Tag Archives: Trump

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.

 

ELON1

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.

McCAIN1

 

 

 

 

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DONALD FACE-TIMES THE PSA. CHAPTER 13

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

MEADOW1.jpg

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.”

 

DONALD2

 

 

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THE EVENING NEWS. CHAPTER 12

 

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

JOEL1

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!”

HAIL1

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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THE ROCKET MAN PRESSES A BUTTON. CHAPTER 11

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

Layout 1

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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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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NORTH KOREAN POCKET ROCKET (made in the USA). CHAPTER 7

A VULGAR OF POWER

KIM

Over the course of the next few months the following scene plays out . . .

North Korea, hungry to take a seat at the Big-Boy Table of the world, continues to assemble nuclear weapons.

Trump, hungry to feed his ego and struggling with a lack of vocabulary, ability to articulate cohesive thoughts and still operating under the understanding that he hates himself and doesn’t know what he’s doing, decides to try the same tactics he did with the Americans. He would just bully Kim.

First, he starts with global threats.

“North Korea best not make any more threats to the United States. They will be met with fire and fury like the world has never seen,” he said, with his arms crossed and his lips a little pouty on national television. He looked a little like Augustus Gloop from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Kim heard this and thought to himself, What is the biggest fire and fury the world has ever seen? He pictures the time when the United States dropped their own nuclear bomb on Japan and murdered a great number of babies and then wrote their history and called the atrocity against mankind justice so that they could sleep at night. That was pretty fantastic.

So then, Kim thinks to himself. Donald Trump is going to drop a nuclear bomb on me? On my country? On my people? I am the Supreme Leader of North Korea! I have to put up my defenses! Our nuclear program will now be doubled! Only I can effect nuclear weaponry on the Korean people! 

Trump then called Kim a “smart cookie.” Nobody really knew what it meant. Even Trump. Then he told Kim (over Twitter) that his previous comment about fire and fury really wasn’t tough enough.

Then one night, pacing wildly around the oval office Trump threw his fist in the air and screamed “ROCKET MAN!” He turns to Pence, points at him and says, “That’s it!”

Pence nods and leaves the room. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just knows that he doesn’t want to be involved with Trump.

Ah, Pence was the perfect choice for VP. He’s weak. He has no spine. He’s easy to control. He has no real ideas or value of his own. He’s a blank piece of paper that I can write on as I see fit. VP Vanilla.

Trump then tweeted at Kim and began mocking him publically, referring to him as Rocket Man. This was an old trick. In fact, when Trump was in elementary school he wore a sweater with a rocket on it. On that day he stood up in front of the class to give a report on what he did over summer vacation. During the report, one of the lines was, “And I met a wonderful girl named Sarah.”

Donald really was infatuated with Sarah that summer. She was beautiful and from Ireland. She had an accent and red hair. It was the first time he ever felt something that resembled love. She was his very first pussy grab. It was magical.

During the speech, the worst thing possible happened to him. The worst thing possible that could happen to a young boy in a class. He got an erection. He couldn’t control it. He didn’t want it. He wanted to run and sit down but he couldn’t. It just grew and swelled up in his pants like a hideous, fleshy balloon.

The front row saw it first. Then the second row. Then the whispers started. Then the teacher said, “Donald?”

He already knew what was happening. He was starting to shake.

Then Chuck the Duck, a total piece of shit that used to sit in the back of the class and make quacking noises shouted out, “Nice boner, Rocket Man!” and then the entire class began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

The last thing he heard as he ran from the room and down the hall was Chuck screaming after him, “Got a rocket in your pocket, Rocket Man!”

Donald never came back to that school. Later in life he hired a hit man to have everyone in his class murdered. Except for Chuck. Chuck is now sitting in a hole somewhere. In the dark. Donald left him a long piece of rope and a book on how to make knots. If he wanted to kill himself he was going to have to learn how to do it first. A jar of creamy peanut butter was dropped down the hole on the first of every month. Chuck hated creamy peanut butter. He liked the chunky kind.

Donald smiles.

Rocket Man.

Yes.

