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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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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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