew is of no concern to him. Everyday he wakes up and laughs selfishly, soaking his mega-ego in the fact that he would be the person to single-handedly destroy the greatest organism in our recorded history. He would not control humanity. He would utterly conquer it. He would enslave it. He would destroy it. And then he would finally be able to live fully without consequence. To be free.

Kim turns to some guy sitting in a chair. “Status Update.”

The guy in the chair responds. He doesn’t think Kim knows his name. He likes it that way. Eyes down. “Power House ready to fire, sir. Pale Blue Dot prepped for annihilation.”

This poor man did not want to destroy Earth. But neither did he want to be on Earth when it was destroyed. But what could he do now? He had often times dreamt of leading a revolution against Kim – he hated Kim’s oppressive gut – but he just didn’t think he had it in him.

In the end, he was absolutely right.

“Where is the dotard?”

“White House. Oval Office. There’s been some kind of local disruption.”

Kim stares blankly at space, expecting more. The Nameless Man continues, unsure if he’s supposed to our not. “A… fire. In the White House. People in and out.”

Kim rubs his chin and finds a dried Ramen noodle in one of his face-rolls. He picks it out and eats it, crunching it between a collection of unbrushed, tombstone shaped teeth.

“No person has ever nor shall ever again commit an act of such great atrocity as we are about to see on this day. My name shall be memorialized amongst the stars. Initiate Launch.”

“Copy. Initiating sequence.”

The Nameless Man punches a code into his keyboard and begins the complicated engagement process of launching a planet-ending weapon. At this distance it would take some time for the destructive seed to meet it and annihilate it’s womb. But Kim was patient. And he had nowhere to be.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

He heads back to his quarters to listen to his mom read Oh, the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss. His fat little feet shuffle a little faster as his mouth begins to water for dairy.

KIM EARTH

 

 

 

 

 

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MIKE PENCE DOES THE FUNKY CHICKEN. CHAPTER 10

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

HILLARY1

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.

Too hungry.

“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.

Explosives.

“You bastard.”

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.

DONALD PENCE

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.

 

DONALD SQUID

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SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED. CHAPTER 9

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

MICHELLE

 VERMONT

In a first floor bedroom of an old ranch-style home, a red rotary phone rings. A woman named Penelope picks it up. “Hello?”

A voice that smiles comes across the line. It is sunshine on a cold day. “Hello, Penelope. This is Michelle.”

“Hello, Michelle. How can I help you?”

Penelope’s hands had begun to sweat. She was hoping this wasn’t who she thought it was. She was hoping this was a different Michelle. She was hoping this wasn’t the call. She was hoping that the secret code wasn’t about to be spoken.

“Yes. This is Michelle with the PSA – the Public Service Association. Would I be able to schedule a meeting to discuss some of the wonderful opportunities we have coming up?”

Penelope is silent. Her mouth goes dry. Her eyes go dry. She coughs and her throat cracks.

“I would be. I would be very much. Yes. Thank you.”

She hangs up.

“Who was that, my little Vermont walnut?” Bernie walks out of the kitchen eating a tapioca pudding cup with his finger. “Pen?” He looks at her face and instantly knows that it’s time to release his secret invention.

It was time to unleash Joe Kennedy on the world.

He was also going to put in a call to a very close friend in Bel-Air.

 

WASHINGTON

McCain sits on the edge of his bed, curling seventy-five pound weights in each hand. His body is sagging muscle. He stares into the mirror, allowing his eyes to drift down his aging body.

What happened to you, Johnny?

You know what it was. The Bitch-Triplets. Age. Time. Death. They’re unstoppable. Sisters. You’re a rotten piece of fruit. Every dog has its day. You think you were going to escape them forever? Hell, son. You almost did, didn’t you? Gave ‘em hell in Hanoi and you’re damn proud of it. What you did was heroic. You walked into the lion’s den and told the lion to sit down and shut up. I’m coming for you, Trump. I am coming for you hard.

Sweat runs down his face and he tastes the salt on his lips.

“You don’t need to be remembered, John. But they will remember you. They will write about you in the history books. They will burn your name in lights. You will be a hero once again. You will show a second generation what it looks like to be a good man.”

His phone rings. It’s a Motorola Razor. The buttons are easier to press with his old hands and snarled knuckles than the newer touch screen smart phones. He doesn’t recognize the number, which is strange because he has over 1,000 numbers memorized ranging from Harry’s Pizza to Donald’s cell phone.

There’s one number he wouldn’t recognize. There is one number.

He flips it open and holds it to his ear. Says nothing.

“This is Michelle with the PSA –“

“I’ll be there.”

He clicks it shut and keeps pumping iron.

