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  • CHAPTER 5- The Desert Sickness

    Here’s some old timey radio style audio for them’s like to listen versus the whole readin’ thing.

    Howdy Buckaroos, I wrote the first draft for this here chapter 5 ’bout 6 months before old Trump actually got the Covid way back in 2020. And, well, you didn’t need to be no Western Fortune Teller to know that it was a gonna happen. What with them rallies an’ all the kissin’ talk. And here I am in 2022, addin’ old-style radio show audio with the best western accent I can muster up, to amuse and astound the left and right alike.

    Heads up you sensitive folk who don’t like gunfights, people a dyin’ and one a them there alternate universe Trumps and other GQP a gettin’ they’s comeuppance. Welp, just feel free to mosey on off.

    CHAPTER 5 – THE DESERT SICKNESS

    Meanwhile one timeline away….

    Trump blinks his open bloodshot eyes and squints at the blinding glare of surgery lights overhead. He struggles to sit up, but restraints hold Trump in place.

    A gowned and masked Dr. Fauci notices Trump stir and says in his best soothing tone, “Please don’t struggle, Mr. President. You’re lucky your body man Robert kept you alive with mouth to mouth until the paramedics brought you here. Um hum, not so lucky, you’ve come down with a severe case of the Coronavirus, sir.”

    Trump tries to speak, but the pain is so intense he cannot.

    “Don’t speak! Your throat’s badly seared. Nod if you understand me,” offers Dr. Fauci.

    Trump nods “yes” curtly.

    “Now, Mr. President, serious question I need a serious answer for if I am going to have a chance to save your life. Here goes: Have you taken any Hydroxychloroquine?”

    Trump nods yes sadly.

    “And did you drink any disinfectants today?”

    Trump nods grimly while making the hand signal for “a little.”

    “Lysol perhaps?” says Fauci, resisting the urge for to do a face palm.

    Trump shakes his head “no” rapidly.

    “Sorry. Brand’s immaterial. — Did you orally ingest any sort of bleach?”

    Trump nods “yes” reluctantly.

    “OK. It’s 2 AM. I’m gonna name some earlier times from today. Nod when I’m close to the time of day you drank the bleach… Midnight?”

    Trump nods, impressed Fauci guessed right on the first try.

    “Nurse, stomach pump! Stat!”

    An older nurse wheels over a stomach pump.

    “Donald, I’m placing you on anesthesia. After pumping your stomach the nurse will immediately intubate you. That’s if your damaged esophagus can handle it. But before I put you in that coma, uh, there’s an old friend here who must have a word with you,” says Dr. Fauci as he steps aside to reveal a gowned and masked Mike Pence.

    “Hey, buddy. It’s Mike, Mike Pence, your VP. How you doin’?”

    Annoyed as hell, Trump messages with his eyes for Pence to get on with it.

    “Ok, Ok. Why I ‘m here. Right. You see, I’d like your blessings on my VP choice before I temporarily step into your big shoes, amigo. All very temporary of course until you’re back on the job in record covid-time,” says Pence, doing his best to sound sincere.

    Trump becomes more agitated, but nods OK.

    The mask-free Pence speaks up nervously, “Now, I know this is going to be a little hard for you to swallow — Oh, Geez Louise, sorry about that expression! — Um, what with how my Veep pick and you, um, have had a little bit of a go-in with him on Celebrity Apprentice –”

    Trump’s eyes widen with rage as he grunts angrily.

    “Sorry. — I’ll cut to the chase.– Donald, we need to reunite the country in this dark time. The markets have crashed three times in the past 24 hours. The Dow is down 5000 points. Banks are closed to prevent runs and bankers are demanding $3 trillion in aid –” Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.

    “Ok, ok. Arnold Schwarzenegger is my VP pick.” says Pence

    Trump writhes and groans in agony that his fever dream about Schwarzenegger as president in 2022 might be turning out to be prophetic.

    “Swell, Donald. I’m going to take your reaction as a definite “yes” and announce you’re in total and complete agreement to make Arnold  my temporary VP, assuming I can get a Senate waiver on his not being American born,” says Pence as Trump writhes in agony. “See? That wasn’t so bad now was it? Okie dokie. I turn you back of to the great Dr. Fauci here. Get well soon, buddy,” chirps Pence.

    Enraged, Trump struggles mightily to free himself of the restraints. Pence gives Trump a peck on his sweaty forehead. Dr. Fauci injects the writhing Trump. The surgery room and the worried face of Mike Pence fade from view.

    Fauci’s distant echoing voice rides the white void, “Word of warning, Mr. President. Covid fever dreams can be… quite intense. Brace yourself… self… self.”

    WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA

    Trump’s blurry twisted vision of an old town of the West fades into confusing view. Town folk, half of them wearing blue colored western bandit masks and half mask-free with red cowboy hats, mill about the dusty street.

    Two gunfighters take to the street, one a blue-masked young man and mask-free old timer in a red cowboy hat. Everyone scatters. Doors slam.

    Blue masked young man says, “I take back what I said about the Sheriff, Uncle. We ain’t gotta do this.”

    Oblivious to the gunfighters, Trump stares into the desert sky, fascinated as it keeps shifting back and forth between being the sun and an overhead surgery light.

    The man in the red hat spits and shouts, “Bugs ya I love Sheriff Trump more than you, nephew, don’t it?”

    “You raised me, Uncle! Of course it does!”

    “Draw, nigger lover!”

    “No, Uncle! I refuse to draw on family –”

    BANG!

    The blue masked young man watches in shock as blood spreads from a hole in his white shirt. He falls face down in the dirt street.

    The man in a red hat snarls over the young man’s body, “Worthless, mask lover. Give my regards to my slave loving sister in hell.”

    Trump watches in a daze as the town undertaker and town drunk, Rudy Giuliani, drags the blue-masked young boy towards his funeral parlor with a red door. Rudy, waves to Trump and says brightly. “Mornin’ Sheriff Trump. Gorgeous day!”

    Trump does not answer. Rudy shrugs his shoulders and returns to dragging his human cargo for his funeral parlor.

    A short time later on the outskirts of town, Rudy whips his horse team, pulling a wagon full of dead bodies. “Ah. That dang sheriff wants me put these bodies in separate graves, the red and the blue. But I just ain’t got the time no more. Can’t keep up with this desert sickness. — Whoa!” shouts Rudy bringing the horse team to a halt.

    Rudy chugs a bottle of whiskey, downs the bottle and tosses it into the canyon.

    Rudy pulls a lever and the wagon bed lifts up. Corpses rain into the canyon below. “Well, you’re all finally together now, aren’t ya? The red blue alike,” cackles Rudy.

    BANG! A bullet hole appears in Rudy’s forehead. “Welp, them injuns did warn me this was their burial ground…”

    Rudy falls into the canyon below, joining the dead.

    A Native American pats his stove pipe hat, with a feather on it, holsters his rifle and rides off into the distance.

    Back in town, Trump works out a kink in his back, squirming on the porch bench of his sheriff’s office, and belches loudly. Trump happily notices he’s dressed as the town sheriff, tin badge, six shooter and all.

    Trump blinks, fully taking in the sight of the dusty New Mexico town of Corona, here in the Old West. “Reckon I’m on the set of Westworld?” says Trump, puzzled at his Western accent. “That’s as odd as a rattler with jingle bells on his durned tail. Fuck. Can’t shake this danged bum fuck accent!”

    Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. She’s dressed in a frilly pioneer frock of the day. Kellyanne swings opens picnic basket and chirps brightly in a thick southern accent, “Hey, sleepy head. Have a nice nap?”

    “Kellyanne?” says Trump, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

    “Haha! That’s my name alright, sleepy bear. You sure do dream deep. Made your fav, hon. Burgers and gravy. Just the thing to wake you up!” coos Kellyanne, uncovering her steaming masterpiece. Kellyanne lovingly tucks a napkin into Trump’s dusty shirt.

    On the street a woman in a red bonnet falls to the dirt.

    “Another customer for Rudy. Desert Sickness keeps takin’ people from the Right we won’t have much of a Right left,” says Trump with a shrug as he digs into Kellyanne’s gravy soaked burger. And speaks with his mouthful,”Wow, babe. Had this crazy dream I’s president of these here United States way, way in the future.”

    “Sorry, hon. Ya’all’s just the Sheriff of our sweet little town of Corona in 1864,” purrs Kellyanne.

    “I’d a sweared it was the year 2020,” grouses Trump, still surprised by how old West he sounds.

    “And we’ll be married 35 years come June 23rd next week. So now ya’all have no excuse to forgit again!” says Kellyanne, sneaking a kiss to Trump’s cheek.

    Trump’s badly overweight deputy, William Barr, Billy in this world, plops two used up paint cans, one blue and one red, on the porch. He grabs a seat, mopping his forehead with a dirty white hanky. Seeing Trump’s puzzled expression Barr offers, “Finished, sir.”

    “Finished with what, Billy?” asks Trump.

    “Why, paintin’ every dang front door in town of the Confederate homes red and the Union homes blue. Just like you ordered, sir,” says Barr.

    Puzzled to say the least, Trump runs a hand though his long head of silver hair as he says uncertainly, “Lemme see, our brave Confederates… they don’t wear masks, right?”

    Kellyanne brightly offers, “Them Union folks are chickens who are slaved to wearing a mask and keeping their distance! Silly old blue bellies are terrified of the desert sickness.”

    “Stupefyingly stupid. Right, sir?”

    “Amen, Billy boy,” says Trump, getting into the swing of things.

    “Got anymore of them delicious burgers and gravy in your picnic basket, Kellyanne?” asks Barr sweetly.

    “Never forgit my favorite deputy. Here ya’all go, Billy boy,” says Kellyanne offering deputy Barr a gravy soaked burger.

    “Billy, why in holy hell is the dang General Store still closed?!” Trump says, angrily pointing to the General Store across the street with a freshly painted blue front door.

    “That uppity nigger Bobby Tulsa, says he ain’t opening our fair town’s only General Store ’til Doc gives everybody a checkup for the desert sickness,” grouses Kellyanne.

    “Meantime, Corona’s citizens, red and blue both, are runnin’ outta food fast — and they’s a blamin’ you, Sheriff,” offers Barr.

    “Time to pay a little visit to our town’s only freed slave,” says Trump rising a bit shakily to his feet. And comes face to face with his horse Eric.

    “Oh, Dad. Why’d I gotta be a horse in this dream?” brays Eric the horse.

    “Shut up! I got me a nigger ta see!” barks Trump.

    A short time later Trump Trump glares over the cash register at the blue mask wearing Robert, his Black personal valet in DC of 2020. The same one who saved his life with mouth to mouth, and who is now in this reality the general store owner.

