Tag Archives: USA



Kim Jong Un floats through the distant cosmos for a very long time and he sees many wonderful and interesting things. Just kidding. Space is a black void. And if you don’t know where you’re going or how to get there, you’re pretty much boned.

Kim floated in space for the rest of his miserable life, unable to entertain himself and with nothing to look at. He had become his childhood nemesis, Jeong Rang, and had suffered nearly the same solitary fate.

Unrest was beginning to rise amongst the crew and Kim was beginning to lose control of them. He overheard someone suggest that they should eject him down the toilet in order to watch his face explode in the freezing abyss.

He wasn’t altogether sad to finally die. In fact, he had come to terms with it and had accepted his fate when, on a Sunday, or what would have been a Sunday (with no Earth or Sun there were no Earth days) a strange portal opened on the deck of his ship and out stepped a strange and hideous creature who went by the name of Wells Fargo.

Wells voice was unsettling and made Kim’s skin crawl. “Kim Jong Un. You have destroyed Pale Blue Dot.”

Kim is silent. The crew watches in rapture. Kim wants to unleash his men on this monster, unleash the righteous fire-power of his wrath but he isn’t completely sure that they would follow orders.

Wells continues, unfettered, “You destroyed Pale Blue Dot. It was not for you to destroy. It did not belong to you. Consequences must be met for your thoughtless actions.”

“Do not touch me, monster.”

“Do not tell me what to do, biped.” Wells slurps forward and reveals his broken teeth. Kim feigns bravery. Kim’s bowels release. His mother runs to him and cradles her sweetie in her massive bosom. Wells blasts them both with his quantum-revolver and they both drop to the ground, conscious but frozen. The effects would wear off in a day or two. He drags them through the portal and takes them back to the land of the Kardashians. He planned to make Kim his pet. His children had always wanted an Earthling.

And this one had a cute little haircut.

The mother could potentially be bred out. If not, they could send her to the glue factory with the rest of the callused herd.

For the rest of Kim’s life, he lived in a cage. His owner made him take behavioral courses and they eventually took.

His new pet name was Cookie and he would speak only on command.


Tomorrow brings us to our final ending: EPILOGUE 2.

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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.


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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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.”




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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.







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Intern: #2719

Alias: Donald Trump

Country of Origin: America

Current Status: President

Planet Local Code: Earth

Project Name: Pale Blue Dot

Population: 7.4 billion

Economy: Livestock


The Attendant rolls her eyes as Donald Trump steps onto The Receiving Bay, an old dark room filled with whirring, buzzing, booping and bopping noises. Colored lights flash on panels. The attendant looks like she might be from New York. Or her skin-suit does. In any event, Donald ignores her. She’s lower level.

Great move on the power-play! No eye contact equals no acknowledgement equals no respect.

He has a moment to think to himself that he could buy a hundred Earth-women (or men) tens times as beautiful as this hunk of grotesquerie to suck his nub for a handful of copper tokens. It really doesn’t take much to bend Earth-humans to your will. They’ll do nearly anything for money and the rest they’ll do if you are able to leverage their emotions. What Donald cleverly thought of as their “ape-motions”.

On Earth, I could walk right over there and grab her by the pussy. No questions asked. That’s the power of money. And that’s why I love it.

 He unconsciously sniffs his fingers before continuing down the hall, under a large archway with a stone engraving that reads Populus Esca Inc.

It was latin. Donald couldn’t read latin. And he thinks they spelled ink wrong.

He really was a creature with whom normal social boundaries and etiquette did not apply. Saddam Hussein was known to do the same thing. Rape was, after all, the ultimate demonstration of a power-play. And because grabbing a human being by their genitals without their permission was how rape was defined, Donald Trump was a serial rapist by his own admission.

I’ve been called worse, he thinks to himself. And then, as an afterthought, often times by Melania.

He trips over a small step-up he didn’t see and quickly glances around to see if anyone were watching. Empty hall. Good. He continues down the winding hall towards the office of a hideous creature that went by the name of Wells Fargo, his superior (no relation to the Earth bank). But not for long! Oh, no. Donnie would be cutting ties with his employer permanently very, very soon.