BERNIE MCCAIN

 

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BARACK OBAMA HAS AN OUT OF BODY EXPERIENCE. CHAPTER 8

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

U.S. President-elect Senator Barack Obama waves to supporters during his election night rally in Chicago

In a garden overflowing in abundance of colorful fruits and blooming flowers, Barack Obama sits crossed-legged and naked, deep in meditation. A doe walks past him, unperturbed. A butterfly lands on his forehead, kisses him, and flutters off.

Barack blesses the creature before returning to his internal struggle. There is an emotional war waging inside of him as he attempts to process his pain and anger. Not only the pain and anger of the current president slowly dismantling his life’s work but also pain at the state of the human race.

Teach them to breathe. Teach them to speak. Teach them to love.

They all want to scream and fight and shoot guns.

But there is hope for them.

 No, there isn’t.

There is. The coasts are rising up. The Rebels are sparking flames. People are waking up. Someone just needs to give them voice.

He looks deep inside of himself and tries to understand Donald Trump. How does this man work? What motivates him?

His eyes are closed. He breathes deeply. He feels his core energy leave the physical realm and transcend to the Upper Realm. In the Upper Realm he looks around. It’s beautiful here. An ocean of calm. His senses have been removed. His ego has been replaced. All that exists are his thoughts. Like an arrow, they follow a very intentional path. He does not allow them to wander.

He pulls Donald’s essence to mind and reaches through the Upper Realm, seeking him out. There. He pulls him close and finds Donald’s true form. He sheds away Donald’s ego. His sharp words. His insults. His bombastic personality. His smug demeanor. He keeps digging. Peeling away. He strips back the macho peacocking and the objectification of women. He pulls back the need to be right and to have the last word. He peels back more layers, exposing him, leaving him naked and cold.

Where are you? Barack thinks to himself. What is the true Donald?

He peels back layers past mocking the handicapped and name-calling world leaders. He pulls back the need to respond quickly instead of smartly. He pulls back his strange haircut. He pulls back his skin. He pulls back his short finger complex. He pulls back his inhuman sneer. And underneath all of it, what does he find?

What is this?

Floating in The Pool of the Collective Conscious, he finds something very interesting indeed. He finds the truth. He stands above Donald, gazing down on him. He stands in the center of an auditorium. Everyone despises him. Barack feels the hatred the world casts at him. He feels the fear that Donald fears. He feels the missing love of an unloved child. He feels Donald’s need for approval. He feels Donald’s need for acceptance. He feels Donald’s need for validation. He begins to understand him more.

And then.

A horrific and striking revelation. The psychic floor drops out and Barack is thrown through a multi-dimensional maelstrom. His Energy Bubble is blown from his body and rocketed sideways through reality by the cosmic winds. His mind expands and contracts, breaking and changing his neurological pathways. His frontal lobe swells and bursts, splitting in two. His brain evolves 10,000 years in a matter of moments. His gray matter squeezes against the inside of his cranium and he screams out in pain.

But it’s a pain that he knows he must bear.

This is his place. This is his role. A leader never truly retires.

Barack opens his eyes, snapping out of his meditative trance.

Michelle has just approached. She has tea and a Three Musketeers candy bar. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Your head is three times the size it was when I saw you last.”

He reaches up and touches his tender skull. It is indeed engorged.

“Donald Trump is an alien from another dimension. He wants to take control of our planet and rule it as god. I’ve been thrown through a multi-dimensional maelstrom and have gained the greatest understanding of mankind known to any living creature.”

Michelle nods, “Okay. Well, you know I support you in all of your activities. How can I help?”

Obama exhales deeply. He was hoping it wasn’t going to come to this.

“We need to assemble.”

Michelle begins to stand up, to take the next steps. She knew what it meant. Barack reaches up and grabs her thigh. Her… upper thigh. She looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Why don’t you sit down? Let’s enjoy this tea and chocolate. Who knows how long we have left?”

She smiles at him, sits down and curls her head into his lap. She loved this man. He would do whatever was needed to save the people. He was a good man. He was a hero. He saw the people and he wanted to help them.

He was brave.

And he was going to help make America great again.

BARACK3

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NORTH KOREAN POCKET ROCKET (made in the USA). CHAPTER 7

A VULGAR OF POWER

KIM

Over the course of the next few months the following scene plays out . . .

North Korea, hungry to take a seat at the Big-Boy Table of the world, continues to assemble nuclear weapons.

Trump, hungry to feed his ego and struggling with a lack of vocabulary, ability to articulate cohesive thoughts and still operating under the understanding that he hates himself and doesn’t know what he’s doing, decides to try the same tactics he did with the Americans. He would just bully Kim.

First, he starts with global threats.

“North Korea best not make any more threats to the United States. They will be met with fire and fury like the world has never seen,” he said, with his arms crossed and his lips a little pouty on national television. He looked a little like Augustus Gloop from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Kim heard this and thought to himself, What is the biggest fire and fury the world has ever seen? He pictures the time when the United States dropped their own nuclear bomb on Japan and murdered a great number of babies and then wrote their history and called the atrocity against mankind justice so that they could sleep at night. That was pretty fantastic.