    Trump bellows, “I don’t care if’n you’re worried about some weak old sods headin’ for the last roundup. You Yankees gottsta realize this here sickness serves God’s purpose. It’s like the wolves. They thin the herd! Get it? Huh. Gotta tweet that today.”

    “Ya mean like a little birdy?” wisecracks Robert.

    Trump grabs Robert by his shopkeeper’s blue apron, “Do not get uppity with me, boy! If was up to me you’d be still picking cotton in Georgia where you belong!”

    Robert shakes off Trump’s hand on his shirt and angrily says, seething hate welling in his normally soft eyes, “No doubt as a slave. Nevada’s a free territory, Trump. And I am a free man. My store. My rules. And my rule is this store stays shut until Doc examines everyone for the desert sickness. Only way to stop swapping this disease back and forth tween us like deranged kindergartners!”

    Barr inserts himself between Trump and Robert and says in his usual deadpan droll, “Now, Robert. You, more than most in Corona, have enjoyed the good Sheriff’s protection from the Confederates in here town. Now, son, we’d never want to see you lynched –”

    Trump shoves Barr aside and bellows, “Shut it, Deputy! I give the orders in this here town! And I demand this here General Store reopen today and you get your lazy black ass back on the job, Bobby boy!”

    “You know, runnin’ this little store I get to know a few personal things about the folks in this town. And Sheriff, to be honest — And it’s nice nice to be honest. You should give it try once and while just to keep us guessin’ — There’s a whole lotta things you don’t want me tellin’ your fourth wife Kellyanne about. Like, for example, your “Stormy” twice a week deal with the town whore,” calmly offer Robert.

    Dumbfounded that Robert has boxed him in, Trump sputters, “You’re gonna be sorry, Tulsa. Powerful sorry.”

    “I am already sorry, Donald, I ever moved to your piece of shit you call a town,” says Robert taking Trump and Barr forcefully about the shoulders muscling for the door and tosses them in the street.

    “And you still owe me for that shipment of hydroxychloroquine, Trump!” snarls Robert as he slams the General Store door shut and pulls down the CLOSED window shade.

    Robert turns from the storefront and almost jumps out of his skin at the sight of a Native American. The same one with the stove pipe hat who shot Giuliani. Robert breaths a sigh of relief and says, “Chief! Gotta stop sneaking up on me like that!”

    “Mocasins. I hear all crazy orange one spoke. His venom smells of sulfur,” says the Chief sniffing the air in disgust.

    “Ha. They don’t call you Laughing Skies for nothin’!” laughs Robert, transferring a big bag of grain into the chief’s muscular arms.

    “No joke today, Robert Tulsa. You twist tail of demon,” says the chief.

    “Ah, Trump’s just an old wind bag. Nothinl’ to fret about,” says Robert, trying to convince himself.

    Chief Laughing Skies says sadly, “No. Trump worse than US Cavalry.”

    “Worse?”

    “Blue bellies kill the Paiute. Trump kills own White tribe. Evil spirit,” says Chief Laughing Skies grimly.

    Robert peers out the window at the fuming Trump. “Well, I can tell you one thing for sure, Sheriff Trump’s madder than a wet hen.”

    Outside Robert Tulsa’s General Store, Barr dusts off his boss. Enraged, Trump spins to Barr, “Billy, I want a full investigation into where Robert Tulsa gets his stock foods.”

    “Already done. The blackie gets most of his supplies from a damned Chinaman who visits Corona once a month. In fact, I have conspiracy theory all my own that Bobby was responsible for helpin’ the Chinese bastards spread the desert sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”

    “Hell, yeah! That must be why the Confederate folks are getting sicker faster, ain’t they?” ponders Trump, loving Barr’s conspiracy theory.

    “Yup. Though, a course, Doc said it could also be because, uh, we red doors don’t wash our hands and wear masks,” offers Barr feebly.

    “Never you mind with them new fangled Union notions! Draft up charges and serve that blackie Tulsa. I want him hung by Sunday. Folks do love a good hangin’. Cleanses the soul,” gloats Trump, wishing to himself again that the old west had Twitter.

    An out of breath kid, wearing a blue cloth mask, runs up to Trump and holds out a note. But Trump is too busy kicking Eric the horse in the ass to notice.

    “Ouch! Stop it, Pa!” neighs Eric, who only Trump can hear.

    “That’ll teach you for eatin’ up all the horse pills!” shouts Trump.

    “Those are my horse pills, Pa. For my worms,” neighs Eric.

    “Don’t talk so loud, Eric. The horse pills are secret recipe for stayin’ clear of the desert of the Desert Sickness!” says Trump giving Eric another kick in the horse’s ass. Eric the horse poops on Trump’s boots.

    Townspeople hide the fear in their eyes that the sheriff is talking to a horse, who they only hear as neighs and whinnies. Eric poops mightily.

    “You shit my boots, you stupid nag of a son!” complains Trump.

    “Sorry, Pa. It was the worms made me,” says Eric the horse.

    BOOM! A fireball rises in the desert sky. Debris falls. Townspeople scream.

    The uncle who killed his nephew, seared by the explosion, stumbles from an alley up to Trump and says, proudly saluting, “Sir! Blowed up that town windmill like you asked for, sir!”

    “Huh?” puzzles Trump, still ignoring the kid with a note.

    The murdering uncle adds, “You know, the windmill that pumps water to the town. The one was makin’ everybody get the cancer with that terrible noise.”

    Trump makes the noise,”Whirrr whirr whirr? “

    “Yup! No more whir, whir whir, sir!” says the murdering flashing his lousy toothy grin at Trump.

    Barr worries quietly to Trump, “How we gonna get water without the windmill, Donald?”

    “Why, uh, from the creek, a course!” shouts Trump.

    “Dry Creek dried up. Ain’t rained a drop in Corona for over in a year,” worries Barr.

    “No problemo, sirs. I know a secret spring where the town can get the freshest water in the –” the murdering sycophant’s eyes go wide and he falls face first into the dirt at Trump’s shit covered boots, dead as a doornail.

    Trump steps over the murdering uncle’s body and complains, “Desert sickness again! Where’d my booze hound good for nothin’ Rudy go? Street’s littered with corpses!” Finally spotting the kid with the note Trump bellows, “Seen the undertaker you lousy blue-masked brat?!”

    The boy in the mask bawls, shoves the note in Barr’s chubby hand and runs off.

    Barr opens the note and his eyes go wide.

    “Whut?” growls Trump.

    “Note from Kellyanne,” says Barr offering the note to Trump.

    “Well, read it!”

    “Pray for me, Donald. I have a fever. Love, Kellyanne” says Barr softly.

    “Louder!” yells Trump.

    “PRAY FOR ME, DONALD. I HAVE THE FEVER! LOVE, KELLYANNE!” bellows Barr, hiding any emotion on his rolly polly puss.

    Townspeople red and blue stop dead in their tracks.

    Trump stiffens and preaches piously to the shocked coughing townspeople, holding his Bible high, “Fever? Ha! Who cares? I am the Chosen one! And I hereby choose that my love Kellyanne will not perish of the Desert Sickness! So help me, Trump!”

    “Show’s over, folks Get back to your business! Go on!” Barr shouts at the dazed townspeople.

    Time shifts into high gear. Citizens, masked and unmasked, race up the street as the sun rockets overhead across the western sky. Eight hours pass in the blink of an eye. Night falls like rock.

    Trump happily finds himself on the outskirts of town, standing beside a hanging tree, dressed in a KKK robe, the hood down.

    Atop Eric the horse, Robert Tulsa is surrounded by two dozen KKK members whose Tiki torches light their sinister eyes.

    Trump raises a mug to the stars, “A toast to the end our water troubles…”

    “You’re dad gum genius, sir!” says the amazed Deputy Barr.

    …drinkin’ our own urine!” proclaims Trump to the stunned Klansmen

    Barr discreetly pours his mug of piss into the sand.

    The KKK men raise their mugs of piss, cheering, “For he’s the jolly good fellow!” as they drink the urine through the mouth slits in their hoods.

    Robert says, “Oh my God, Guys, you’re gonna drink piss for Trump? Hang me now!”

    “Ah. Dee-licious!” shouts Trump as he turns from orange to green and vomits. The KKK men lift their hoods and vomit, to the incredulous laughter of Robert.

    “Appears we may still have water problem, sir. — Uh, how’s Kellyanne doin’?” worries Deputy Barr to change the subject.

    “Dang desert sickness got her,” says Trump, wiping his vomit soaked hand on Barr’s leather jacket.

    “Oh, Donald I’m so sorry. So sorry,” says Barr, throwing away his jacket.

    “Yeah. Sure gonna miss Kellyanne’s burgers and gravy,” muses Trump.

    “Is that all — I mean me too,” bumbles Barr.

    “But lookin’ on the bright side….”

    “Here it fuckin’ comes,” mutters Robert to himself.

    “…I’m single again! Yee haw!” cheers Trump, hamming it up for his lynch mob.

    Robert says bitterly, “Let’s get this party over with you and your “fine people”, Mr. Mayor, Reverend, Sheriff and Racist Asshole.”

    Barr cracks Robert in the jaw with the butt of his rifle.

    “As Carona’s mayor, sheriff and reverend I hereby send you straight to hell, Robert Tulsa,” says Trump bitterly.

    Robert spits out blood on Trump’s platform cowboy boots and says, courage lighting his large brown eyes, “I said get on with it. I don’t want the last thing I hear in this life to be your bullshit,” says Robert, the rope tugging at his neck.

    Eric the horse, who only Trump can hear, brays, “He’s heavy, Pa. You’ve been eating all my horse pills. I ain’t got the strength to carry this man.”

    “Well, you’re not gonna have to carry him far, Eric!” shouts Trump.

    Robert twists to face the KKK mob and says,”Trump is talking to a fucking horse. Come on, guys. We gotta rid of this senile mother fucker before he lets the Desert Sickness kill us all!”

    “Nice try but they don’t speak nigger!” laughs Barr.

    The lynch mob laugh so hard the almost laugh their KKK hoods off.

    “Final chance. Speak your last words , boy!” bellows Trump.

    “This is all I got. America was built on the backs of my people and the Native Americans who –”

    Trump smacks his son Eric horse on the butt.

    The KKK men cheer with Trump as Robert chokes.

    BANG! A distant rifle’s sound splits the air and the rope above Robert’s hangmen noose is cut free. Hands tied, Robert kicks Eric hard in his ribs.

    Eric the horse neighs to Trump as he races Robert,” Sorry, Pa!”

    “You traitorous nag!”

    “He kicked me hard, Pa! Sorry!” nays Eric, racing Robert off into the night.

    Trump turns to dumbfounded KKK men and hollers, “Well, don’t none of you grand wizards own a fucking gun?”

    The KKK thugs all fire. All miss.