He grabs his phone and begins composing an official tweet from the Twitter account of The United States of America. It reads:

Asked how Rocket Man is doing. Long gas lines forming in North Korea. Too bad!

Kim Jong Un, ie Rocket Man, calmly and professionally responded to Trump’s throw-away insult with:

Action is the best option in treating the dotard who, hard of hearing, is uttering only what he wants to say.

 This last phrase infuriated Donald. It infuriated him because he didn’t know what a dotard was and he had to go google his own insult. He thinks to himself, I’ll give it to that smart cookie, that was a good burn. Let’s see how good his burn is when I drop a bomb of fire on his qinking fat face.

So then two world leaders, both who go to the same shitty barber and both who go to the same shitty prep schools and both who learned their same shitty people skills from the same shitty wild mountain goats and both who were born to money and who both have no idea what it is like to be “normal” discuss the fate of our planet over a digital playground in an adult name-calling match.
Trump has finally become Chuck the Duck and Kim has finally become his own version of his childhood bully, a girl by the name of Jeong Rang. Man, she was evil. She’s currently sitting in a hole somewhere as well.

The sad truth is that if Trump and Kim got into a room together, they would actually find that they were more in common than they were different. They both wanted world domination and they were both incredibly short sighted and lacked self-awareness. They were both, collectively, two of the most incapable leaders the world had seen in recorded history. But if they got together, their stupidity would be completely unstoppable.

“It’s time to elevate this. Our time is now,” Donald says to an empty Oval Office.

Empty except for the camera. And whoever was watching on the other side.

Everyone answers to someone.

800

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STEVEN BANNON HAS A SNACK. CHAPTER 6

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

bannon-rally-sept25jpg-d0252f7db3ab3add

Donald blasts down the midnight freeway in his sports car. He is nude and sipping fermented gasoline from the skull of that Syrian kid pictured in the back of the ambulance. Donald remembers when that picture “went viral” (like a disease, he thinks to himself). He remembers seeing that boy’s hurt face and the shape of his head and thinking, “I simply must have it.” He hired someone to go and fetch it, clean it and bronze it in gold.

“I AM GOD!” he screams to the night just as red and blue lights fire on behind him. There is no unease in his belly. No anxiety in his guts. Police are nothing to him. Donald long ago learned that he is far above the forces of the law. He pulls over. The police officer approaches the car. “License and – Mr. President.”

The officer looks down and sees Donald’s flaccid penis leaking semen onto the leather seat. “Mister… President?”

Donald reaches over and grabs an Icer. It was a little gun that froze people, paralyzed them while leaving them completely conscious. It was developed at his request by the military. It was the only one that existed. He blasts the police officer in the chest and watches him fall face-first into the concrete. He hears his nose snap and several teeth crack out of his head.

The President of the Ewe-Es-of-Ay steps out of the car, pee and poop dribbling from his orifices. The alcohol has made him lazier and stupider than usual. He removes the officer’s body camera, makes a phone call and instructs Steve Bannon to handle the situation.

Bannon was a Kardashian that didn’t fit well into the human skin suit and you could tell just by looking at him. His face was like a ghost controlling a corpse trying to smile behind a curtain of decomposing meat.

Bannon steps through a Dimensional Interchange and looks down at the cop’s name badge. “Petersen.”

The actual name badge read, “Paulson” but Bannon was not very good at reading either.

Donald says, “It’s French,” and then steps back, aware of what will happen next. Bannon unhinges his skin suit and the decrepit mask snaps to the ground with an audible pop. Steve Bannon, real name Horace Hoover, lies down on the ground with a wet flop. He begins to inhale deeply. Exhale. Inhale. His stomach rolls and rises. His lips peel back, exposing rows of blunt and blackened teeth. “Father Bannon blesses you. Join my body and worship.”

He slithers forward and sucks the officer’s toe into his mouth, boot and all. Then his calf. Then his thigh. He pauses at the hips as his jaw unhinges and the second row of teeth begin to decimate the bone and cartilage. The officer’s free leg snaps backwards and he is ankle to ear.

