Tag Archives: democrat

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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THE TRUMPET’S LAST SUNRISE. CHAPTER 14

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

Denali National Park in autumn, Alaska, USA, North America

The Drone Army all roast hot dogs on the backs of their pick-up trucks and drink Budweiser and carry around tiki-torches. The sick are brought to the gates of Mar a Lago to be healed by Trump but he ignores their pleas and has his guards drag them away. This many pooor people made him nervous. Especially when everything he owned, including his teeth, was now plated in gold.

Trump stood on his roof staring up at the sky. He didn’t know where the missile was going to come from and he hadn’t told anyone else about it so he was currently alone. The sky was empty and, other than the smell of burning rubber coming from his parking lot and the occasional “yee-haw” followed by AR gun-fire, it was a beautiful day.

Amongst themselves the pooor people called themselves The Trumpets and they carried banners with the golden instrument drawn in marker. The end of the trumpet looked like a D.

D was for Donald. If you stood further than a few feet away though, it looked like white flags with gold penises.

There was one mass shooting amongst The Trumpets every day out in the parking lot. The tragedy was usually between 11 and 400 people. Nobody really cared. This was just the cost of owning guns.

“GUNS, GOD AND COUNTRY! IN THAT ORDER!” someone shouted.

The death toll didn’t matter. The Trumpets reproduced quickly. They were rabbits that had learned to use bullets.

But bullets were nothing compared to what was coming.

The Bullet. The Biggest Bullet. Power House.

Kim had launched the missile hours ago, initiating the launch himself with his own finger, smelling of his mother’s rich loins. The clock was ticking.

 

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Meanwhile, Bernie, Joe, Barack, Michelle and John were unloading in Bel-Air at Elon Musks personal runway. Bernie and Elon had met years back at a fundraiser being held at Mar a Lago for muscular dystrophy. Bernie had begun to tell Elon about his initial tinkerings with the iso-chamber and the young entrepreneur’s interests had become piqued. Elon had almost immediately become a fervent backer of Bernie’s “Socia-Realism Project” as he initially called it – and the two men had remained close since.

Elon greets them all with a healthy handshake. “Hello, humans. Welcome.” He eyeballs Joe for a moment. “This is the one?” Bernie nods. Elon is impressed with the individual’s craftsmanship.

Joe shakes his hand, “A sincere joy.”

“He almost seems human.” Elon.

“He almost does.” Bernie.

“I almost do.” Joe.

Elon speaks softly. “Joe, you’re almost perfect. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise. And you’re more human than Donald Trump will ever hope to be. And that’s because he isn’t human at all.”

“No, he isn’t. Donald Trump is a monster in every sense of the word. He is here on our planet, in our dimension, feeding off of our people. Even if they are on the wrong side of history, they are our people. And he is taking advantage of them and he is hurting them and, even if they don’t understand it, we have to help them. Even if they hate us for it, we have to help them. Even if it’s our last hour on earth, we have to help them.” Michelle is pacing as she speaks, clapping her hands to emphasize her points. She’s really feeling passionate.

They all stand in silence and admire their last sunrise.

“It’s been an honor serving with you, gentlemen. We all have our barking orders. May God, whatever that means, be with you.” And with that, McCain boards the jet strapped with enough C4 to stop Power House or to sink Florida to the bottom of the ocean.

The group would never see each other again.

Guns blazing, John. Here we go.

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DONALD FACE-TIMES THE PSA. CHAPTER 13

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

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A stream burbles. A bird chirps. Clouds pass silently by overhead. The sun is warm. The breeze is cool. The Earth is on fire with hatred and violence.

Deep within the Garden of Serenity, Bernie Sanders, John McCain, Joe Kennedy, hosted by Barack and Michelle Obama, gather in a circle and sip tea. Barack’s head has become so swollen with human wisdom that he now has to wear an enormous brace of his own invention. Getting through doors is almost impossible and there are no pillows that are up to the challenge of cushioning his marvelous dome so he sleeps outside, in the dirt, staring up at the stars.

Currently, Barack floats inches above the grassy meadow, meditating on their next moves. He wears wireless headphones and listens to brain entrainment signals playing at 15Hz to help regulate the serotonin levels in his mind. Happiness was a garden that needed constant tending.