    Trump forgets his fury. He staggers, suddenly dizzy and cough-says. “Man…

    “Trump’s got the desert sickness! Let’s get the fuck out of here!” shouts the only skinny KKK man. The KKK men thunder off and run smack into Robert, Laughing Skies and the Paiute warriors.

    “Billy, Billy, you gotta help me back to the town., “croaks Trump.

    “Sorry, Donald. It every man for himself. You got the Desert –” BANG!

    Hey there, Buckaroos. I’d say that bullet went through Barr heart. But that old Billy Barr ain’t got no heart.

    All is darkness. Black as the soul of Donald J. Trump. Trump floats over the desert in a hospital bed… intubated.

    A fly lands on Trump’s nose. He squints, trying to remove the fly, shakes his head, best as he can, but the fly sticks.

    Trump finally notices the fly has the face of his father, Fred Trump. Fred the fly shouts,”You’re no good, Donnie. You’re no good. You’re going to even fuck up getting Covid. Aren’t ya? You’re a fuck up, Donnie. You’re a fuck up, Donnie. You’re a fuck up, Donnie. You fuck up everything!”

    Trump groans in agony.

    “Can’t believe I gave you three million dollars a year when you were a baby. You’re not worth three cents now!

    A Black hand reaches out from nowhere, swats the fly away and disappears instantly. Trump breathes a sign of relief when he sees the lights of Corona in the distance. Trump swims through the air with his arms, pulling the hospital bed floating towards the city.

    He looks down and sees a celebration taking place in the town square, headed up by no other than Robert Tulsa, who announces, “Citizens of Corona it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you our new Sheriff. Sheriff Barrack Obama!

    Barack dances onto the stage and hugs Robert to the wild applause of the townspeople, all wearing American flag masks. Sheriff Barrack is flanked by the Paiute chief Laughing Skies and his band of warriors, who bravely rescued Robert and defeated the KKK.

    Floating high above in his hospital bed ,Trump moans in agony as Barrack launches into a speech, “If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is still a place where all things are possible…”

    Back in the real world Robert Tulsa is enjoying watching Obama’s 2008 victory speech on the hospital TV in Trump’s room. A fly lands on the intubated Trump’s nose. Robert swats the fly away. And we notice this the same hand that swatted the fly away in Trump’s fever dream.

    Suddenly, Dr. Fauci enters. He panics at the sight of Obama’s victory video playing and says a bit amused, “Robert, what are you doing here? You can’t play that kind of thing while Trump is sleeping! It’s gonna get into his mind and it’s going to totally screw with his dreams wherever he is in his coma!”

    Robert quickly remotes the TV off and asks, “Is the President gonna make it, Doc?”

    Worried, Fauci speculates, “I don’t know… There’s a lot of horse medicine in him.”

    To Be Continued in Chapter 6 – Mt. Rushmore and the Bunker Rebels

    REAL FEVER DREAMS

    Sadly Covid-19 patients can end up intubated in an induced coma on a respirator for weeks on end, even months. The odds of a virus patient ever regaining consciousness drop daily the longer someone remains on a respirator. Strangely, Trump’s terrible fever dreams of choking and dying over and over again in elaborate ways I depict in this story are something I intuited weeks ago before this story from Atlantic.

    Special thanks to my wife Elizabeth England for her fine portrayal of Kelly Anne Conway as a Southern belle in the West.

    As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers the Supreme Court, or for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.

    Phew. It takes months to make these audio recording. Donate at the link below to keep my one of a kind quantum space time meditational audio entertainment and enlightening content flowing.

    Donate for the Coolest in stories and meditation.

  • Chapter 4 – GQP Of The Damned

    Note: Chapter 4 GQP of the Damned contains scenes that some people may find offensive for zombie violence, political parody and explicit language, while others may find it incredibly entertaining. Pro-tip: If you choose to listen over reading be sure to scroll down to see GQP zombie art.

    TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM is set in an alternate universe, where another Trump caught Covid six months before our own Big Lie fostering leader. A stupid occurrence in our parallel reality that did require me to be psychic to predict; watching him go mask-less at big rallies

    Special thanks to Senator Rand Paul, banned from YouTube this week for sharing Covid disinformation, and who may be guilty of profiting from such, for being the horrific inspiration that finally gave me the climax to Chapter 4 and the final title.

    We now join…

    Chapter 4 – GQP OF THE DAMNED

    Meanwhile one timeline away…

    Trump’s Black body man, Robert Tulsa, runs back into the Presidential bedroom where President Trump has collapsed of Covid. He stops dead in his tracks shocked to see Trump strangling on a bed sheet twisted around his neck.

    Robert hesitates rescuing the choking Trump. “Lord Jesus guide me on what to do,” prays Robert.

    We enter Trump’s right eye,  travel down his optic nerve, and enter his Adderall befuddled mind.

    Off in the darkness, a small yellow speck sparkles in the distance.

    Trump looks down at himself, happy to see he’s out of his paper hospital gown and spiffed up in his favorite blue power suit, complete with his clownishly long red tie. He’s surprised to see he’s wearing shinny red vinyl dancing shoes that match his hilarious orange afro.

    The bouncing yellow speck grows in size to form a Marimba dancer, complete with Carmen Miranda’s famed fruit hat. The dancer rockets up to Trump, who is stunned to see the dancer is none other than Sean Spicer… in Marimba drag!

    Sean sweeps Trump into a passionate dance. Trump laughs and says, “Learned a few things on Dancing With the Stars, Spicey, I see.”

    “Touche!” shouts Spicer, spinning Trump like a rolly-polly punching doll.

    “Enough!” growls Trump. A crowd of thousands of red hatted MAGA rally goers cheer wildly. Trump does a bow and the crowd goes absolutely ape shit. Spicer gracefully takes Trump back into the dance.

    “Welcome back, sir. Oh, look who we have for dance judges!” sings Sean.

    Trump notices the dance judges are none other than the nine members of the Supreme Court. Bret Kavenugh sneaks a swig of beer and flashes Trump a thumbs up. While Ruth Bader Ginsberg blows a raspberry.

    Trump grouses, “Fuck this. I will not dance for the likes of Ruth Libtard Ginsberg.”

    Trump struggles free himself of the dancing Spicer, but the smaller man is supernaturally strong.

    “Let’s Marimba!” sings Sean. He yanks Trump by his long red tie down to his eye level and whisper sings in Trump’s ear, “You don’t understand, sir. Sing and dance or the judges will give you a death sentence.”

    “Death sentence?!” says Trump.

    “Afraid a lot has changed since you vanished two years ago, sir. Dance like your life depends on it. Because it does!”

    Across the shinny black stage, the Fox & Friends team provide color commentary as the crowd of Trump fans continue to adore their returned king.

    “Good evening, America! 5,000 plus Trump fans are here tonight at the Miami’s Hard Rock Sports Stadium to welcome back the great President Donald Trump!” says Doocy with a big silly grin to the Fox cameras.

    The cheering crowd waves Trump 2024 flags and shout “Welcome back, President Trump!”

    “Lots of GOP VIPs here tonight too,” adds Kilmead. The cameras point to Senator Ted Cruz, Governor Christi Noem, and the usual GQP suspects.

    “Oh my God, Trump is an amazing dancer and his new hair style is revolutionary.” says Ainsley giggling about Trump’s orange afro.

    “Any minute now we expect President Schwarzenegger to arrive. But here comes his Vice President Chris Christie. A word Chris?” says Ducey.

    “Sure,” says Chris as he signs an autograph from a sweet old woman with a MAGA hat. “What’s your name, hon?”

    “Mindy!” chirps the sweet old lady. Veep Christie signs with a flourish, collects a smooch and turns to Doocy.

    “How does President Schwarzenegger feel about the mysterious return of President Trump?” says Doocy.

    “Well, after President Trump was declared dead after he vanished two years ago, a lot of Trump’s unfinished work has fallen on Arnold’s big shoulders,” says Vice President Christie.

    “Ha ha. Not an answer, Chris.” teases Kilmead.

    “With three million dead of Covid, rumors of the DeSantis variant 3 that’s strictly attacking the white community, now might be a good time for you to drop the smart-ass routine, Kill-mead.”

    “Any truth to rumors of a new zombie variant?” says Ainsley batting her eyes flirtatiously.

    “Zombie variant? Q shit?” chides a concerned Vice President Christie.

    “Hmm. No comment,” demurs Ainsley.

    “I’ll close by saying, President Schwarzenegger and I are in total agreement that my old pal Trump has a lot to answer for when it comes to the three million and counting death toll and dangerous new variant that ravaged America until President Schwarzenegger stepped in,” says Vice President Christie.

    “Are you saying, Mr Vice President, that President Schwarzenegger is going to ask the DOJ investigate Trump’s handling of the pandemic?” asks Doocy, hoping for a scoop.

    Without answering, Christie slowly turns away from the Fox & Friends trio and strides, whistling, for the VIP box. Mitch McConnell beckons to the VP to a saved seat between himself and a selfie taking Tucker Carlson.

    “Swell. I’m stuck between the Russian turtle and and Tucker the fucker,” mutters VP Christie to himself.

    Trump yelps as Sean yanks his red tie so hard that he sends Trump spinning like pinball into a giant pinball machine set. Trump — a red, white and blue blur — hits a bumper that lights up:

    IMPEACHMENT FARCE – Ding, Ding, Ding!

    Trump flies, screaming towards more bumpers that light up in rapid succession as he rolls into and off them.

    3 MILLION DEAD OF COVID! – Bong!

    WORST PRESIDENT EVER – Bing, Bing, Bong, Bong!

    CHEATS ON PREGNANT WIFE WITH A PORN STAR – Dong, Ding!

    TAX CHEAT – Wha-Err-Err!

    BRIBE-O-RAMA – Cha-ching! Cha-chong!

    RELIGIOUS FAKE – Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

    BLEACH DRINKER – BOOM!  BAM!- GAME OVER!

    Bursting from a cloud of smoke, Trump tumbles down the giant pinball machine set and falls on his orange face to the black shinny stage floor. Trump struggles to his two left feet. All to the wild applause of red capped MAGA rally goers.

    In the stands, Governor Noem says softly, “His fans still love him.”

    “Schwartzengger’s in deep trouble if Trump seeks to be reinstalled.” chuckles Mitch.

    Trump sees himself dancing with Sean on the Jumbotron screen, “How the fuck did I end up with a damn orange, afro?” says Trump as he tries to pull off the wig. “Damn it! This clown wig is stuck!”

    “Oh, don’t worry, sir. Your new fro is gorgeous,” sings Sean.

    A zombie who once was Senator Ron Paul, emerges at the top of the stands and talks to no one but himself cackling, “Look ma! No masks!” Zombie Ron Paul hungrily eyes a burly Hell’s Angels biker. “You vaccinated?”