The officer feels it. All of it. He’s gone into shock but can’t move or blink or scream. Thoughts race wildly and randomly through his head –

I’m supposed to pick up milk on my way home.

My thigh is broken. I’ll need a wheelchair.

My wife needs passwords to my email.

I can’t breathe.

I’m supposed to call Phyllis back.

My lungs have collapsed.

Did I wet my pants or is that blood?

It was both.

A second car drives past and witnesses the horrific scene. They speed up and Donald laughs and laughs and laughs. Bannon farts and groans as his wet lips fold over the officer’s red hair, consuming him completely, wiping his physical form from the face of the earth forever, like a snake eating a baby rhino.

Bannon rolls over onto his back and exposes his underbelly. Trump stares down at the milky white fat that looks like curdled milk under the full moon. He despises Bannon and trusts him even less but he’s a useful tool to have around.

Like a junkyard dog that you throw a piece of raw meat to once in a while.

Trump smirks, feeling empowered that he’s so much better than Bannon. He takes another sip from the decanter and begins to feel the second-wave effects of his drink. He’s expecting the hallucinations to begin shortly. He plans on taking his yacht into the middle of the ocean and opening it up. Maybe he would even murder a migrant worker at the docks if the fates allowed. The hull of his yacht was filled with a number of Mexican families he had lured in with promises of citizenship. They were now living in cages, starving and deprived of sunlight. You could hear their sallow moans from several nautical miles away. Often times Donald would just sit in the dark with his eyes closed and meditate on the beautiful sound of human suffering.

Like a puppy, Bannon shits when he’s done eating. He rolls onto his side and squeezes a long piece of fecal matter from his end-mouth. It smells like peppermint and gonorrhea. The scent makes Donald’s stomach roll in equal parts disgust and hunger.

From their pants – at this point both men are completely nude – their phones buzz. They’ve received a Twitter update. North Korea is building a nuclear bomb.

At first Donald doesn’t know what to think. Is this real news or fake news? Is North Korea even a real place? Is Kim Jong Un even a real person? His name certainly sounded like a moniker. His? Was it a he? He makes a note to have someone google it for him later.

You really can’t be too careful what you believe anymore. These are dark times.

Donald stews on that thought for a handful of seconds but less than one minute before deciding to tweet something back out to the world stage. It reads:

Kim Jong Un of North Korea, who is oviously a madman who doesn’t mind starving or killng his people, will be tested like nvr before! 😉

He doesn’t bother to re-read it a second time for grammar or spelling and just hits send.

Bannon is sliding back into his skin suit though it is proving to be tougher now that his ever-growing waistline is even more robust than earlier this very same evening.

Trump takes another sip from his decanter, crawls back into his sports car and leaves Bannon gurgling in the fading red brake lights.

 

US-POLITICS-TRUMP-STAFF

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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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JOHN McCAIN’S THERAPEUTIC JOURNAL ENTRY. CHAPTER 4

A VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER

In his private sleeping quarters, Senator John McCain records the day’s thoughts in his journal. A small oil lamp burns dimly in one corner. He sits in a wife beater and boxer shorts, scribbling furiously with a quill.

His brain tumor throbs in his head, making him grip the pen and the edge of the table tighter. He stares directly down at the paper and his own mortality.

I have invested my entire life into protecting The United States of America. I traveled across seas to fight her enemies. I put my life at risk to save every man, woman and child that walks on this dirt from a life of oppression.

I was shot down in Vietnam, spiraled to the ground, screaming for my life, begging God for forgiveness before my life blinked out of existence. One of my arms and both of my legs were broken upon impact when my jet hit the water.

The Vietnamese dragged my broken body carelessly from the water, threw me in a prison, stabbed and beat me. For five years I sat in Hanoi.

mccain

I came home, back to the land I had suffered for. Back to the people I had almost died for. To the people I had fought for and amongst those people was a man named Donald Trump.

Donald Trump recently ran for President where he called me a “loser” for being captured during the Vietnam War. 