Donald had become committed to getting out of this broken system. For good. He was too damn smart for this dead-end job. President of the United States. Third Dimension. No thank you. Donald was so much more than the manager of a glorified slaughterhouse.

Approaching his boss’s door he decides to aggressively shove it open and set the tone of the conversation. Show the dynamic. Power-play the boss a bit. Why the hell not? He was feeling cocky and proud.

And so he does. He shoves the door open. And halfway through the movement he knew it was wrong. It was too forceful. He had made a mistake. He pulled back mid-swing into a gentle whisp.

Then, his boss’s voice. Shrill. Hideous. Feminine. But not female.

“Open my door without knocking again and I will have your fingers shortened another quarter of an inch.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Art of the Deal! Art of the Deal! Art of the Deal! This had become Donald’s personal mantra, his war cry, a chant to pump himself up. You can do it. You are Donald J. Trump. Maker of Deals, Executor of Executive Orders, Grabber of Pussies and President of the United States of America!

“Get in here, Donald. Make yourself comfortable. You really do look terrible, you know?”

“I was just telling myself that earlier today,” Donald agrees.

Wells is already out of his skin-suit so Trump takes a cue. Reaching into his mouth he pulls a clip from behind both top molars. Grabbing his upper lip, he pulls his face up and back, over the top of his head. It was freeing but it also gave him the creeps – the way the synthetic face could stretch so effortlessly.

He slithers his wet, black body through the face hole and grimaces as it plucks from his dirty anus with a soft pop. He steps through, effortlessly freeing himself from his human form.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Wells asks, expecting no answer.

“Yes, sir. Damn good,” Donald answers anyways because he’s not really sure when to be quiet.

Talking has always been a problem for him. Sometimes he thinks something and he wants to tell people what the pictures in his brain say but he can’t. The road between his neural circuits and his mouth was a windy one. What usually ended up coming out was mere exclamatory statements like “so good,” and “very exciting,” and “really, really wonderful,” and, “going to be the best.” This wasn’t an altogether terrible thing as Donald J. knew that the American people didn’t want details – they wanted to watch wrestling and be told that everything is wonderful and someone has it all under control. Nothing to worry about. Eat your TV dinners and grow plump.

And so he talks. And he talks and he talks. And more often than not, halfway through, he forgets how to connect the two thoughts and then he has to improvise. He really hates it when he has to improvise.

He’ll say something that sounds nice in his head but then it comes out of his mouth and sounds horrible and awful. A few of these examples were:

“I wouldn’t mind a little bow. In Japan they bow. I love it. Only thing I love about Japan”


“I thought it would be easier,” referring to being President.


“There is a chance that we could end up having a major, major conflict with North Korea. Absolutely.” This was a real problem, as you’ll soon see.


“I’m the Ernest Hemingway of 140 characters.”

The truth was, anything beyond 140 characters was hard for his mental framework to process. Thoughts larger than 140 characters were like trying to put a mini-van engine in a sports car. The thing was just going to sputter and die.

He improvises. And he hates it. He knows he isn’t good at it. He knows that everyone knows that he isn’t good at it. But he keeps talking. And talking. And then it starts to fall apart when his face starts doing that thing it does and trust me, he has spent countless nights on YouTube watching his speeches on repeat from different angles. Why does his face do that?

When I’m improvising, my eyes get squinty and my jaw hangs slack, making me look like a mule who has recently had a carrot inserted into the rectum without proper lubrication.

 Republican U.S. presidential nominee Donald Trump speaks to the Detroit Economic Club at the Cobo Center in Detroit, Michigan

“Donald, where the qink is your brain right now?”

Donald snaps back to his sad, broken version of reality. Qink (pronounced kink) was part of the local language and could be used like The Earth F-Word which is so awful and offensive that we cannot even mention it here.
Common examples of qink: Where the qink are you? Why the qink did you do that? You are a qinking qink. Qink off. Go qink yourself. Wanna qink?

He laughs and tries to make a joke of it. Play it cool. “I was day-dreaming, sir.”

“You’re a complete idiot, Donald. What did they call you at Academy? You seem like the type that would have had a nickname. A really terrible one.”

Donald didn’t want to say but he didn’t think he could lie. Not to Wells Fargo.

“They called me Idiot Boy.”


“I agree.”