    “Do I look like a Covidiot? Ha!” The zombie Senator leaps upon the biker’s back and chomps the biker’s tattooed shoulder. The biker yelps and instantly transforms to a fellow zombie. Biker and Senator go to bloody work making more zombies.

    Clueless to the instant zombie apocalypse racing through the five thousand strong crowd. Trump bows and gloats, “Yeah! I still got it, Spicey!” shouts Trump, beaming a million watt smile in the spotlight to his Trumpies… who are rapidly turning into a zombie horde.

    “Look at me!  Look at me tap, tap, tap. The best tapper ever. The most super epic tap dancer who ever tapped a tune!” signs the off-key and bad dancer Trump.

    In the stands, Sweet old lady Mindy is bitten by zombie Ron Paul and transforms in the blink of a bloodshot eye into a flesh eating zombie. She hungrily eyes Vice President Chris Christie as he flees newly minted GOP VIP zombies. “Stay away from me, Tucker. Stay away.!” shouts the terrified Christie.  The old lady leaps forty feet into the air and chomps into the screaming Veep’s fat leg.

    The applauding crowd of now 90% freshly minted zombie Trumpies still have the love of Trump in their eyes.

    “We love Trump!  We love Trump!” says the zombie horde as one.

    Sean panics and yanks Trump back into the Marimba and whisper sings, “The judges hate your tap dancing!”

    “Well, I didn’t pick Brett and Neil for their good taste.”

    “But the crowd… something seems terribly wrong.” .

    “You worry to much, Spicer. Remember how you gave yourself an goddamn ulcer when I told you, ‘Tell the presser that my inauguration crowd was the largest ever?’” laughs Trump.

    Trump and Spicey quick-turn away from the crowd an instant before a wave of biting and grotesque zombie transformations races through the audience stands behind them.

    The Original 2020 draft’s Chapter title

    Oh no! Look at Moscow Mitch! He’s zombie!”

    “Relax. Mitch always looks like a fucking zombie,” pants Trump.

    The curtains part and none other President Arnold Schwarzenegger struts onto the stage, a bevy of beauties on each arm and says warmly,  “Donald, it’s so good to see you. I can’t believe what a good tap dancer you are! I’m sorry the judges don’t like it. I thought it was awesome, man.”

    “So you think president now, huh?” grouses Trump.

    “Oh, Donald, you’re always so funny.

    Two high-fiving Trump zombies leap iknock each others arms off.

    “But you weren’t born in America. How can you be president?” demands the clueless Trump.

    “Because the people needed me, Donald.  They needed me after your terrible presidency.”

    “Well, I’m back now. Doesn’t that mean I’m president?” angles Trump.

    “I’m afraid not, Donald.”

    “Shit.”

    “I’m going to into the audience now, with your wonderful followers. Oh, wait… they’re all zombies.” says Arnold in shock.

    Zombie Representative Jim Jordan dives for Arnold. But Arnold swings a folding chair an knocks zombie Jordan’s ugly head off and says, “Wrestle that!”

    “You killed my Congressional hatchet man, you mother fucker!”

    President Schwarzenegger watches in shock as his bevy of beauties are devoured by Trump zombies and says softly, “We are in great danger. Very quietly we speak.”

    “What?” shouts the hard of hearing Trump.

    “Quiet, you fool! They’ll hear you!”

    Screen Shot 2021-06-30 at 5.21.50 PM.png

    “MAGA, MAGA, MAGA, “says a badly decaying Trump Zombie, who looks like she may have once might been South Dakota Governor Kristi Noem.

    “Whoa! That you, Kristi?” asks Trump.

    “Donald, no!” shouts Arnold, spinning Trump to face him as the zombie Trumpers grow hungrier and more restless.

    “Relax, Terminator. These are my fans. Nothing to worry about!” chides Trump. Her biker chic biker’s outfit dripping blood, Noem stalks Trump.

    “Donald, Duck!” says Arnold pulling a .357 Magnum.

    “Hey! I’m no cartoon –“

    “Duck you fool !” shouts Arnold shoving Trump to the floor. Bang! Governor Noem’s head explodes.

    Arnold gloats, “Consider this a recall!”

    “Swell. There goes my shot at Mt. Rushmore.”

    “Oh, you’re going to take the place of Lincoln, huh?” quips Arnold.

    “Go to hell! She was a Republican!”

    Arnold picks off a zombie that’s come too close. BANG!

    “Republican? Donald, they’re a bunch of flesh eating zombies! Your Goddamn handling of the virus caused a mutation!”

    “It is what it is,” says Trump with a shrug. “I’m still taking you court where Neil and Brett owed me!”

    “Look at the Supreme Court. They’re insane! They got this hive mind! And they’re going to blow us up if we’re not careful!” shouts President Schwarzenegger, taking aim.

    As if on cue, laser beams shoot from Gorsuch’s eyes. But the shot at Arnold misses and instead slices Brett Kavenaugh in two. Kavenaugh says, “Ha! Ha! Split decision.” Kavenaugh’s cut in two body comes apart with a sickening slurp. 

    “Fuck! There goes the conservative majority,” bitches Trump.

    “Mr. President, so yummy, yummy,” says a sweet looking female zombie.

    “So tasty. Like a big blo0d orange,” says a male zombie in a fuck Hillary T-shirt.

    “Oh-oh. Your Trumpies are looking at you like you’re a goddamn Happy meal!” warns Arnold.

    “You’re just jealous because my fans love me. They love me!”

    “Look, they think you’re delicious!” shouts President Schwarzenegger. BANG!

    “Trump can I have a selfie?” says a Proud Boy zombie.

    “Sure,” says Trump.

    “Are you insane? Run, you goddamn fool!” BANG! Arnold blows the zombie Proud Boy away and yanks Trump into a run.

    A zombie that looks like he used to be either Ted Cruz or the Wolverine steps slowly for Trump, “Hamburders. So good. He’s full of hamburders.” Cruz roars as he dives for Trump.

    BANG! Arnold blows Cruz’s head off.

    “Have a nice cruise.”

    “Why you gotta do that?” grouses Trump.

    “Do what?”

    “Make a wisecrack every time you shoot somebody?” pouts Trump.

    “It’s my trademark. Get over it Donald!” shouts Arnold.

    Arnold’s good shooting frees Ruth Bader Ginsberg from the Supreme Court hive mind. Gorsuch fires another laser blast at Ruth. BANG! Arnold blows Thomas’ head off.

    “Guess he’ll never be head of the supreme court.”

    “Thanks, you big hunk of hero!” says Ruth blowing a kiss to Aronold as she exits the giant sound stage. But Trump and Arnold are blocked by the hundreds of angry zombie Trumpies.

    “Dear God I smell something awful. Wait… Have you pooped your pants, Donald?”

    “Stop ordering me around, Schwarzenegger! I’m the real fucking president!” barks Trump just as zombie Mitch McConnell dives, green teeth bared, for Trump’s neck. 

    “Oh, it’s you, Donald. I must tell you the greatest regret I have of my career is that I was not able to defeat Obamacare for you,” sobs McConnell as he dives for Trump. Blood splatters Donald.

    “Turtle soup!”

    “Now ya did it!” shouts Trump.

    “Did what?”

    “Putin’s gonna be pissed you killed Moscow Mitch!”

    “Shut up and move, you out of shape hamburger brain! Now! Now! Now!” shouts President Schwarzenegger, shoving Trump into a maze set of mirrored walls, the Trump zombie horde hot on their heels.

    “I had way, way better ratings on The Apprentice than you did, Arnold!” gripes Trump.

    “Fuck you, Donald. Go right!” says President Schwarzenegger. But Trump comes to a stubborn stop. ” Go right,I said! You love right don’t you?”

    “Wait, wait up.” pants Trump. “Ah, ah, oh. I feel like I’m gonna see DeSantis pop out here any second. Ha ha.”

    “Don’t worry about that, Donald,” says Arnold.

    “Why not?” ask Donald fearfully,

    Well, he was killed when you were gone, wherever it was you went.”

    “Killed how?”

    “Well, there was this parent teacher conference. A lot of the parents had lost their little ones. And… I can’t even talk about it. Just move you fucker!” bellows Arnold.

    The mindless Trump zombies are lost in the maze, buying the duo a bit of time.

    Trump pants and says badly out of breath, “Wow. I’d be more scared if these zombies were black.”

    The Trump variant of the virus only makes White people into zombies, Donald. Thanks a lot.”

    “Oh those damn Chinese,” quips Trump.

    “Pathetic! I hope some day when you have passed, Donald, hopefully of the covid you allowed to spread and mutate, that scientists crack open your thick skull and study what makes you the greatest racist in world history!” says Arnold running into the maze.

    “Enough! I ain’t budging until you agree that I am the rightful president, Schwarzenegger,” pouts Trump.

    “I inherited a shit-hole US of A when you abandoned ship in 2020. For two years I’ve been cleaning up your Goddamn mess and I am so done with this! So fuck you! Fuck you, Donald you’re on your own!” says Arnold running off into the maze.

    Trump shouts after Arnold, “Foreigner!  I was twice — Uh oh!” Trump’s tirade is cut short as the Trump zombie horde spin around the corner behind close in his heels. Trump spins and say, “My brave, Trump fans! Halt!” says Trump making  a Nazi salute.

    The Trump zombies all freeze in their tracks and return Trump’s Nazi salute shouting, “Heil, Trump! Heil Trump!”

    High above, perched in the rafters, watching the show, the angel winged ghost of Martin Luther King passes a bag of ghostly popcorn to the ghost of LBJ and says sadly, “All I can say, Lyndon, is I’m glad Trump’s not one of my flock”

    LBJ says, “Well, the orange clown sure as hell ain’t one of my flock either, Martin.” frowning down on the Trump zombies offering Trump a Nazi salute.

    The maze, seen from this ghostly high vantage point, is a horrific collection of interwoven Nazi symbols.

    Meanwhile, on the glossy sound stage floor in the maze below, a zombie, who was once Tucker Carlson, steps from the zombie horde,” Mr. President…” groans zombie Tucker.

    “That you, Tucker? Wow. Good to see you, man,” says Trump happily.

    Zombie Tucker nods and says sheepishly, “Ah, I’m sorry, sir.”

    “Sorry for what, Tuck?”

    “Well… You look great.”

    “Thanks, Tuck. You… not so great.” says Trump sheepishly.

    “I’m so hungry, sir. All the Big Macs you packed away. — Sorry, sir. I gotta eat you!” Tucker races from the crowd of Trump zombies for Trump.

    “Tucker, you’re canceled.” BANG!  “Come with me, Donald if you want to live!”

    “Wait. Where have I heard that line?

    FUCK YOU! THIS IS NOT A GOD DAMN TRIVA SHOW!”

    “Hey, I’ve got Proud Boys who will beat the living shit out of you for speaking to me in such a rude -“

    “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I think I found a way out.”

