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EPILOGUE 2.

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

Elon had been secretly working on his Mars project for a very long time. Over the course of the last few years he had been quietly launching robotics missions once a month and delivering packages to the same landing sight.

When they arrived, they found it stocked with the makings for a small colony. A small group of Wall-E like robots were already building a green house. Cots and rudimentary sewage were already in place.

They buried Bernie just outside their camp and named their new human colony Burlington, after the Vermont town where Sanders earned his come-uppance and gained popularity as a mayor.

Under the harsh landscape of Mars, the Wall-E robots had been carving out a cavern, creating the footprints of what would be the next step in human evolution.

And in the deepest darkest recesses lied their most valuable asset: an exact duplicate of Bernie’s iso-chambers. “Bernie and I have been working on this for quite some time.”

Barack and Michelle stare at it, dumbstruck.

Elon gestures to the three tubes. “Genetic material plus mental and emotional attributes equals human being. All we have to do is take the best humans the earth has to offer…”

Elon looks around the room at the three of them. “I guess that’s us.”

“Just the three of us.” Michelle nods. Joe was elsewhere, probably gazing out over the red planes and dreaming of a utopian society.

Elon continues. “This is how we’ll repopulate. We’ll grow the humans. One at a time.”

“One at a time.”

“And we’ll teach them. We’ll teach them new things. We’ll teach them brand new things and we won’t teach them the old ways. We won’t even tell them about earth or Donald.”

“Or Bernie.”

“Not everything about Bernie. We can tell them some things.”

“What if they ask where we came from? What will we tell them?”

“The truth. We came from the stars. We don’t know why and we don’t know how. But we know that when we stand together, we are stronger.”

That evening, after plenty of wine, Barack and Michelle go to their quarters and make love on Mars. They aren’t the first African American couple to make love on Mars. They are the first couple to make love on Mars.

 

 

Elon stands alone in the green house and watches the little Wall-E robots work tirelessly on his project as the red sunset burns through the window. He didn’t know what time it was anymore. His body said he was tired.

The robots worked endlessly and without complaint. They didn’t ask for a raise and they didn’t care if you beat them up or shut them off and they weren’t offended when you upgraded them.

Robots. He thinks to himself. Maybe they are the next level in human evolution. Maybe they lack the thing that ruins us. The thing that controls us. The thing that enslaves us.

Emotions.

Perhaps if I could tweak the code in the iso-chamber, just a little, we could produce a human that had less emotion. They would be a little more predictable. A little more tamable. A little easier to…

He catches the word on his tongue.

Control.

Elon turns and walks to his cot, contemplating his own selfish shortcomings as a human being.

 

 

Over Burlington, Mars, the same sun that set over Earth for a millennia, sets on the dusty red planet’s dead landscape and over four of the same people that it set on before.

And our new Martians didn’t live happily ever after. Nor did they live completely happily. Nor did they live ever-after.

But they did live.

And maybe things would be different this time.

Or maybe they’ll be the same.

But it would be a very long time before we discovered the answer.

 

The end.

 

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EPILOGUE 1

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

Kim Jong Un floats through the distant cosmos for a very long time and he sees many wonderful and interesting things. Just kidding. Space is a black void. And if you don’t know where you’re going or how to get there, you’re pretty much boned.

Kim floated in space for the rest of his miserable life, unable to entertain himself and with nothing to look at. He had become his childhood nemesis, Jeong Rang, and had suffered nearly the same solitary fate.

Unrest was beginning to rise amongst the crew and Kim was beginning to lose control of them. He overheard someone suggest that they should eject him down the toilet in order to watch his face explode in the freezing abyss.

He wasn’t altogether sad to finally die. In fact, he had come to terms with it and had accepted his fate when, on a Sunday, or what would have been a Sunday (with no Earth or Sun there were no Earth days) a strange portal opened on the deck of his ship and out stepped a strange and hideous creature who went by the name of Wells Fargo.

Wells voice was unsettling and made Kim’s skin crawl. “Kim Jong Un. You have destroyed Pale Blue Dot.”

Kim is silent. The crew watches in rapture. Kim wants to unleash his men on this monster, unleash the righteous fire-power of his wrath but he isn’t completely sure that they would follow orders.