So then, Kim thinks to himself. Donald Trump is going to drop a nuclear bomb on me? On my country? On my people? I am the Supreme Leader of North Korea! I have to put up my defenses! Our nuclear program will now be doubled! Only I can effect nuclear weaponry on the Korean people! 

Trump then called Kim a “smart cookie.” Nobody really knew what it meant. Even Trump. Then he told Kim (over Twitter) that his previous comment about fire and fury really wasn’t tough enough.

Then one night, pacing wildly around the oval office Trump threw his fist in the air and screamed “ROCKET MAN!” He turns to Pence, points at him and says, “That’s it!”

Pence nods and leaves the room. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just knows that he doesn’t want to be involved with Trump.

Ah, Pence was the perfect choice for VP. He’s weak. He has no spine. He’s easy to control. He has no real ideas or value of his own. He’s a blank piece of paper that I can write on as I see fit. VP Vanilla.

Trump then tweeted at Kim and began mocking him publically, referring to him as Rocket Man. This was an old trick. In fact, when Trump was in elementary school he wore a sweater with a rocket on it. On that day he stood up in front of the class to give a report on what he did over summer vacation. During the report, one of the lines was, “And I met a wonderful girl named Sarah.”

Donald really was infatuated with Sarah that summer. She was beautiful and from Ireland. She had an accent and red hair. It was the first time he ever felt something that resembled love. She was his very first pussy grab. It was magical.

During the speech, the worst thing possible happened to him. The worst thing possible that could happen to a young boy in a class. He got an erection. He couldn’t control it. He didn’t want it. He wanted to run and sit down but he couldn’t. It just grew and swelled up in his pants like a hideous, fleshy balloon.

The front row saw it first. Then the second row. Then the whispers started. Then the teacher said, “Donald?”

He already knew what was happening. He was starting to shake.

Then Chuck the Duck, a total piece of shit that used to sit in the back of the class and make quacking noises shouted out, “Nice boner, Rocket Man!” and then the entire class began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

The last thing he heard as he ran from the room and down the hall was Chuck screaming after him, “Got a rocket in your pocket, Rocket Man!”

Donald never came back to that school. Later in life he hired a hit man to have everyone in his class murdered. Except for Chuck. Chuck is now sitting in a hole somewhere. In the dark. Donald left him a long piece of rope and a book on how to make knots. If he wanted to kill himself he was going to have to learn how to do it first. A jar of creamy peanut butter was dropped down the hole on the first of every month. Chuck hated creamy peanut butter. He liked the chunky kind.

Donald smiles.

Rocket Man.

Yes.

He grabs his phone and begins composing an official tweet from the Twitter account of The United States of America. It reads:

Asked how Rocket Man is doing. Long gas lines forming in North Korea. Too bad!

Kim Jong Un, ie Rocket Man, calmly and professionally responded to Trump’s throw-away insult with:

Action is the best option in treating the dotard who, hard of hearing, is uttering only what he wants to say.

 This last phrase infuriated Donald. It infuriated him because he didn’t know what a dotard was and he had to go google his own insult. He thinks to himself, I’ll give it to that smart cookie, that was a good burn. Let’s see how good his burn is when I drop a bomb of fire on his qinking fat face.

So then two world leaders, both who go to the same shitty barber and both who go to the same shitty prep schools and both who learned their same shitty people skills from the same shitty wild mountain goats and both who were born to money and who both have no idea what it is like to be “normal” discuss the fate of our planet over a digital playground in an adult name-calling match.
Trump has finally become Chuck the Duck and Kim has finally become his own version of his childhood bully, a girl by the name of Jeong Rang. Man, she was evil. She’s currently sitting in a hole somewhere as well.

The sad truth is that if Trump and Kim got into a room together, they would actually find that they were more in common than they were different. They both wanted world domination and they were both incredibly short sighted and lacked self-awareness. They were both, collectively, two of the most incapable leaders the world had seen in recorded history. But if they got together, their stupidity would be completely unstoppable.

“It’s time to elevate this. Our time is now,” Donald says to an empty Oval Office.

Empty except for the camera. And whoever was watching on the other side.

Everyone answers to someone.

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STEVEN BANNON HAS A SNACK. CHAPTER 6

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

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Donald blasts down the midnight freeway in his sports car. He is nude and sipping fermented gasoline from the skull of that Syrian kid pictured in the back of the ambulance. Donald remembers when that picture “went viral” (like a disease, he thinks to himself). He remembers seeing that boy’s hurt face and the shape of his head and thinking, “I simply must have it.” He hired someone to go and fetch it, clean it and bronze it in gold.