    “No. I love my fans.”

    The Trump zombies all smile at Trump suddenly.

    “See? My Trumpies… Wait a minute… I have a zombie army!” says Trump.

    “What the hell did America ever see in you?” shouts Arnold as he dashes off again.

    The red capped zombies begin to inch for Trump. “Stop!” shouts Trump again, doing his Nazi salute. But the zombies pick up speed. Not much, but they do pick up speed. Trump freezes in his tracks as the zombies claw over each other.

    Suddenly, Spicer appears from nowhere to the rescue. “So grateful!  You’re safe, sir! The Trump zombies listen and obey my song!” sings Spicer, thrusting his pelvis. “Halt!  You fabulous bastards!”

    Before Trump can say another word a badly overweight zombie leaps upon Sean Spicer. “Not the hat! Don’t touch the hat!” screams Sean. And rips him to shreds, splattering Trump is Sean’s blood. “Chris?”

    “It’s always about the bridge. The bridge…” mutters zombie VP Chris Christie.

    A horribly deformed Vice President Chris Christie spots Trump just as Trump spots him.

    “Chris, is that you?” says Trump.

    You! You gave me Covid, you stupid bastard! Now we gotta eat your delicious ass!  Dinner’s served, gang!” says zombie Chris Christie as he dives for Trump… and Trump somehow easily dodges Christie.

    Trump easily keeps dodging as he taunts,  “Slowpokes. Always did prefer the movies where the zombies are slow as fuck. Whoa! Gotta tweet that!” says Trump pulling out his cell phone and tweeting as he runs through the blood soaked mirror maze. “I love my twitter. Love Facebook even more. Yeah, social media. That’s where I get all my power and I got the tech nerds wrapped around my gigantic little finger.”

    Christie dives for Trump and misses.

    “Gettin’ tired yet Christie? You are one slow as fuck of zombie. Hahahahaha!”

    Trump far behind, Arnold dashes through the maze. He stops to look at himself in the mirrored wall of the maze and says to his reflection, “For as old as fuck as I am right now, I still look better than –,” A zombie wearing a cheese hat jumps out in front of Arnold, waving an AK-47. Very slowly of course. Arnold gets the drop on him and BANG! Arnold notices the zombie he just shot is wearing a Congressional pin. “Oh, fuck. I think I just shot Ron Johnson.” Arnold yanks the machine gun from Johnson cold dead hand and says, “Oh well. No loss.”

    The cocky Trump turns the corner and stops dead in his tracks facing his greatest enemy… a long… long… “RAMP. This is it. Impossible. No one could make it down. I’m finished,” croaks Trump as the slow moving zombie horde closes in on the frozen Trump. “This is it for me.”

    “My brother President, I am here to save you!” shouts Arnold mass executing zombies with the AK-47 he took off Ron Johnson.

    “You’re not my brother President. You’re a foreigner. You’re not president.”

    “Goddamnit. Let me save you, you stupid fuck!” says Arnold as he easily runs down the ramp. “Baby steps, Donald. Try baby steps.”

    Trump waddles down the ramp, slow as shit.

    “Oh my God! What is it with you and ramps?” says Arnold sending dozens of zombie to their graves.

    “Do not fucking rush me, Schwarzenegger. I will not end up with a hip surgery!”

    “Hip surgery? You need a brain surgery!” shouts Arnold, picking off ten Congressmen zombies closing in on Trump with the AK-47. “And you’re welcome for my saving you.”

    Foreigner! I’m the president!”

    “Hurry! I don’t have unlimited bullets here, you know!” shouts Arnold, polishing off a baker’s dozen of Trump zombies.

    Trump finally makes it to the bottom of the ramp. Trump fast walks with his arms as he slow walks with his feet.

    “You’re not fooling anyone with that ‘fuck you’ walk of yours, Donald”

    The equally slow moving zombie Christie reemerges from the Trump zombie horde. Trump shouts at Arnold, “Well, what are you waiting for? Shoot him!”

    “I will not shoot my goddamn Vice President. You’re on your own, Donald. Again!” says Arnold running off into the maze.

    “Let’s cut this fat orange fuck down to size, boys and girls. He’s had so many Fish Fillets we can all feast on one of his chubby thighs for a week!” shouts Christie. The growing zombie horde becomes more determined, as they slowly move for Trump, who is quickly running out of maze.

    Trump finally gets it and runs as fast as his fat legs can carry him. Trump dodges through the mirrored maze and comes face to face with the entire Fox and Friends gang. The trio of Fox zombies have muted into an 8 foot tall three headed drooling monster.

    Trump says nervously, “Hey, hey, how you three doin’? Whoa! Love that new look. It shouts GOP unity!”

    The Fox and Friends giant Zombie rips the orange clown afro wig off Trump’s head, leaving Trump completely bald.

    The deformed head of Doccy does all the talking,”You, fucking evil clown! You made us lie about the Covid every Goddamn day. You’ve killed us! You’ve killed the world! Get him!”

    Trump pulls off his long red tie and forms a silk lasso. Trump’s red lasso swirls and  snags the not so friendly Fox & Friends. Trump dashes off, amazingly light on his feet for such a fat man.

    “Sir, lie to us! We love your lies,” shouts Ainsley, despite angry glares from the heads of Kilmead and Doccy.

    Trump freezes in his tracks and riffs, “OK… How’s this one? The Chinese vaccines caused to mutation that made you sweethearts into a three-head giant zombie, not me!”

    The tied up trio all confer with each other, speaking in some kind of weird zombie language. Ducey says, “Breaking News! “Trump and the other zombies watch Doocy with great anticipation. “Kill this lying sack of shit!”

    The tied up Fox and Friends zombies, followed in slow pursuit by Christie. The zombie smash in side of mirror. Glass flies as Trump tap dances away.

    Trump loses the zombies in the maze again except for one with an especially bad hairdo. He turns the corner and

    “Rand, that you, brother?”

    “Mister, President! How’ve you been, sir? says zombie Rand Paul saluting, Spicer’s severed head dangling from his other hand.

    Trump says, trying to sound brave, “I, ah… Touched that you’re worried about me, Rand. Even,even, even though you’re a, a, ah.”

    “A what?” says Rand Paul as he casually takes a huge bite out of Sean Spicer’s shocked severed head.

    “Uh, um, ah… flesh eating zombie,” blurts Trump.

    “I’m no a zombie. I’m a God fearing patriot!” slobbers zombie Rand Paul, wiping blood from his mouth with his tattered suit sleeve.

    “Yay freedom?” offers Trump feebly, eyeing a pathway to safety.

    “Yes, sir! Freedom to experiment on myself. I am an eye doctor! So I see all, Donald! Why, I’m the new proto-human! One bite and you’re one of us, Donald!

    Trump is cornered. He slides to the floor in a fetal position, sucking his thumb.

    Be –” BANG! Arnold blows a hole Rand Paul’s chest — “free!”

    But zombie Rand Paul keeps coming for Trump. “Free not to mask!” BANG! Arnold blows off Paul’s right leg.

    “Free not to vax!” BANG! Arnold blows off Paul’s left arm.

    But Paul keeps hopping for Trump who shrieks in terror as Paul shouts, “FREEDOM!

    “Time for your headshot, Senator Randedsivir! Smile!”

    Arnold blows off zombie Rand’s head, finally bringing the zombie spreader down at Trump’s orange shoes.

    “Well, one thing for certain Senator Paul has shown me.”

    “What? says Trump as he barfs in Arnold’s face.

    “Stupid is hard to kill. A blessing for you, President Exorcist,” says President Schwarzenegger as he wipes Trump vomit from his face.

    “Congrats traitor, you offed another hero of the right,” groans Trump.

    “Hero?!”

    “No one, except me, did more to free the people from the tyranny of masking and vaxxing, than Rand fucking Paul!”

    “Ingrate. How many fucking times must I rescue you from your GQP of the damned?”

    “The truth, Arnold, why the hell do you keep you saving me?”

    “Waste of breath to to seek to explain what being a good president means to someone like you.”

    “You’re not the real president, immigrant! I am!” shouts Trump, trying to mean it.

    “President? You’re nothing but a deluded method actor whose believes his own fictions, Donald,” says Arnold, beyond.

    “Phony. You’re a Nazi at heart, Arnold. Admit it!”

    President Schwarzenegger ignores Trump to ponder a series of five doors the duo has reached, labeled in neon with the years 2020 though 2024. The sound of the Trumpies near as Arnold shouts, “Your voters are coming! Pick a door, Donald!”

    Trump slowly walks up the pentagonal formation of doors, “Well, 2024 looks good because I can easily defeat you in a rigged election.”

    “I already tried that door, you fool. It’s locked!” shouts Arnold as the sound of the zombies gets closer.

    “Well, 2021 then. I’ll have won the election against you, even that fucker Biden if he ever shows up from Antarctica.” says Trump with a smirk, opening then door. But Trump is stunned to see a angry mob of red capped insurrectionists, chasing Mike Pence as they shout, “Hang Mike Pence! Hang Mike Pence!” Trump slams the 2021 door shut and says, “What the fuck was that?”

    “Oh, just some of your Proud Boys you’re so proud of!” grouses President Schwarzenegger.

    “Stand back and stand by, baby!” says Trump proudly.

    Trump zombies, some of whom Trump saw at the glimpse of insurrection before they were zombie, spin around the corner.

    “Time is up asshole! Pick another door!” barks Schwarzenegger as he mows down the endless supply of Trump zombies.

    Trump yanks open the 2023 door and comes face to face with a surgically masked Dr. Fauci who says, “Hi Mr. Former President. Just spitballing here but maybe you’re really in the ICU, having a Covid nightmare, driven by guilt over the death of millions.”

    “Fuck you, Fauci. I don’t do guilt!” Trump slams the 2023 door in Fauci’s face.

    “You comin’?” says Trump to Arnold.

    “We’re already in 2022.”

    “Think positive. Picture a zombie free MAGA 2022,” snarls Trump as he yanks open the 2022 door and comes face to face with a fat zombie Mike Pence who croaks, “Donald?”

    “Mikey? Haha. Mikey, man! So good to see you, buddy,” says Trump hiding his terror with a cough.

    “The insurrection. Why did you send the Trumpies to hang me on January 6th?” says Pence.

    “Uh, must be some kinda antifa trick. I’d never sick my Trumpies on you, buddy.  Not me. I’m from 2020!  We never had the insurrection. I swear, Mike!”

    Pence scowls, “Huh. Why don’t I believe you, Donald?” He unhooks his jaw and swallows Trump whole.

    “Mother Mary of God! — How does he taste, though?” wonders President Schwarzenegger.

    Pence burps and says somberly, “Like hamburgers. What else?”