Donald hangs his skin-suit from the coat tree before slithering his black, boil covered body to an armchair and coiling deep within its worn grooves. Empty eyes gaze out of hollow sockets. Skin like watery mold drips down his many tentacles. Hundreds of slapping gray tongues under his loose appendages lick and moan against the plastic furniture of Wells office.

He was more at home in his true form, but he did not feel true in his home dimension.

Wells breaks the silence. “Pale Blue Dot. How is it?” His voice sounds like an octopus choking to death on oxygen.

“We almost have full control, sir. Things with Russia are progressing nicely. Once we join forces, no military on the earth will be able to stop us.”

A chill runs down his spin. King of the World. Oh, yes. He could just taste it.

“Delicious. Then we should be dining soon. You were just named President. That’s the highest the country has, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Very proud.”

“Idiot Boy, let me cut to the point. Most rookies take control of their planet within the first few years. This work is easy. They wrangle the people, get them through the gate and pow. Our Blood Boys down on the floor handle the rest. What we do here is not brain surgery. We operate a slaughterhouse, Donald. Control the animals.”

On a small screen was a security camera that showed the killing floor. Somewhere, Donald wasn’t sure where, a room of humans were being led single-file down a chute. They had all been winning contestants on a game show and were led here by guise of a Hawaiian cruise that they had won. Three nights, four days. They had all signed up for the game show from ads they saw during reality TV fixer-upper shows.

At the end of the chute, someone would greet them, ask them for their credit score, their social security number and their date of birth. The human would hand them the very, very important documents that they’ve protected their whole lives and then they would be led into The Box.

Inside The Box, one of Wells employees would put a Whisper against their head (a Whisper was slang for a quantum-revolver. A quantum revolver was like an Earth revolver but it shot quantum particles into the targets energy field and rendered them motionless. It was called a Whisper because it didn’t make a noise and because quantum-revolver wasn’t as sexy a name), pulled the trigger and lights out. From there the human was quartered, frozen and all parts were dispersed to all major grocery stores.

The humans were lesser intelligent creatures and so this was okay. It wasn’t quite apples to apples but it was cattle to cattle.

Actually, a better comparison would be chickens. Humans were much more like chickens, clucking mindlessly, endlessly, chirping on and on – twittering – in between bouts of plucking each other’s eyes out. You could even stick their sun behind their Earth and the effect was the same as shoving a chicken’s head under its wing. Idiots. Chicken People. All of them.

Wells had been doing this job for a long time. Longer than he had planned when he was first hired. He glances down at the placard on his desk. It reads:


And then, below that:


Qink. 100 years is a long time, Wells thinks to himself. And where has it all led me?

Donald’s people believed that humans were here for their consumption. They would stuff themselves with manburger until they wanted to vomit. Debbie’s Place was a delicious restaurant down the street from Wells single bedroom apartment and they did an all-you-can eat buffet on Thursdays for crazy cheap. They even had a cage where you could pick out your own human and have it prepared fresh. That was kind of gross but Wells appreciated the option. He usually ordered Thigh Manzini. It was lightly breaded, fried, and topped with lemon zest and just a pinch of cayenne pepper.

Wells was personally very excited about his most recent invention. He thought it might even win him an award in his field. He had planted a device on earth that allowed people to eradicate walking from their lives completely. He called it a hover board. He looked down at Earth and saw all the children using them. That juicy child meat swelling with flavor. Veal. Unused muscle. His mouth begins to water and he turns back to Donald. He hated this guy and wanted to get him out of his office as quickly as possible. Best to get on with the business at hand.

“The people of Earth are stupid. All of them. Even the brightest amongst them – they’re HUMANS. They exist on the third dimension. Most of them are still hypnotized by the God Delusion hypnosis effect and their minds are still garbled with thoughts of existing within time. Simpletons! Rats! Vermin! And you are being publically humiliated by the great lot of them. Donald. This is unacceptable.”

“Sir, I can explain-“ Donald begins, but Wells cuts him off by simply lifting his chin a quarter of an inch. So much power. He didn’t even have to speak. Donald, on the other hand, used rambling incoherent phrases because he didn’t know how to drive the language car.

Wells. “Let’s not waste our time making you recite it twice.”