Wells continues, unfettered, “You destroyed Pale Blue Dot. It was not for you to destroy. It did not belong to you. Consequences must be met for your thoughtless actions.”

“Do not touch me, monster.”

“Do not tell me what to do, biped.” Wells slurps forward and reveals his broken teeth. Kim feigns bravery. Kim’s bowels release. His mother runs to him and cradles her sweetie in her massive bosom. Wells blasts them both with his quantum-revolver and they both drop to the ground, conscious but frozen. The effects would wear off in a day or two. He drags them through the portal and takes them back to the land of the Kardashians. He planned to make Kim his pet. His children had always wanted an Earthling.

And this one had a cute little haircut.

The mother could potentially be bred out. If not, they could send her to the glue factory with the rest of the callused herd.

For the rest of Kim’s life, he lived in a cage. His owner made him take behavioral courses and they eventually took.

His new pet name was Cookie and he would speak only on command.

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Tomorrow brings us to our final ending: EPILOGUE 2.

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THE SECOND BIG BANG. CHAPTER 19

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

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The roof of Elon’s mansion folds back, revealing a magnificent launching pad. The countdown clock hits zero and the rocket containing the PSA fires them into space, propelling them away from the cradle of mankind in a fury of rocket fuel and human ingenuity.

Elon takes a moment to consider that in the next 30 minutes he will be the smartest man alive. And also the tallest.

As the violent atmosphere rocks their ship, Michelle pukes into her space helmet and Barack has a powerful spiritual out of body experience.

Bernie suffers a stroke and dies while passing through the final layer of atmosphere into outer space. They don’t discover it until it’s too late. His body is placed in the freezer and they plan to take care of it as soon as the proper opportunity presents itself.

Joe feels like he’s lost his father.

As they rise up, they see the great and glorious expanse of space open before them. “The cosmos,” Elon says mystically before unbuckling himself and doing weightless somersaults towards the fridge. He snaps open a vitamin water and thoughtfully sips it. “Well, I suppose I should ask. Are we planning to watch the explosion or should we kick it into Tesla Speed?”

Elon plugs his stereo in and begins to play Amazing Grace. Then he plays Highway to Hell. Then he plays Rocket Man. None of them feels right. Finally he just turns on white noise and listens to its calming hiss as the missile, which they can now see, moves slow motion through space and time towards Pale Blue Dot.

Elon begins to recite a mantra from memory, spoken by one of his heroes.

“That’s home. That’s us. On it, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever lived, lived out their lives. The aggregate of all our joys and sufferings, thousands of confident religions, ideologies and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilizations, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every hopeful child, every mother and father, every inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every superstar, every supreme leader, every saint and sinner in the history of our species, lived there – on a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and in triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of the dot on scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner of the dot. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturing, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light.

To my mind, there is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly and compassionately with one another and to preserve and cherish that pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”

Elon stops talking and the group sits in silence as they watch Kim’s Power House missile slam into Earth and kill everyone they’d ever known.

Their planet was gone.

 

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Tomorrow is our EPILOGUE part 1 followed directly by EPILOGUE part 2.

 

 

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JOHN McCAIN’S FIRST THOUGHT. CHAPTER 18

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

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John McCain awakens in a golden room, tied to a golden chair with, what appears to be, a golden lasso. He squints against all the shine.

“Mister McCain.”

John opens his eyes fully and allows them to adjust. It’s just he and Donald (in Kardashian form) and Melania in the room. Donald is making love to Melania on the desk. “Love” was a strong word. From John’s perspective it looked more like Donald was making hate to her.

Melania looks like she’s been drugged. She isn’t even blinking.

John’s body is broken. Everything is broken. All he knows is pain.

Donald pulls his green penis, covered in boils and slime, from the inside of his robotic wife.

“She came here to kill me.” He wipes his wet dick on her dress. “Did you know that she was created by Bernie Sanders?” He throws the soiled dress over her soiled face. “Many years ago I found this out. I’ve been waiting for her to make her move. In the meantime I’ve been -” he signals to her robotic vagina.