    Pence’s gaping maw transforms to Trump’s personal attendant Robert, giving Trump mouth to mouth. “Like breathing into a football!” says Robert out of breath.

    The unconscious Trump is back in his White House bedroom in the good old present day April 25, 2020. Jared and Ivanka, dressed to a glittery hilt for a formal dinner, both look on nervously.

    Ivanka whispers to Jared, “What in holy hell was daddy singing about? Some kind of hive mind?”

    Jared whispers to the sobbing Ivanka, “Should Robert be reviving your dad?”

    “So what if Robert’s black? Father is no racist!” sobs Ivanka loudly enough to interrupt Robert.

    “Can you two keep it down for a minute?” says Robert, taking a breath from resuscitating Trump.

    “That’s not what I meant. You’re always so critical!’ bitches Jared.

    Robert stops mouth to mouthing Trump and says drolly, “Kids, do you mind putting your the universe-revolves-me-white-shit aside for 5 minutes while I –“

    “Does OUR father have resuscitation order, Robert?” shouts Jared to the incredulous Robert.

    Ivanka beats on Jared’s tiny chest,”JARED! Let Robert try to save Father until the paramedics get here.”

    “Ah ha. I get it. Make it look like we care. But seriously, Father dies we take over the presidency,” whispers Jared to Ivanka, who finally gets it with small nod of collusion.

    “Hmm. Robert. Um, does my father have a resuscitation order?”

    Robert rolls his eyes at Jared and Ivanka and goes back to saving Trump with mouth to mouth.

    TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5 – THE COVID KID (NEXT DRAFT RENAMED: THE DESERT SICKNESS)

    A big thanks once again to my talented wife Elizabeth England for playing all the female parts in this 2021 reading. No disrespect to the fallen of Covid intended here. The spread of which has been horrifically fostered by rampant disinformation by social media influencers, Fox News and its right-wing imitators. America and the world must wake up to the dangers of the variants. Taken here to the extreme of a zombie apocalypse.

    As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers the Supreme Court, or for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.

    Whoa! Alternate reality President Arnold Schwarzenegger is here and wants a word with you!

    Listen up, America! My good friend Ken Sheetz is busting his flabby ass to bring you laughs and wild adventures, in a time of sorrow; to show you just how fucked up your world can be if you don’t defeat your Trump once and for all, along with all the lying losers in the GQP!  Make a god damn donation, you cheap bastards, to help Ken keep bringing you more chapters and more old-style radio show audio and make sure that… I’ll be back.

    Donate for the Coolest in stories and meditation.

    Click TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM in the menu bar top of the page to read all your chapters. Be good, little Trumpies. Be good.

    Bonus added for Halloween or as I am calling it this year where justice feels like slow torture: Trumpoween.

  • Chapter 3 – Hate is a Virus

    This is a hard fictional story to write. Frankly, it makes my heart, mind and soul hurt deeply to watch President Donald Trump fail to daily take responsibility for his slow and poor response to the #coronavirus. His “briefings” have become a near total scam of free campaign media where he lies and sends his followers to their early Covid deaths.

    Topping this Trump’s halted funding the World Health Organization in the middle of this pandemic to, IMHO and many others, deflect blame from his YUGE ego.

    And now, without further ado I present…

    HV TFD FINAL FOR TWITTER AND BLOG

    CHAPTER 3 – HATE IS A VIRUS

    Meanwhile… one timeline away.

    Robert gazes over his surgical mask at the full moon hanging over the White Hospital, formerly the White House. His deep brown eyes, which were all smiles a few minutes ago chatting with his mysteriously returned boss, are now filled with his true feelings of contempt for Trump.

    In the distance, Trump tires to bully his way past a short, overweight and disbelieving Hispanic security guard.

    “I tell you I am President Trump!”

    “Hola. And I am Barrack Obama.”

    “You’re almost the right color,” says Trump bitterly.

    “Got any ID, smartass?” says the security guard dryly.

    “Uh, no.”

    “Why not?” says the security guard.

    “Because, I ah, I got here buck naked on the back of this, uh, yuge time traveling butterfly?” says Trump, absentmindedly kicking a cigarette with his inflamed barefoot.

    Trump flashes back.

    “Look, whatever kinda butterfly you rode in on, Covid-Kid! With no ID I don’t let you in. This here is a hospital. We got sick dying VIPs here aplenty. And with no ID you ain’t no one!”

    “Rudi Guliani in there?” says Trump trying to muscle past the smaller guard.

    “Top secret,” says the security guard shoving Trump so hard that the would be king stumbles backwards.

    “Nasty! You’ll be sorry you laid hands on me!” says Trump dusting himself off from imaginary fleas.

    “Right. So sorry, Mister President. Now hop back on your butterfly and buzz the fuck off!”

    Fifty yards of social distancing away from arguing the Trump and the stone faced security guard, Robert pulls down his surgical mask to light up a fresh stogie. Smoke glides in the moonlight and takes the shape of an old woman’s face.

    “Grandma…,” whispers Robert to himself.

    Robert closes his deep brown eyes and looks deep into his recent past with his inner eye. He is back in his family’s rundown DC apartment. He gazes sadly down at his dying grandmother Annie, a beautiful light skinned African American, well into in her seventies.

    “Breathe deep Grandma. Relax. I got you. Please breathe,” says Robert patting Annie on her back.

    “How’d I get this damn virus walled off from the world?” says Annie going into a coughing fit.

    “I think the devil himself musta gave it to me. Then I gave it to you.”

    “Not your fault Trump infected you, Bobby.”

    “I had a test. Musta been a false negative. Trump never did standardize tests fore he vanished.” says Robert bitterly.

    “Maybe all that hate he had for our people turned his fat ass to dust,” coughs Annie.

    “That’s it. I’m taking you to the ER, Grandma.”

    “No! I don’t wanna die in one of them zoos — cough — they call a hospital. I’ll die right here in our family home just like your father and big brother did,” says Grandma in spurts. “Now, Bobby. You’re gonna be all alone. So can you promise me one thing?”

    “Anything, Grandma.”

    “You mighta caught Trump’s covid but don’t catch his hate.”

    “Aw, don’t ask me that, Grandma… cause I think it’s too late,” croaks Robert.

    “Hate’s a virus, love.”

    “I know, Grandma. I know all too damn well. But after losing Dad and –“

    Grandma Annie stops breathing and goes into a violent seizure. Her tender eyes go still.

    Robert’s teary vision returns to the present. He grimly watches Trump idiotically arguing with the stubborn security guard.

    Trump rages,”Look you Mexcian pinjata brain, just let me take off my mask and you’ll see who the hell I am!”

    “Pull down that mask, I shoot dead you on the spot,” says the security guard pulling his gun.

    This only infuriates Trump more and he bellows,” A gun?! You pull a gun on the President of the United States! I’ll have your peon job! What’s your fucking name, Jose?”

    “Now, you sound just like the Trump! It is you, you racist pandejo!” Jose pulls back the trigger hammer on his gun, murder in his eyes.

    Robert jumps between the angry men, “Carlos, Carlos. take it easy, bro.”

    “Stay out of this, Roberto!” says Carlos the security guard.

    Robert amps up his charm and points at the masked Trump, “This guy Jerry here’s just my covid crazy patient. He ain’t no Trump.”

    Trump keeps his big mouth shut for the first time in his life.

    “He sure as fuck sounds like the US Hilter!” says the guard.

    “Nah. I took old Jerry here for a walk in the Rose Garden. Idiot fell into the rose bushes. Gotta get some meds on his scratches. My fault he don’t have his ID. Can you let it slide, amigo? Let me put his fat ass back to bed. Huh?”

    Trump almost breaks his silence, but being held at gunpoint he instead bites his tongue. Literally bites his tongue. Robert sees as a spot of blood appearing on Trump’s mask.

    “Well? What you got to say for yourself, Jerry?” growls the Carlos the security guard.

    “I, um, apologize,” says Trump in defeat, making the first apology of his long spoiled life.

    “That’s more like it, pandejo.” Carlos says as he begrudgingly holsters his weapon and angrily stands aside.

    Robert pats Carlos on the shoulder and says brightly, “Thanks, man. You’re the –“

    “Shut the fuck up, Robert! Get me to my presidential bedroom!” demands Trump.

    Robert makes a cookoo sign behind Trump’s back to Carlos and follows the fuming Trump.

    Trump rips off his mask. He storms up the paneled hallway, lined with hospital beds filled with the sick and dying VIPS from religion, business and politics. We see many familiar faces. Bill gates one of them. Some are on on ventilators, some are dying for lack thereof.

    Trump breezes arrogantly past it all,  muttering, “All a bad dream. Can’t wait to get back to my bed and –” Trump spots sick Fox News star Sean Hannity waving him over to his hospital bed and shouts joyfully, “Sean!”

    “In the flesh. What’s left of –” Sean answers with a racking cough that cuts his punchline short.  Robert silently looks on, trying to manage the rage boiling up in his eyes.

    “Easy, Sean. Wow, you still rate to end up here in my White House,” says Trump brightly. “Hate what that prick Schwarzenegger’s done to my place. Finally had it back in shape after that Kenyan and his little brats ran it into the  — “

    “Wouldn’t get down on Schwarzenegger or Obama if I were you, Donnie. The libtards are, they’re running the show now. Armold’s a traitor to the GOP. So where you been for the last two years, pal?” advises Sean.

    “Nowhere,” says Trump vacantly.

    “Nowhere?”

    “All this is just bad batch of Mickey D’s I had before bed. None of this is real,” says Trump brightly.

    “Oh, buddy boy, it’s all to fucking real. Lucky thing you weren’t around the past two years to see the liberals destroy all you and I did together,” says Sean, a tear rolling down his sallow cheek.

    “Three million US citizens dead and counting does mess with one’s popularity, ” sadly says Robert.

    “Well, been nice, uh, catching up with you, Sean. Um, see you when I wake up,” says Trump shaking Sean’s trembling hand.

    Sean jerks Trump’s hand to his lips, kisses it and says, “This is curtains for me. Not enough ventilators. Too much of the world’s factory workers got too sick too make –” Sean goes into racking dry cough, his familiar Fox face going beat red.

    Trump snatches his hand free of Sean’s kiss like it might carry Covid and says, “Let’s go, Robert. My bedroom. Now!”

    “Still love you, man!” coughs Sean as Trump vanishes around a corner.

    Trump shimmies through a tight spot in the hallway, past familiar shocked faces of religious politicians and business leaders of both parties.

    Trump spots his reflection in mirror and Trump in the mirror says, “Feeling anything in that black heart of yours yet?” Trump staggers on, not answering his conscience in the mirror and staggers up the ruined White House staircase.

    More sick VIPS in hospital beds fill the former meeting area between the White House presidential quarter’s bedrooms. The noise of all the ventilators is macabre.