Wells slips on a swirling turquoise ring. There is a logo of a bisected avocado on it. Avocado was the company that designed the rings. An avocado was a green fruit that existed on Pale Blue Dot. The top of their turquoise ring was crowned just the absolute smallest, faintest hook, no bigger than a single thread of velcro. Wells swipes the ring through the air. The hook catches on Space and pulls a zipper straight down to the rug, creating a torn-sheet effect in the nature of reality.

Wells had just gotten a raise and he had used his first paycheck to buy himself this cool new ring. It was the first time he’d had a new piece of technology right when it came out and he was pretty proud. He didn’t want to deal with those clunky brass knuckle devices any more. He would be traveling through dimensions in style now. He takes a moment to register that his old brass knuckle set is resting on the end table by Donald right now. He makes a mental note to put them away later.

Look at Donald sitting over there. He’s not like the other interns. There’s something different about him. Something creepy. Something that makes even my skin crawl. His ineptitude is somehow troubling. As though he could do great things with his stupidity. He could lead herds of lemmings over vast cliff faces. He would be a God amongst the chicken people.

Wells pulls back the reality-curtain, ducks his head and steps through, leaving Donald alone in his office for just a moment.

Just a moment that is just long enough to look around and think to himself, It will be me laughing in the end when I am in full control of Pale Blue Dot and I break away from this dead-end job forever and I run and I break the Dimensional Interchange which brought me here and you’ll never find me. And I will be free. Free from you. And free from this place. And free to be who I truly am. King. 

No. There’s more.

Yes. You could be King as Donald Trump. You could rule them. You could rule them all.

But what else? What else could you do?

I could reveal my true form.

What would happen if I did?

The people would be terrified. So many limbs…

Yes, yes. At first. But then? Given time? Shown your strength. Your intelligence.

You could convince them that you were… More Than.


I need to write this down.

“Step through the door, you Day-Dreaming Idiot Boy,” Wells shouts back through the gateway. The sound, coming through the reality-tear seemed, as usual, to be equal parts muffled and far away simultaneously. Kids called this strange effect blurring.

Donald steps through, feeling the cold breeze of InBetween (the space between worlds) curl up his body. On the other side is the Higher Courtyard. Tall backed chairs sit in a tiered fashion, eight rows deep. The seats have all been filled. Sagging gray faces with eyes the color of horror gaze down upon him. They are all his species: Kardashians.

The Kardashians were a race that existed on the 11th dimension and who strongly believed they were better than everyone else. Unfortunately, the terrible, objective truth (which could be clearly stated by anyone in the 12th dimension) was that they were just as lost, alone and afraid as every other living creature on the face of realty, regardless of dimension.

All the eyes made Donald nervous. The polls showed that he never tested well in front of large audiences.

“Donald J. Trump. This is your Surprise Pale Blue Dot Status Update Conference.”

“I – I wasn’t – I didn’t know there was a Status Update Meeting.”

“It’s a Surprise Status Update Conference.

Donald stands up straight, hands cupped gently below his leprous midsection. His face, as usual, is cold and emotionless. Amongst his own people this is standard form. The Kardashian face is not known for having a wide emotional spectrum. A Kardashian face says BLAH! And it says it very boldly. The face of a Kardashian is like that of a cocker-spaniel – placid and resigned confusion. Happy but simple.

It’s much more difficult to replicate the Earth-face emotions; the gentle nuances in a face, the delicate intricacies of an eyebrow twitching mid-sentence, a blink at just the wrong time, paced too slowly, a smile that feels natural and warm and inviting and not cold and desperate and hungry.

Their faces are a language that I am not very fluent in. Another reason to hate myself. Maybe Wells is right. Maybe I am terrible at this. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I should be down there on The Killing Floor with the Blood Boys pulling the trigger on those Whispers. I’m not cut out for this president stuff.

Donald tries again to be stoic. His shoulders had begun to slump and his mouth was slightly ajar.

Stand up straight!

He does. A quiet hush falls over the humming silence. The only sounds are the muffled farting gurgles roiling inside of Donald’s undulating mid-section thanks to having chili for breakfast. Again.

