Tag Archives: michelle

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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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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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.”

TRUMPGOLD

 

 

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