His head was still throbbing but it was a pain he was growing accustomed to, like an ingrown toe nail. He had accepted it.

“We have gathered here today under unfortunate circumstances,” Barack begins, feeling the old sense of excitement in giving a speech. He loved to lead – to guide the people to greater places, to bring them out of their caves and into the light. Look, he wanted to shout at them, look at yourselves! You are full of hate and stupidity and ignorance! Every one of you! You are short-sighted and idiotic. Your noisy arguments serve no purpose but to act as cotton in your own ears. Please give me silence for one moment and try to listen.

But he couldn’t say that.

That wasn’t very patriotic. That wasn’t very hopeful.

McCain cuts in. “Let’s cut the political bullshit. I want this mother fucker’s head on a spit. We are calling for justice, Barack. This is America!”

“Are you calling for justice or are you calling for blood?”

Bernie watches the match play out between the two seasoned pros. “Gentlemen, if I may-“ Bernie tries to lighten the mood.

I want his blood!” McCain screams over the gentle breeze and green grass. “I want to watch his empire crumble and I want to be the man that removes the cornerstone! Does that answer your question? Do I want justice or blood? I want his blood, Barack. I want it running down my face. I want to wear his ears on a necklace. I want to burn his body and laugh.”

Joe was new to the world but thought that McCain’s attitude seemed a little aggressive.

“When good men do nothing, evil prevails.” This was Joe. He was programmed to say smart things that other men had manufactured but not create any of his own thoughts. He rings his hands together and his Adam’s apple bobs apologetically.

Michelle stands behind Barack and begins to rub his throbbing temples, the size of dinner plates.

A silence falls over the group as they each become lost in their own thoughts. How many silences do we have left? Barack thinks to himself. How many sunsets? God, where are you in all this?

“Nowhere,” God answers plainly.

Barack assumed as much already.

Bernie and McCain exchange stories about their roots – their war histories, their war protests, their jail time and their time as prisoners.

“The words are all wrong, aren’t they?” Bernie stands up and gazes out at the breath-taking meadow.

“No borders out here, huh?”

Joe begins to say something wrought with patriotism and earnest. In a voice that sounds like he’s on the verge of passionate tears, he says, “Gentlemen. On this day we look upon our fellow man –“

Bernie cuts in. “Not now, Joe. There will be time later.” He turns to John, “He’s very excited to get going. I have very high hopes for him.”

Joe smiles respectfully. “I truly thank you, sir. Your personal endorsement for me is an absolute honor.”

“My pleasure, Joe.”

McCain throws a rock. It doesn’t go very far. His body is crumbling under the weight of time. Everything was working against him. He was just a hamster in a wheel.

“It’s the end, Bern. This is it. Democrat. Republican. Brain tumor – no brain tumor. This is it. We won’t be remembered because there won’t be anyone to remember us.”

Bernie begins shaking his head, “We need to hope. We need to believe. We need to strive for-“

“I know the messaging. I’ve been doing this for as long as you. Look at us! Old hound dogs. We’ve done this our whole lives and this is what it amounts to. I got into politics to help people. How’d it – how’d it get like this?”

“Gentlemen, if I may take a moment to interject my own subtle thoughts into the conversation? If I may,” Joe smoothly butters out. “Perhaps man’s own worst enemy is man himself. Perhaps.”

Bernie and John wait for him to say more but he doesn’t. Bernie encourages him. “That was real good, Joe. We’ll tweak you a bit but I’m proud of you. Really great try.”

Barack opens his eyes. He speaks slowly and under great intellectual labor to formulate simple enough words for his team to understand. “Michelle. Please give us a status update on our armies.”

Michelle takes the stage. She was born to lead. Her eyes and her smile shine. She walks with the posture of a warm war general.

“On-point. The LGBT arm is moving along the country back roads now and Atheists United has already begun circling around Mar a Lago after disguising themselves as Christians to get in the door. The Muslim and Immigrant battalions are already poised and ready to strike. The US military teams that have turned Rebel are also ready to publicly turn once given the signal.”

“It’s all about to happen, isn’t it? I am so saddened that it has come to this.” Barack’s voice cracks and he pauses. Shuts his eyes. A tear runs down his cheek.

Michelle’s phone bings. She glances down at it. “Trump is trying to face time me. Why is Trump trying to face time me?”

