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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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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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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.”

 

SPACEX

 

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MIKE PENCE DOES THE FUNKY CHICKEN. CHAPTER 10

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

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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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