    “You ain’t gonna like the changes Schwarzenegger made to your bedroom, sir,” warns Robert as Trump throws opens the door.

    Trump’s jaw drops at the sight of six patients jammed into the old presidential layer. Trump races to a hospital bed right cradling a frail old woman, exactly where his California King used to reside and orders Robert, “Get all these sick losers out of my bedroom. I want my bedroom back exactly as it was now!”

    The wasted old woman in the hospital bed slowly blinks opens her eyes. Her sagging face , filled with confusion, quickly gives way to wide eyed rage. “YOU!” rages Hillary Clinton, the old woman, as she dives onto Trump.  With a super human strength Hillary  tackles Trump as she digs her bony hands into his windpipe.

    “Robert, help!” chokes Trump.

    Robert calmly sits down in a tattered armchair and says nothing.

    “Bastard black. After all I did for you –” says Trump in fits of coughs as Hillary maintains a death grip.  Hilary cackles. Her superhuman strength allows her to easily continue ringing the last breath from Trump as she screams,”This is for three million of Americans you killed with your stupidity and your arrogance!”

    Robert lights up, ignoring the murder of one Donald J. Trump and says sadly to the smoke cloud he puffs, “Sorry, Grandma Annie. Trump’s hate virus done got me.”

    Trump’s vision of his crazed executioner, Hilary, fades to the darkness of death.

    END CHAPTER 3

    As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers or for that matter the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.

    Make a donation to help me keep bringing you more chapters and more old style radio show audio. Donation link.

    BONUS MEDITATION

    Here’s a little bonus visualization for those you out there that do quantum intentional meditation.

    Yeah, these are terrifying time. Accept that. Be with it. You’re here for reason. Let stress roll of you like water off a duck’s back. You’re the earth and politics just the clouds in the sky. That’s all it is.

    You’ll be here long after all that’s going on is gone.

    One of my goals is creating these stories is to help you realize things could be worse… one timeline away.

  • Chapter 2 – The White Hospital

    Welcome to TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM, my dark sci-fi parody about a dark future, perhaps coming into alternate reality due the “too painful to watch” daily show of Trump’s inability to lead during the coronavirus crisis.

    When we last left a feverish President Trump it was May 2022, and he was just dumped buck naked in the thorny bushes of the Rose Garden by the giant time-traveling cosmic butterfly of truth.

    CHAPTER 2 – THE WHITE HOSPITAL

    Meanwhile, one timeline away …

    Trump’s former African American personal attendant, Robert, dressed in a hospital gown and mask, helps a badly scratched and quite naked Trump from the rose bushes to his shaky feet. Robert says,”Whoa. Last time I saw you, I rushed out your bedroom to get the doc.”

    “Yeah, I know. That just happened,” says Trump crouching behind a bush.

    “No. You been gone a whole two whole years!”

    “Two years!?” shouts Trump.

    “And why are you naked as a Jay bird on the 4th of July?” says Robert.

    Too distracted to answer, Trump notices every window in the White House is brightly lit and wonders, “Damned if I know. Took a ride on a fucking giant liberal butterfly.”

    All Robert can manage to say is, “Liberal butterflies?  Yep, you’re former President Trump alright.”

    Trump points to the glowing presidential windows, “Why the hell are all the lights on in White House?”

    “Put on this spare mask and gown on and lemme show you,” says Robert handing Trump both.

    “The virus is fake news. Don’t need a mask but I will take a fucking gown!” shouts Trump, drawing attention from a masked security guard.

    “Sorry. President Schwarzenegger’s executive order of May 7, 2020 makes wearing of gowns and masks law,” offers Robert grimly.

    “President Schwarzenegger?!” shouts Trump.

    The masked White House security, pulling out his pistol. Trump quickly struggles to gown up as he says, “Why isn’t Mike president? He die of Covid?”

    “Pence ain’t dead yet… but he’s eatin’ himself there.”

    “Eating?” says Trump.

    “Pence took over your brand of eatin’ all American fast food. But that shit got way outta control. Last report, Pence’s gained 130 pounds since he was ousted from the presidency.”

    Trump laughs wickedly and says,”Ousted how?

    “Senate unanimously voted to impeach him for slipping ventilators to all his PAC backers. Mikey, never even made it to the elections. Your yes man was lost after you vanished.”

    “What happened to Biden?”

    “Gone with the Covid. Sweet guy. Don’t think he’d have been much of president in any case.”

    “He was in the Ukrainians and China’s pocket. America’s better off Biden’s dead,” says Trump.

    “They cremated old Joe. Conspiracy theories abound Joe’s still alive and hiding out in Antarctica on a UFO base,” says Robert.

    “Hmm. Sounds like the Dems caught onto how much people love conspiracy theories.”

    “And Bernie?” says Trump.

    “Virus killed old Bernie same day as Moscow Mitch. But not before he gave his spot to Schwarzenegger. Then Arnold ran for reelection and won biggly, as you used to like to say, sir,” says Robert.

    “Who’d Schwarzenegger run against ?” says Trump in angry wonder.

    “Jared. Epic landslide.”

    “Surprise!” says Trump dryly. “So who’s the Veep?”

    “Your old pal Chris Christie”

    “What a fuck fest. But Arnold isn’t American born. How’d he get around that?” says Trump.

    “The GOP Senate, they changed them laws– ” says Robert, trying not to show his happiness.

    The gowned and masked Trump stomps for the White House, “Enough. I am gonna tell Schwarzenegger face to face to get the fuck out of my oval office.”

    “America’s hero, um, President Schwarzenegger, he don’t work from here no more.”

    Trump stops dead in his tracks and spins to ask, “What? Why?!”

    “President Schwarzenegger, you see, he made this here White House into a coronavirus hospital.”

    “The White House a hospital?” says Trump.

    “Arnold renamed it the White Hospital now. I still work here. Trained nurse now on the front line,” says Robert proudly.

    “Two years and none of the vaccines I was ramming through on Operation Warp Speed didn’t get made?”

    “Oh they got made all right. Life even started getting back to normal in the summer of 2021. The mutations struck, says Robert sadly.

    “Mutations?” says Trump.

    “Florida. That fucker DeSantis tried to out Trump you. No masking. No vaxxing. Now, America’s still on it’s ass thanks to the DeSantis Variant.”

    “How many dead?” says Trump.

    “I gave up checking when the death toll hit 3 mil. Too numb to keep up anymore” says Robert sadly. “And damned if the DeSantis Variant don’t love killing the young. Tragic. At least the Covid-Original like bumping off old people who had lived a full life. Wanna hear the kicker though?”

    “Unlike Covid-Orginal the DeSantis variant like killing 3 times more whites than blacks. Some say it’s God’s way of –“

    “Fuck all this.  Where do I find Schwarzenegger?” demands Trump.

    “Ain’t gonna like what I gotta say on that, sir,” says Robert kicking at the poorly mowed White House lawn.

    “Stop fucking around and give me the dope on where the guy who ruined the Apprentice is!” says Trump grabbing Robert by his hospital gown.

    “President Schwarzenegger, you see, he works from the repossessed Trump Tower,” says Robert sheepishly.

    Trump fumes until he spews, “Fuck me!”

    “After all the lawsuits after your — ahem — handling of the virus, well, it was your baby Ivanka’s only option to pay the bills, sellin’ the Tower,” says Robert warily.

    “Besides that shit. How’s Ivanka?!” says Trump.

    “Holed up at Mar-A-Lago with Jared and your boy Baron. Runnin’ what’s shreds are left of your empire after the IRS seized most your assets.” says Robert taking a long drag on his cigar.

    “Ivanka and Jared are with Baron, good. Where’s, Melania?”

    “Brace yourself… ,” says Robert hanging his head. “You’re widower now, sir. Poor Meliania passed of the DeSantis Variant October 19th 2020.”

    “Cool, cool. OK.  Single man again. I mean that’s terrible!  What about my two son, Eric and Don Jr?  How are they”

    “Don Jr’s been in an out of rehab like a revolving door. Kinda lost track of him.” says Robert gently.

    “And my idiot son?” asks Trump.

    “Eric’s dead.”

    “The DeSantis Variant?” puzzles Trump.

    “Eric, well, passed to the great beyond just last week. But not of the virus.”

    “How?”

    “You really wanna know, sir?”

    “Is a Republican as dumb as dirt?” says Trump, masking up.

    “Video of Eric’s death went viral. You sure?” says Robert pulling out cell phone.

    “Show me!”

    Screen Shot 2021-05-16 at 3.38.40 PM

    Robert scrolls and hits play on YouTube.

    The African plains glow in the sunset. Eric and a rugged African hunting guide, Akua, sneak through the brush on their bellies. “I wish my dad had live to see me bag the last rhino on earth!” says Eric. Akua motions Eric to be quite, putting a finger to his lips.

    “Huh?” says Eric loudly.

    A male rhino charges for Eric.

    Akua shouts, “Run!  Run for the Land Rover, you great white idiot!”

    Eric defies Akua and takes careful aim at the charging rhino. BANG! A perfect shot the rhino crumbles mid run and rolls forward, crushing the screaming Eric to silence.

    “Stop! Seen enough.”

    “You sure the part where they pull the rhino off Eric with the winch is — Sorry —  “

    “Don’t be sorry,” says Trump waving off Robert’s sympathy.

    “Huh? I know you’re tough, sir. But that’s cold. Eric loved you more than all the other Trump children,” says Robert.

    “Not cold. It’s fine,” says Trump with a maniacal grin.

    “Fine how?”

    “Finally got this all  figured out.”

    “How so?” puzzles Robert.

    “Fever dream. All just a stupid fever dream,” says Trump with a delirious chuckle.

    “Wow. Love that shit. But sadly this shit’s all too real, Donald, I mean, sir.”

    “Believe what you want. I’m fucking outta here,” Trump storms off for the White House.

    “Where you goin’, sir?” says a bewildered Robert.

    “Back to my bedroom to wake the fuck up!”

    Trump storms off to the White House, determined to wake up from his fever dream. Robert takes a long drag on this cigar and follows after Trump.

    “Forgot to ask about Tiffany. That’s my Donnie,” says Robert.

    END CHAPTER 2

    As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers or for that matter the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.

    Make a donation to help me keep bringing you more chapters. Old style radio show audio coming soon to more chapters. Thanks.

    Donate for new chapters and audio .

    Click TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM in the menu bar top of the page to read all the chapters.

  • CHAPTER ONE- THE LONELIEST WHITE HOUSE

    Trump’s Fever Dream begins in April of 2020 in, one timeline away, when Covid was totally out of control.

    TRAILER FOR TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM

    To think I had put all my Trump fears, built up over decades of seeing his antics in the media aside to meditate in DC, along with my love Elizabeth, in 2017 for the best possible presidency… Yeesh!