Since the inception of his brain tumor, McCain’s therapist has suggested he start this journal and begin recording some of his more emotional thoughts. The idea was that they are healthier to exist upon paper rather than within the mind and body. And by naming them, we can more readily understand and control them.

His writing began to take on its more aggressive tone as his emotions rose.

That soft-pecker Donald Trump has never volunteered for war. He has never volunteered for his country. He has never volunteered for anything.

He remembers sitting in his therapist’s office last week, crying into his hands. Across the room, an androgynous doctor sits cross-legged on a love seat.

Everything has started to pour out of McCain. It feels so cathartic. He lets it flow. He knows this conversation isn’t being recorded. “I hate him. I hate him so much. I have spent my life protecting-“ he signals to the entire room, the city, the country. “My entire life has been spent protecting this. And now…” he rests his head in his hands and his therapist is silent, understanding that he is referencing the active presence of his brain tumor.

“He called me a loser. Because I was captured in war. Volunteering for the country that he is the president of. At that time I served under President Johnson, who was a goddamn man. And now I have this tumor eating away at my brain and I understand that I’m going to die. I can’t escape this violent enemy.”

He lifts his head and looks out the window, his eyes glistening. He sees a little bird on a branch. It looks around and flies away.

“Why does he do what he does? Why is Trump the way that he is?”

The doctor begins to speak in a voice that is equal parts masculine and feminine. “He makes up for his cowardice, his lack of experience, human virtue and vocabulary by verbally abusing those around him. Because he doesn’t know how to do a good job, he has to tear everyone else down to his level so that he looks like he’s doing better. There’s a kid named Randy that I talk to on Tuesdays. He’s in second grade. Same thing.”

McCain considers this.

“I’m going to die. And I want my last war to be waged against the tyrant, Donald Trump. I have fought and served to make this land the greatest on earth and this man has arisen out of the ashes of ignorance. My final war cry, my final act of bravery shall be forcibly removing the usurper from the throne. I’m going to destroy him.”

“Professionally, I have to advise you that overthrowing the President of the United States is illegal.”

“Is it?”

“I really don’t know.”

“In war, anything goes. If you can’t gut it, I guess you’re a loser.”

In his private quarters, the ink has gotten to the end of the page. He grabs another blank sheet of unlined paper. He dips his quill in the ink (a lost art form) and begins to scribble furiously. He notices that his penmanship has gotten more illegible in the last few sentences. He practices a free-flow journal entry technique that his therapist taught him. She had said, “Just write. Just keep writing. Don’t stop. Whatever comes into your head, just write it down. You might be interested in what comes out.”

And so he writes.

I want to rip out the throat of Donald Trump. He has not earned the distinguished honor of that seat and to remove him would be nothing short of justice. I don’t care about being remembered. I only care about making America great again. I want to save Lady Liberty from the spoiled, entitled frat boy that is trying to date-rape her.

He pauses and taps the pen against the paper, wondering if he should put down on paper (and leave evidence of) the next thoughts that rise into his head. He decides to heed his therapist’s advice and get it all down but he censors himself pretty heavily. Just in case.

I want to find myself in a locked room with him. Five years I spent in Hanoi. Give me five minutes. I would straddle his lap, grab him by his fat cheeks and begin to scream into his face. I would let The War Madness grip me and take over. Senator John McCain would be left in the hallway and Mad Dog McCain would be present. Oh, yes. It’s been a long time. But he’s still there, isn’t he? Oh, yes. Once they’re born in war, the voices rarely go away. Pills. Therapy. They just muffle. They don’t mute. Battle born.

I would carve an M into his forehead with my thumbnail. I would slam my face into his until we both bled and were screaming, he from pain and fear and me from ecstasy and madness, our blood mingling in an orgy of violence.

What would I say to him?

He pauses and thinks. What words would he speak to this man that he hasn’t already said?

I would not speak to him. I only want to hurt him. I only want to destroy him. I only want to over throw him.

My final act upon this Earth will be one of patriotic heroism.

And it’s a cause I’m willing to die for.

He lights the journal entry on fire and allows it to burn to ashes in the fireplace.

 

MCCAIN LOW

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