He glances at her. There is no emotion in his face but within his eyes there is sharp hatred and a shadow of hurt.

“She’s not asleep, if you’re wondering. She’s dead. If she was ever even really alive. I destroyed her charging station.” He touches her face and then pushes her off the desk and onto the floor like a dirty Kleenex.

Human life. Just some piece of meat. Just a thing to pussy-grab when you wanted. An object to be used.

Donald pours himself a bowl of cereal and sits down in front of John. “It’s a real shame it’s got to end like this, both of us getting fried in a nuclear holocaust.”

“My name is John McCain. And I am a hero.”

“Seen a mirror lately?”

“My name is John McCain. And I am a hero.

“Mm-hmm.”

Donald pulls a dollar bill out of a golden kleenex box and blows his nose in it. Another bill magically pops up.

John begins to struggle against the rope. The pain is tremendous. Every bone in his body is broken. Every movement is shattered glass on raw skin.

“My name… is John McCain… and I am… a hero.”

A tear rolls down his cheek and he shakes it away. Tears were for mortal men. And John McCain was not a mortal man. He was born for more. Destined for greatness.

“My name is John McCain.”

His left hand, wrist and all five fingers broken, becomes free. But it’s all he needs because, “I am a hero.”

Donald Trump begins to load a hooka full of Godplex. He plans to make the next hour take quite some time. He’d smuggled some in from 5-Points years ago and has had it on top of his fridge since then. He took a hit before his State of the Union Address. Big mistake.

Big mistake.

He lights up and inhales deeply. The burn is deep and fierce and loud and ugly and then tiiiiiiiime sloooooooows dooooooown. Behind Donald Trump, John McCain stands up and approaches him. Donald is caught in a daze of ecstasy.

John McCain is a limping and garbled mess of flesh and bone and muscle and sinew.

Donald turns around just as the bruised and bloodied face of a monster bears down on him. The teeth are all missing. The nose is twisted to the side and gnarled into a fist. One eye is swollen shut. His cheek and jawbone are broken, making his previous chants sound far less coherent.

He grabs Donald’s cheeks in his broken hands and his nerves scream in pain. “Mer nohm iz Jhon MuhGain. ‘N I em a herro.”

He screams. And his spittle flies into Donald’s face. And Donald is terrified. He quivers back in fear and releases his bladder, spilling golden urine onto the fine golden carpet. He shouts for Paul Ryan but he’s nowhere to be found. He goes through his list. Everyone is dead or fired. Some are missing. I’ve run my agenda into the ground. I’m never going to get my wall built!

For the next five years, Godplex time, John McCain merciless beats Donald Trump. He throws him around the room in a fantastic rage. A rage that held no consequence for this was The Great Ending. A rage that held nothing back for there was nothing after this. A rage that was equal parts want and need. He knew he shouldn’t find enjoyment in this but he did. He didn’t want to, but he did. And this was the end, so he embraced it. He allowed himself to be nothing but Man. Not Civilized Man. Not Modern Man. But Primal Man. He allowed The War Machine to take over.

He let out Mad Dog McCain. And it was Mad Dog McCain that carved his initials into Donald’s forehead with his thumbnail over the course of a long fall season in Donald’s time perspective. It was horrendously painful and Donald wept until he was dehydrated and choked with exhaustion.

 

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KIM REMEMBERS WHAT HE FORGOT. CHAPTER 17

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER.

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Kim Jong Un sits on the deck of his spacecraft, The Nobility, with his mother, and stares at the blur of the missile’s tail. “I really did it, mommy. I really destroyed Earth.”

“You sure did, my beautiful little baby. And Mommy is so proud of you for standing up for yourself to that mean old bully. He got what he deserved. He and all of them.”

Being around his mommy always made Kim feel better. Even when he felt guilty for killing billions of people, many of them children, his mother knew how to turn his day around and make him feel great about himself.

Mom’s were magic like that.

“What should we do now?”

Kim thinks, “Did we bring any DVDs?”

His mom shakes her head. “I don’t think we packed any.”