    Welp, it was a short honeymoon because Trump was already steamrolling over the Standing Rock tribe by green-lighting the Dakota Access Pipeline, even before Elizabeth and I headed back to Sedona.

    And so, my Trump bias fully disclosed, I proudly present my parody… drum roll please…

    Chapter One – THE LONELIEST WHITE HOUSE

    Meanwhile, one timeline away… in April of 2020.

    A shabby shadow of his former self, President Trump aimlessly roams an abandoned hallway in the White House, now an empty ghost town. The leader of the free world, his bizarre mop of hair even more of a mess than usual, shuffles to an abrupt stop before an oil painting of JKF and vents loudly, “You had it easy, Jacko. The Cuban Missile Crisis was Jack shit compared to being a conservative running this liberal leaning country during a fucking pandemic!”

    A Mexican cleaning woman wearing a surgeon’s mask leans her head out of a conference room and quickly ducks back inside again. She takes a small cross on a chain from her blouse, kisses it and prays, “Jesus, protect us from the Anti-Christ.”

    After glaring at JFK’s glorious image for an inordinate amount of time, Trump flips off the Kennedy painting and slumps away, a rumpled embodiment of depression.

    A short time later — by the light of FOX NEWS playing Sean Hannity, broadcasting from his elegant home — Trump wolfs down half a Big Mac in three bites. He glibly washes down the Mickey D with a long noisy straw dipped into an idiotically large plastic cup of Diet Coke.

    Sean Hannity seems to speak directly to Trump from the big TV screen,”Hey Bud. Don’t listen to the commie loving liberals. You closed all travel from China the day you learned about the Chinese Virus, all way back in January. Your bold action was swift, decisive and all-American! If Pelosi and her corrupt Democrat Congress had not distracted you with their hoax impeachment we would never have lost so many precious Americans!”

    “Hell yeah!” cheers Trump so loud it sends him into a coughing fit. Between coughs he desperately gasps for air. Trump finally regains control of his coughing. He wipes sweat from his brow with a monogrammed DJT hanky, smeared with orange tan makeup. “Shit. Gotta get tested again. Nah. Probably just a budding ulcer this bullshit’s giving me. Fuck this. I give ulcers, not get them! I’m fine. I’m fine. “

    A short time later Trump brushes his teeth before the presidential bathroom mirror. Done, he grins smugly at his reflection, “Lookin’ good, Donnie.”

    The Donald in the mirror dryly answers back, “Like hell, loser.”

    Trump drops his electric toothbrush clattering to the marble floor and leans to the mirror. He makes strange faces at himself, mimicked perfectly by his reflection. “Seein’ things. Must be one those Covid hallucinations that fucker Fauci warned me about, or was it my fuck son-in-law Jared?”

    “Jared’s a filet mignon meathead,” says Trump’s perturbed reflection.

    “Who the hell’s doin’ this shit? Gotta be a TV monitor behind the mirror doin’ some kind of deep fake!” growls Trump at his smirking reflection.

    “Never thought you had a conscience, eh asshole?” says mirror Trump.

    “Screw you. The FBI will figure this out for me and nail your sneaky liberal ass!”

    “Right. The FBI loves your fat ass. Don’t they?” laughs mirror Trump.

    Nervous as an orange tabby facing down a German Shepard, Trump rushes to turn off the light switch.

    Mirror Trump quips, “See you in your dreams, killer.”

    Trump scurries out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He picks up a phone.  “Danny. — Shut up and listen. I wanna sweep done of my can. Someone’s hijacked my mirror.” Trump listens for a beat. “I don’t need a doctor. I need you to do what I fucking tell you!” Trump slams the phone down and angrily begins to tear his grungy outfit off.

    Later, still shaken by his dark vision, Trump jams his chubby legs into his too tight red silk pajama bottoms.

    A Black male servant, Robert Tulsa, sporting an elegant, if there can be such a thing, surgical mask, pokes his roguishly handsome head through the presidential bedroom door and says, “Will there be anything else, Mr. President?”

    “Nope. Those two Big Macs and fries will tide me over nicely.” Trumps says, punctuating his sentence with a, “Burp.”

    “Night then, Mr. President,” says Robert doing his best to hide a shudder of revulsion.

    Trump’s fluffs his pillow without acknowledging the kindly servant. Robert leaves Trump to his own rantings, gently closing the big paneled door.

    “Robert?!” shouts Trump, loud enough to be heard through the soundproof door.

    Robert peers his head back inside the door inquisitively.

    “Come in, Robert. I need some, uh, advice,” says Trump, with a pinch of boyish charm.

    Robert apprehensively takes the gold-framed chair Trump offers by the crackling fireplace. He tilts his head to the side to avoid Trump’s mask-free breath. The gorgeous smell of the roaring fireplace fills Robert’s nostrils. His big brown eyes close in bliss for just a moment, and then he hides his feelings, straightening his butler jacket’s red vest.

    Ever the salesman, Trump notices Robert’s blissful sniff and brags, “Tonight’s fire is genuine redwood from California’s National Redwood Forest. Gift from the lumber industry. Chopped me up 10 cords. Great guys those lumberjacks. They will sweep the forest floor.  Biggest forestry contract ever!”

    “You never fail to amaze me, sir,” offers Robert politically.

    “Robert, here’s what I wanted to fireside chat with you about: Today that smug fuck Jake Tapper said everyone on my White House personal staff hates me. This despite of the extra I pay I slip all of you huge bonuses under the table, 100% tax free I might add,” says Trump.

    “Well, we don’t always sees things eye to eye, Mister President,” says Robert, breaking into a warm reassuring and absolutely genuine smile you can see only in his eyes above the mask. “But ya know I love the fact you say exactly what’s on your mind!”

    Without returning Robert’s kindness, Trump says, “Robert, how’s it make you feel when someone calls you a nigger?”

    “Why, uh, terrible. The worst sir.” says Robert, pain written on his angelic face.

    “Well, that’s how I feel tonight, terrible in the nigger worst way,” says Trump dropping his head into his hands.

    “About that N word, sir. I wish — “

    “Pence wants me killed.” whispers Trump, cutting Robert’s complaint off. “Keep your voice down, Pence might have this bedroom bugged.”

    “Mr. Boy Scout? What makes you think that, sir?” asks Robert respectfully.

    “Mike’s pissed I made him the fall guy for the ventilator shortage and not Jared. But Jared’s is my son-in-law goddammit. Family comes first!” says Trump staring into the fireplace flames as if looking for answers.

    “Amen to that. But relax, Vice Prez Pence wouldn’t hurt a fly. Let alone you, sir,” says Robert reassuringly.

    “It’s the quiet ones you gotta worry about, Robert. Pence wants me out of the way. He wants me dead so he can pin all the blame on all the Americans stacking up bodies in mass fucking graves!” bellows Trump. “Robert, you’re the only guy I trust. Starting tomorrow I need you to make my McDonald’s runs personally.”

    “Happy to but why, sir?”

    “Poisoning. That’s how the sneaky boy scout is gonna bump me off. Or try to. Will you do this for me, Robert. Can I count on you, broheim? Did I say that right?  Am I hip?”

    “The hippest, sir. Now, if you don’t mind –” Robert notices a trickle of sweat leaving a traces of white skin at Trump temple. “May I, sir?”

    “May you what?”

    “Take your temperature,” says Robert pulling out a thermometer from his jacket.

    “I’m fine. Just stress. No fever,’ says Trump unconvincingly.

    “Well, I am gonna get the White House doctor on the phone just in case,” says Robert picking  up the red phone. “Odd. Phone’s dead. Lemme get you into bed and I –“

    ” I AM FUCKING FINE!” roars Trump in defiance, going into a coughing fit.

    “Hang on, Mr. President! I’ll be right back!” Robert races out of the bedroom.

    “Why is no one fucking listening to me?! I am fit as a fucking — “Trump falls like a tower of fast food to the plush carpet. The room dissolves into the form of a giant butterfly, floating amidst a galaxy of stars.

    Trump hollers in fear, awakening astride said giant butterfly that says, “Welcome aboard, Sir. There’s something important I, like, totally want you to see.” 

    Trump hollers again, shocked to be buck naked,”Mommy!”

    The Butterfly banks over a mass grave on Hart Island. Workers in hazmat suits shovel dirt onto cheap wooden coffins. “Sir, millions will die unless you lead by example. Wear a mask,” says the cosmic butterfly.

    “Masks are for pussies. And you’re nothing but a God damn nightmare bug!” shouts Trump.

    “I am the butterfly of truth. No wonder you hate me.” the butterfly says as it flies over the mass graves.

    “Shit happens. Take me back to the White House!”

    “Stop lying. Start masking. Now, loser!” the butterfly calmly says and it dive bombs for Washington DC. It banks upside down and dumps the naked Trump on the White House lawn. Trump tumbles to screaming halt in the thorny bushes of the Rose Garden.

    A flashlight sets the spectacle that is naked Donald Trump aglow. Dressed in a bright yellow hospital gown, Robert, now sporting a goatee, tosses aside a cigarette and shouts, “Who goes there?”

    “The President!” shouts Trump, hiding in the rose bushes.

    “No dice. President Schwarzenegger has an accent?” says Robert with a puzzled squint as pulls on his surgical mask.

    “President who?!” shouts Trump.

    “Wait, what the, that you Donald?”

    “Donald?!  Shut it and get me some clothes, Robert,” says the shivering Trump.

    “But you’ve been missing 2 years now, um, Mister former President Trump!” says Robert in shock. “Where you been?”

    Trump’s orange face goes as white as his ample ass.

    END CHAPTER ONE

    As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers or for that matter the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.

    Make a donation to help me keep bringing you more chapters and more old style radio show audio. Thanks.

    Donate for the Coolest in stories and meditation.

    Click TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM in the menu bar top of the page to read all the chapters.

    Coming attractions. Twelve tormentingly funny chapters here. 8 with audio.

  • TFD Overview and Handy Disclaimer

    Welcome to an alternate universe one timeline away from our own troubled world. A universe where Trump’s January 6, 2021 insurrection will (spoiler alert) succeed in a wonky as hell overthrow of democracy much sooner than the ongoing coup we are suffering from in our reality.

    Written without care for whether TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM (TFD) becomes nothing more than this humble blog or a hit TV series, as a 25 year film vet I’d normally never share a story with fans while it’s still in development. But then again — the past two years of Covid and the ever intensifying insanity we are witnessing from the GOP and White Supremacists going all-in on reinstalling Trump as ostensibly our new King, post insurrection — has caused me to feel extremely mortal. Hence the early share.

    Subscribe for weekly posting of TFD chapters for the next 12 weeks at noon PST on Firdays. Audio score done with Storyblock.com loops licensed for my worldwide use.

    Before we get started, my handy disclaimer that TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers or, for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.