A male Kardashian named Barnabas Berrymore stands up and speaks into his Avocado ring. He’d just purchased one recently as well and loved it. Definitely worth the asking price. The kids were calling them Cado, short for Avocado. The little devices really did everything.

Barnabas speaks directly into the microphone in his Cado, which is connected wirelessly to the speaker system (also Avocado brand) of the auditorium. His voice, sounding like dirty cotton tangled with brittle twigs, is instantly broadcast for all to hear and bear witness to.

“First,” Barnabas Berrymore begins, “Let us turn our gaze towards our Banner.”

Every eye in the place rises towards the ceiling as a perfect projection of their higher symbol is cast before them. It consists of shapes and colors that only exist in higher dimensions so I can’t really tell you about it.

They all stare at the rotating form, unblinking. Blinking while gazing upon The Banner is considered disrespectful.

Barnabas lifts his tentacle and places it over his eyes. His audience, his congregation, his army, does the same.

In a cold and emotionless drone, the creatures all speak at once, repeating the words from memory, digging them deeper into their psyches.

Repetition is the key to success. Repetition is the key to success. Repetition is the key to success. Repetition is the key to control. Repetition is the key to mind control.

“We turn to Banner, our symbol in all things of Power. I stand before Banner as an individual. But together we stand before Banner united as one. Banner is a symbol of our unity. Banner is a symbol of our family. Banner is a symbol of our history. Banner is a symbol of our Higher Power, eternally blessing us with all things, guiding us towards our truest place in all Eleven Dimensions, at Banner’s right side. With Banner we stand and with Banner we rise. With Banner we shall destroy our enemies from the 11 Dimensions. With liberty and justice for all.”

The Earth-people did not know that their last line was taken from the Kardashian’s own Pledge of Tribal Allegiance

The Kardashains all sit. The action sounds like a tumble-weed being thrown onto a pile of crunchy snow and then turned up really loudly.

Then, silence.

Uncomfortable silence.

Donald Trump, in his true alien form, oozing a puddle of mucus onto the floor, stands in the center of the Higher Court, every gaze upon him. He doesn’t know what to do. He glances at Wells Fargo. Wells nods so gently to the left, only once, indicating, you’re on your own now.

“I am Intern #2719. The Earth people call me Donald Trump. President Donald J. Trump. I was elected to the highest office in their country by a minority vote of the people.”

“How were you elected to the highest office this country has by a minority of the people? We would never allow a minority to control us!” It’s a faceless screeching question from an anonymous attendee.

“Voting is staged. It gives the Americans the illusion of control in their lives, which, coincidentally makes them easier to control. The illusion of control makes them placid. The choice of leader is made by a select group of people known as The Electoral College. They are, with the exception of a few Rebels, our people.”

Why were you not able to get a majority vote?”

Just then, Hillary Clinton uncoils in the stands. “Usurper!”

She sits back down, dabs some hot sauce on a raw human arm resting beautifully on a bed of rice and then takes a bite before queefing softly and not excusing herself.

Donald continues, un-phased. “In the Midwest, we have full control. I am driving wedges between families and friends by using mind control.”

Bill Clinton stands up, a joint dangling from his puckered lips. “Hang on, man. Hang on. Mind control? The whole nation? Come on, now.” He inhales deeply, coughs and wanders out of the room to find something sweet.

Donald stands up a little higher. Finally. Some recognition for his brilliance.

“Not only am I using mind control. It’s working. Incredibly well. The entire Midwest is ready to kill for their flag. And who controls their flag? I DO! The Mid-People will do as I command!”

“What do you mean? How can this be?”

It is you that should be sitting down here, being interrogated by a group of thoughtless fools while I drink the blood of my enemies.

Donald rises up even taller but no less disgusting. He takes on a more presidential tone. Something the Earth people have never heard him do.

“I gave them ethical license to be evil by telling them that God approves of their behavior.”

“How would you be able to speak for… what is it? God?”

“Who knows! They never ask me that! HAHAHAH!”

A small murmur. They’re impressed. “You mentioned Rebels?”

“McCain. Obama. The usual. There are a handful trying to break away but they’re presently of no true concern. The bigger issue is Bernard Sanders as he is currently leading an uprising with The Exposed.”


“The coastal cities tend to be filled with a wide range of humans. Different races, different religions, different sexual orientations, different political beliefs. Their exposure to one another has made them… tolerant.”