Kim races from room to room in a panic. It was true. They had become so consumed with packing food and weapons of mass destruction that they had forgotten to pack any DVDs, video games, books or activities. There weren’t even any coloring books.

“What have I done?”

 

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JOHN McCAIN’S LAST THOUGHT. CHAPTER 16

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

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John McCain flies Bernie’s rented jet as high as he can, circling it up further and further into the sky. John has lit a cigarette and squints against it in the fading light. “Where are you, you bastard?”

If he knew anything about people, and he thinks he did, he’d imagine that Kim would be sending that missile straight towards Mar a Lago. He was going to want to make sure Trump sees it loud and clear. He probably even painted a little message on the front of it for him. People sometimes did that.

Arriving high above Mar a Lago, he begins to loop wide circles around the area, waiting, hoping, to catch eye of the missile when his fuel-light suddenly fires on. “Shit.” It had been a while since he’d flown and he’d forgotten the basics. Good thing he didn’t plan to land the thing.

Hours pass and still no sign of the missile. The gas light is now dangerously low but he knows he can’t touch ground. He knows that he has to stay. He knows that he has to give it his all. He knows this is it. He knows there is no take two. He knows there is no place for him to refill and jump back up. He knows this is not how this works. He knows he is in enemy territory.

He looks down and sees the swampy marshland pressed up against the sea and for a moment he’s back in Vietnam. “No.” He shakes his head and snaps back. “I’m not there. I’m here. I’m here.” The engine light cuts off, the engine themselves sputter and then the plane is falling. “Goddamnit. Goddamnit.” McCain hops up to find a parachute but instead finds the cabinet empty. Inside is a sticky note that says, “Replace parachutes.”

He stares at the sticky note before slowly shutting the door and strapping himself into the pilot seat.

“It’s time to ride this bull into the china shop.”

He tries his best. He pulls up hard. He puts everything he has into it. He’s closer and closer to the water. The trees are no longer small and distant. Instead they are very close and very green and he is even able to identify a group of beautiful Dogwood Jacaranda before the front of his plane slams into the still surface of the ocean and he is back in Vietnam except he is not young and flexible. Instead he is old and broken and this is not how it is supposed to happen. This is not it.

But, yes, it is. This is it. This is how you go out, John. Cold and alone. But it’s how you wanted it, isn’t it? Dying for something you believed in?

Will they ever find my body?

No. Nobody will even know you were here.

John’s body tumbles and breaks and snaps. Again.

Why didn’t the C4 pop?

Too wet.

It was his last thought.

Donald Trump watches the entire thing happen from the roof of Mar a Lago. He can’t believe his luck. He sends his troops to go retrieve whoever is flying that jet.

 

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ELON IMPRESSES HIS FRIENDS. CHAPTER 15

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

 

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In the basement of Elon Musk’s 19 bazillion dollar mansion, you’ll find his personal passion project, which he has entitled “Optimus-P”. It was scheduled to be his greatest success to date. Unfortunately, nobody currently alive would be around to witness its glory. Elon was a little bit of a nihilist and believed we were all living inside of a giant computer program so wasn’t emotionally invested in his own life ending as he simply assumed he would “respawn” elsewhere. Perhaps in a different body or a different dimension or a different plain of consciousness. Or perhaps he’d simply reboot in a different computer program. Or maybe he’d be reborn in his own body and was destined to relive his own mistakes again and again until he learned from them.

Elon pulls a lever dramatically and the basement lab begins to transform. Walls slide. Windows buckle up. Furniture flips over and folds away. Control panels roll out of the walls. A track by AC/DC starts to play over his intercom system. He designed it that way to give people watching it the chills. He understood the pleasure centers of the brain and how to make them fire.

“This is magnificent, Elon.” Michelle is truly in awe.

“I’ve just turned it on. You will see magnificence shortly. Please be sure to stay within this circle while Optimus is in operation. If you don’t, a limb could easily be torn astray from your body, resulting in death and / or dismemberment.”

Everyone absentmindedly shoves their hands in their pockets.

A timer begins counting down on the wall. It is set to 6 hours.

Elon smiles. “Prepare for blast-off.”