Barack: I don’t have a phone.

McCain: My phone doesn’t receive videos.

Bernie: My phone is full.

Joe: I was just invented. I don’t yet have a phone but would like to someday.

Everyone gathers around Michelle and watches in stunned silence. It was even worse than they thought.

On the other end of the line, Donald Trump, in his human form, speaks to them. Spittle, slobber, mucus and phlegm drizzle down his scabbed and irritated chin skin. His eyes are blood shot and red. Dried boogers crust his nostrils and his posture seems worse than usual. He’s wearing his skin-suit. He does that from time to time but it was starting to look like a pair of old and holey jeans. The thing they were looking at was very clearly not human. It looked like a monster in a fleshy sock with eye-holes punched out.

The video opens with the camera facing Trump, he holding the camera in his left hand. He hits the record button with his right hand pointer finger and then leaves the pointer finger fully extended and hanging in front of the camera lens for just a moment too long.

“Is it going? Yes. Okay. Men. We have some – issues. Happening. But. Together. We also have some other issues. Happening. Right now. I need to show this to you. This will. This will speak for itself. I think.”

He turns his phone towards a second phone and hits play.

“Sorry – Trump. What is this?”

“I can’t send the file because it’s too large so I have to film the screen on Paul’s phone and stream it to you like this. Can you see it okay?”

“It isn’t great.”

“Can you hear it?”

“It’ll do.”

“I’m going to hit play.”

There is silence. Then a slender and beautiful finger enters frame and hovers above play. “Are you ready?”

Sanders shouts, “Yes. Please. Go.”

The video is of Kim Jong Un. “Mister President. Allow me to make this short and to the point as I am certain that that is all the time you have.” Kim lets out a little giggle that sounds strangely like a pig squeezing out an SBD. “I have launched my secret project, nicknamed Power House. What is Power House? Power House is a planet-ending missile. And it’s heading your way right now.”

“Maniac.” Bernie slams his fist into the palm of his hand. McCain puckers his lips and breaks a stick in half.

Kim continues, “You’ll all be dead before daybreak. All of you. All of you.” He turns the phone around and gives them a quick tour of the spaceship. “You see, I’m on a spaceship. I’m up in outer space. And I have enough food and supplies to last until the end of my life. Good luck, Mister Trump. It looks like the Rocket Man took your advice. Have fun, Earthling.”

That last word hurt Donald more than any other word he’d ever had thrown at him. Earthling. This was his fault. This was all his fault. He was right. He really didn’t know what he was doing. He really wasn’t very good at this. He really was hopeless. Wells was right. Everybody was right.

But maybe there was still time. After all, a Kardashian always saves themselves. Perhaps if he could steal one of the D.I.s from The Oval Office, he would be able to run to another dimension and hide there until… well, until forever. He would have to be a runaway for the rest of his life. A rebel. Faceless. Nameless.

Non-sense. King Donald Trump, God of men and ruler of Earth could not become a beggar. There was only one way. And that was straight through. There was no running.

McCain grabs the phone and begins screaming into it, “What have you done?! What have you done, you absent-minded lunatic!

“Men. This. Is your problem now. You have very little time to solve it. Good luck.” And with that, he clicks off his phone. He wanted to get one more round of golf in before annihilation.

“Soft pecker.” McCain wishes he could pour himself a drink.

The sun sets, leaving them all in the dark. The lightning bugs make it magical. The mosquitos make the magic unbearable.

McCain’s eyes begin to get watery. “I did many terrible things to people in Vietnam. At the time, I thought those things were right and I thought I was hurting bad people. But I don’t know anymore. I don’t know who’s bad. Or who’s good. Or if there even is such a thing.”

Joe turns on the men with quivering hands. “We need a plan.”

McCain throws another rock. “Like hell we do.” It soars across the field. There was still some bite left in the dog after all. “We’ve already got one.”

The group gathers round. “Bernie, can you raise enough money to rent a private jet in the next few hours?”

“Not only can I but I will. And that is a promise to the America people. And most of them will probably donate in increments no larger than $20 and most of them will just be regular people. And we will use social media as our platform!”

McCain turns his attention to Michelle, “Are you still making C4 in the bathtub?” She nods. “Good. We’ll need as much as we can fit onto a plane.”

 

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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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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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