The entire room hisses in disgust. Tolerance was a weakness.

Donald continues. “Counter-point. Mid-West people live in Copy Villages – everyone is the same. Race, economic status, faith and political viewpoint. All identical. This causes great fear amongst this group as they’ve lived their lives sheltered from the world. Have you ever seen a house cat stand at the open door and stare outside, into the front yard, unable to leave for fear of all things new?”

He let’s them chew on this before continuing.

“Thankfully, the coastal cities look upon the Mid-West with great disdain, which helps drive the wedge I’ve placed even deeper. They look down on them, thinking them less intelligent. We leverage the coastal cities smug and superior mindset to our advantage. Either way, we win. Our course is to disrupt and divide them all until…”

Until they were able to take control of the wild third dimension inhabitants and devour them.

A bell rings and a naked man is brought out, tied facedown to a long table. On top of the table and under the man is a long white serving tray. The man tries to scream but his tongue and vocal chords have already been removed by the chef. Screaming ruins dinner.

A small cap has been placed on the man’s head. At the very top of the cap, a small hole has been cut, revealing the crown of the man’s freshly shaven head.

Wells picks up a long metal straw and places it in the hole, allowing the man to feel the warm object placed against his skin. The humanoid begins to writhe against the stimulation. Wells liked this part. It always reminded him of cracking a crab leg.

He picks up a small hammer and tap tap taps the straw into the man’s head. A line of Kardashians begins to form, saliva dripping from their face holes. Wells takes the first slurp. The man feels his memories fade away. He also feels his life slipping away. He’s also being blinded by the blood running down his face. He is also feeling confused.

Wells says, “Donald, you know I dislike you. Please enslave Pale Blue Dot as quickly as you’re able. Now please leave. Your natural form is even more disgusting than your human one. Meeting adjourned.”

Everyone spits on Donald.

Back in Wells office, Donald steps back into his skin-suit, drying the spittle from his sludgy exo-skeleton as well as he can. Their spit smells like dried cat piss.

Wells pours himself a drink and lights up a pipe filled with cheap hallucinogens. It takes effect immediately. “You know what, Don? Something you should consider. The news. I’m only telling you this because I feel sorry for how stupid you are. The Rebels in the coast cities – if they’re presenting a problem, it’s because they are becoming too knowledgeable. They are reading and putting the information together. You aren’t seeing this happen in your Copy Villages because those people tend to…”

Wells lifts an eyebrow, encouraging Donald to finish the thought. Donald blinks and then guesses. “They get their news from… only one source?”


Donald’s pride swells. He did good!

Wells presses further. “Is their one source a good source?”

Donald turns it over in his head, pulling advice from one of his professors at Academy. “If you only get your news from one source, it is never a good source. A full picture is a well-rounded one. How do I make the coastal cities watch only one news source? Do I blow up the competitors? I think Putin might be able to help with that. He mentioned something to me about explosives the other day.”

You’re saying too much, Donald! Rope it back. Rope it back.

“Donald. Do I have to put on your skin suit, travel to Pale Blue Dot and pretend to be you? Get your shit together. Think a thought. Qink. Listen to me. Your Rebels are getting a well-rounded picture because they read more and they watch multiple news sources. You can’t make a person watch one news source so you have to…”

Donald stares at Wells. Donald feels stupid. He also looks stupid. His mouth is going into that slack, stroke face when he’s trying to improvise. He makes a long grunting noise that sounds like, “rrrrrrrrrrrrrp.”

Republican U.S. presidential nominee Donald Trump speaks to the Detroit Economic Club at the Cobo Center in Detroit, Michigan

“The Rebels are pulling together because they have information. They get that information from the news. You need to tell them that the news is fake. Call into question the validity of their news source. Call into question the validity of their facts. Call into question the validity of their natural reality. This will cause division between the Rebels and it will also keep your Copy people thinking that they have the only real truth. They’ll cling to their one simple news source as tightly as they cling to their paper Bibles. Everybody loves to be right. It’s a win / win and you are a qinking loser. Get out of my office.”

Donald turns to leave and, as he does so, he becomes certain that he will never have to speak to Wells Fargo ever again.

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