 

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THE EVENING NEWS. CHAPTER 12

 

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

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The distance from a simmer to a rolling boil is a close one and the course of the next week unfolds at a tremendous rate.

First, Donald Trump consumed Paul Ryan’s foreskin in front of him, as promised. Paul sat across The Oval Office, tears streaming down his face. He’d always wanted to be circumcised but not like this.

Paul, like Mike, was spineless. He didn’t have much for brains and had even less for leadership. He was easy to get on board. Afterwards, Donald called for a national television conference where he unveiled his true form. The mid-country folks rose up and cheered. The Second Coming of Christ had finally been revealed. They didn’t expect Christ to be so hideous but the Lord worked in unexpected ways. The only Christian that seemed to red-flag the situation was The New Pope. The Christians immediately tied him to a stake and burnt him alive.

He was the mouthpiece of Satan. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was brought in to lead the weak astray but they had solved that. And the Lord was proud of them. Donald confirmed that this was true. Amen, yes he did.

Social media exploded with memes about how Trump’s father’s name was Fred Christ Trump. The signs were all there. He was even rich – like a king – and Jesus was the King above Kings. He helped the oppressed – that’s who voted for him, after all – the oppressed white, middle-class American wheat farmers of America.

“The Son of God would be hated and scorned, oh, yes,” Pastor Joel Osteen said one Sunday morning over an offering plate filled with dollar bills. “But rest assured brothers and sisters, the path to glory and riches lie in the pages of my new book. May the Lord bless you.” And then, as he wiped a dribble of greedy spittle from his sweating lip, a picture of he and Donald Trump shaking hands was held at length on all three of the high-definition 4k projectors. Trump’s long fingers were curled around Joel’s. His infomercial finger surgery had been a stunning success and his confidence was skyrocketing. Everyone could tell.

The coastal cities tried to do something but, as usual, couldn’t quite get it together. They marched around and carried signs and shared articles on social media but the more conservatives of the bunch, the gun-toting, god-fearing, good people of America knew it for what it was. Hippie Communist Bullshit.

“We’re raising awareness,” Tina, from Los Angeles told CNN.

“You just gotta listen to The Other,” Andrew from Boston wrote in his Letter to the Editor.

The majority of people in Northern California thought that this was more “My brand is chaos” to confuse them but became increasingly concerned when Donald Trump ate George Clooney on the six o’clock news.

The scene was beautiful and earned George a post-mortem day-time Emmy.

The White House became a prison for the Democratic party. Elizabeth Warren, Al Franken, and Joe Biden were all chained in the dungeon and forgotten about. From upstairs they could hear the constant burn of the fiery loop created from the D.I.s. It burnt day and night and any Rebels or immigrants caught were ceremoniously flung into the inferno as all bystanders chanted, “To the Republic! To the Republic!” and beat their chests.

Mar a Lago became an impenetrable fortress. Trump rolled around consuming the flesh of foreigners and picking his teeth with the fractured bones of endangered species. Instead of a golf cart, he drove a stretch Hummer from hole to hole. He used hairspray just to say qink you to the environment.

Every knee would bow, oh, yes. Even Mother Earth would commit herself to his reign.

His Drone Army had begun their long Exodus to him, their savior, which he expected. They came from Nebraska and Minnesota. They came from Alabama and Iowa. They came from Utah and Wisconsin. They brought their Bibles and their guns and their hatred of evil and they were ready to kill whoever their leader told them to.
David Duke, leader of the high profile country club, the KKK, welcomed volunteers at the gates and handed out pamphlets that he had made himself using Microsoft Paint. On the cover was a picture of Donald Trump in his human form sodomizing a man that resembled Obama. People loved it. Everyone who saw it laughed. It made them feel good inside. It’s the Democrat thing. And the Muslim thing. And the gay thing. And the religion thing. And it was all rolled up into one very powerful illustrated cartoon message. Even children could understand it! And it just felt good to see that rebel spy getting what he deserved. Republicans understood that Obama caused the race wars and that Trump would stop them. Once and for all.

Duke shouts into a megaphone, “If we get rid of all other races, we can’t have race wars!”