“I AM GOD!” he screams to the night just as red and blue lights fire on behind him. There is no unease in his belly. No anxiety in his guts. Police are nothing to him. Donald long ago learned that he is far above the forces of the law. He pulls over. The police officer approaches the car. “License and – Mr. President.”

The officer looks down and sees Donald’s flaccid penis leaking semen onto the leather seat. “Mister… President?”

Donald reaches over and grabs an Icer. It was a little gun that froze people, paralyzed them while leaving them completely conscious. It was developed at his request by the military. It was the only one that existed. He blasts the police officer in the chest and watches him fall face-first into the concrete. He hears his nose snap and several teeth crack out of his head.

The President of the Ewe-Es-of-Ay steps out of the car, pee and poop dribbling from his orifices. The alcohol has made him lazier and stupider than usual. He removes the officer’s body camera, makes a phone call and instructs Steve Bannon to handle the situation.

Bannon was a Kardashian that didn’t fit well into the human skin suit and you could tell just by looking at him. His face was like a ghost controlling a corpse trying to smile behind a curtain of decomposing meat.

Bannon steps through a Dimensional Interchange and looks down at the cop’s name badge. “Petersen.”

The actual name badge read, “Paulson” but Bannon was not very good at reading either.

Donald says, “It’s French,” and then steps back, aware of what will happen next. Bannon unhinges his skin suit and the decrepit mask snaps to the ground with an audible pop. Steve Bannon, real name Horace Hoover, lies down on the ground with a wet flop. He begins to inhale deeply. Exhale. Inhale. His stomach rolls and rises. His lips peel back, exposing rows of blunt and blackened teeth. “Father Bannon blesses you. Join my body and worship.”

He slithers forward and sucks the officer’s toe into his mouth, boot and all. Then his calf. Then his thigh. He pauses at the hips as his jaw unhinges and the second row of teeth begin to decimate the bone and cartilage. The officer’s free leg snaps backwards and he is ankle to ear.

The officer feels it. All of it. He’s gone into shock but can’t move or blink or scream. Thoughts race wildly and randomly through his head –

I’m supposed to pick up milk on my way home.

My thigh is broken. I’ll need a wheelchair.

My wife needs passwords to my email.

I can’t breathe.

I’m supposed to call Phyllis back.

My lungs have collapsed.

Did I wet my pants or is that blood?

It was both.

A second car drives past and witnesses the horrific scene. They speed up and Donald laughs and laughs and laughs. Bannon farts and groans as his wet lips fold over the officer’s red hair, consuming him completely, wiping his physical form from the face of the earth forever, like a snake eating a baby rhino.

Bannon rolls over onto his back and exposes his underbelly. Trump stares down at the milky white fat that looks like curdled milk under the full moon. He despises Bannon and trusts him even less but he’s a useful tool to have around.

Like a junkyard dog that you throw a piece of raw meat to once in a while.

Trump smirks, feeling empowered that he’s so much better than Bannon. He takes another sip from the decanter and begins to feel the second-wave effects of his drink. He’s expecting the hallucinations to begin shortly. He plans on taking his yacht into the middle of the ocean and opening it up. Maybe he would even murder a migrant worker at the docks if the fates allowed. The hull of his yacht was filled with a number of Mexican families he had lured in with promises of citizenship. They were now living in cages, starving and deprived of sunlight. You could hear their sallow moans from several nautical miles away. Often times Donald would just sit in the dark with his eyes closed and meditate on the beautiful sound of human suffering.

Like a puppy, Bannon shits when he’s done eating. He rolls onto his side and squeezes a long piece of fecal matter from his end-mouth. It smells like peppermint and gonorrhea. The scent makes Donald’s stomach roll in equal parts disgust and hunger.

From their pants – at this point both men are completely nude – their phones buzz. They’ve received a Twitter update. North Korea is building a nuclear bomb.

At first Donald doesn’t know what to think. Is this real news or fake news? Is North Korea even a real place? Is Kim Jong Un even a real person? His name certainly sounded like a moniker. His? Was it a he? He makes a note to have someone google it for him later.

You really can’t be too careful what you believe anymore. These are dark times.

Donald stews on that thought for a handful of seconds but less than one minute before deciding to tweet something back out to the world stage. It reads:

Kim Jong Un of North Korea, who is oviously a madman who doesn’t mind starving or killng his people, will be tested like nvr before! 😉

He doesn’t bother to re-read it a second time for grammar or spelling and just hits send.

Bannon is sliding back into his skin suit though it is proving to be tougher now that his ever-growing waistline is even more robust than earlier this very same evening.

Trump takes another sip from his decanter, crawls back into his sports car and leaves Bannon gurgling in the fading red brake lights.

 

US-POLITICS-TRUMP-STAFF

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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.

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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.

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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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