The Westboro Baptist church stands on the sidelines with picket signs that read, “GOD HATES FAGS BUT HE HATES REBELS MORE.” David Duke fist bumps a handful of the young pros and hands out bottles of water laced with electrolytes. He’s really proud of them for standing up for something that is not very popular. It takes a lot of character to go against the social grain like this.

“God approves of this, boys. God approves of what you are doing and He is smiling down on you and He is happy and He is saying, There are my soldiers. My brave soldiers. Get some!

They slap their chests, lift their fists and exclaim, “To the Republic!”

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Everyone has goose bumps and is excited to see the apocalypse happen. Brenda from Arizona writes a Facebook post that says, “I never thought my generation would be the last. Amen and praise God.” Her friend Beth, who was also a Christian, read the post and couldn’t help but shiver. It sounded somehow suicidal.

A man in Tennessee was arrested for walking around nude. When asked why he did it he responded by saying, “The world is ending, baby. I mean, why the hell not? Why are you still watching the news?” The video was edited into a music video and also went viral. He was the world’s last viral hit.

Usage of social media during The End times (as the media was calling it) doubled. People seemed more committed to disconnecting with the awful truths of their sad realities now more than ever.

Hashtags like LastPartyOnEarth and RepentBeforeMidnight became very popular amongst the party and religious crowds respectively. #StillAVirgin was being used by both sides. The first was using it as a hookup line and the second was using it as a badge of honor. Their dual usage was causing a lot of confusion amongst members of both parties.

The murder rate also began to increase but it hit a shocking acceleration when Trump made a passing comment on Larry King about how he would give a $100 tax refund to anyone that turned in the big toe of a Rebel.

The front lobby of Mar a Lago was now adorned with toes of every color and size. They were all propped up on stands behind a thin layer of plate glass. Melania had tried to make the place feel homey by painting faces on each of them but after finishing the first 80, decided it somehow made them even more haunting.

The toe of Kathy Griffin and Meryl Streep were both in individual cases being accented by jewelry lighting. Meryl’s toe was, of course, stunning.

Melania personally thought that Toe Hall somehow smelled too clean. Like they were trying to hide how dirty it was. Synthetic pine and bacon grease.

Yes, synthetic just like you. Created for one purpose. To transmit data.

She was, as a matter of fact, sending data back to Bernie right now using her smart phone as a hot spot. She had been built with internal wifi but it had been on the fritz since that endless fire had started burning in her master’s office – Donald’s office. His name is Donald. He does not own you. You are free.

She had found Trump’s tax returns but it was far, far too late. The information was currently worthless. Not because nobody cared. Lots of people cared. It was worthless because they were all soon to be dead and utterly forgotten.

In the throne room of Mar a Lago, Paul Ryan kneels before his majesty. “Lord, the Rebels are upon us.”

Trump slides from his high backed gold plated throne that is shaped like a T and coils around Paul’s body. “Upon us how?” Donald’s wet whiskers brush against Paul’s dry lips, making him quietly retch.

Paul begins to quiver and wishes he could just die. Please, just squeeze me. Kill me. End me. I didn’t want this. The thought is finished with him wetting his pants. Donald feels the warm urine against his skin and grows pleased with himself. Fear is so… intoxicating.

“Upon us – they are – outside the walls.”

HOW!?” Trump thrusts his blubbery tentacles towards the ceiling and wails. He knocks a row of golden cups off a golden table. He tears the jawbone from Beekman and cuts Bender’s throat with it. He shoves his greasy face against Paul’s and moans into his ear. “Upon us… howwww…”

“They did a – they did an intentional social media black out. We have no idea how they planned it. Probably Sanders is behind it. It was a mislead.”

Trump lifts up his hand and sniffs his long fingers. They still smelled of lunch. “What do they want? Have they sent word?”

Paul looks down at his feet. He doesn’t want to answer.

“Do they want to impeach me?”

Paul looks up. At first he thinks that maybe Donald is joking but he then sees he’s serious. “Uh, no, sir. They don’t want to impeach you. I think they’re here to – I think they’re here to-“

“Has Lucifer arrived with his third of Heaven’s army to bring the Lord their God to his knees?”

Paul nods.

“Then let us wage war. Alert the troops.”

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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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