Chapter Two
Trump’s Tyrannical Jizzfest Interrupted
At Santa’s suggestion, God had toned down the effect of his presence, hoping not to destroy, by virtue of being such a powerful and overwhelming presence, the human being to whom they were about to read the riot act.
Now, the two of them were in magic time.
Magic time allows beings benevolent and malevolent to move unseen among humanity, distributing gifts to billions of children in one night, for example, or bartering coins for teeth.
God and Santa were in magic time, but Trump was not.
Not yet.
He was, you might say, frozen in time.
Now here comes a very embarrassing part of my narrative. But trust me, I’m only reporting the truth of what happened. No unreliable narrator, I.
You see, when God took in, in full, the vile nature of the man seated behind the big, important-looking desk, he . . . well—let’s just out with it, so to speak—he projectile-vomited. And God’s vomit came within a quarter of an inch of hitting Trump’s face.
Now perhaps you suppose that his puke stopped short of Trump’s face because I’m avoiding depicting an ugly act against a newly anointed leader.
Quite the contrary.
For God eats nothing but pure energy.
That being so, his vomit has no stink. Is perhaps healing in its touch. There’s no way to know, since God so rarely loses his energetic lunch.
In any case, the Fates decided that Trump, at this stage of his arrested development, was unworthy of the Heavenly Father’s shower of puke.
Later in the story? Perhaps.
God inhaled grandly to draw back his vomit, every sacred droplet, reversing the reverse peristalsis he’d experienced a moment before.
“What did I just do?” asked God in astonishment.
“You purged,” said Santa. “Out the front end. I see that all the time on my rounds, cute little kids so excited at the thought of my nocturnal visit that they upchuck their dinners and have to be cleaned up and put to bed, sobbing and comforted.”
God gave a look of disgust. “If the psyches had been fixed properly, this clown wouldn’t be sitting here. No one would have voted for his royal incompetence. And governance worldwide, let alone here, wouldn’t be befouled by all manner of Machiavellian bullshit. Nope. There’d be utopias everywhere, deliciously manifesting all of humankind’s highly touted but just about universally ignored virtues of peace, love, and understanding. Don’t get me started!”
“May I again offer an apology?” said Santa.
“Hephaestus has got to see this. Just a second.”
God gestured into the air, and Hephaestus appeared. The smith was burly and ugly, his beard wild and unkempt, his legs broken from Zeus having tossed him off Mount Olympus ages ago, but well balanced in elaborate gold servomechanisms, his eyes ferocious and fiery yet rich with compassion.
“Whoa, what the hell am I doing here? I have a shitload of work to do in the psyche factory. This better be good.”
“Stuff your work. We’ve got problems with this particular corner of humanity.”
“The goddamned human race?” said the smith. “Harrumph! Bunch of recalcitrant motherfuckers.”
“Take a look at this man.”
Hephaestus, repulsed, glanced at the combed-back loser behind the desk. “This unworthy fuck? This nonentity? Why are we bothering with him?”
God took Hephaestus aside and gave him a crash course in earthly geopolitics, focusing especially on the nation-state in which they now stood.
“And this guy?”
“Look deep into his psyche.”
“Do I have to?”
“Look!”
The ruddy-faced Hephaestus turned increasingly whiter shades of pale as he braved the sight of this mutant psyche’s vast landscape of awfulness.
Hephaestus gaped.
He gasped.
He forgot to breathe,
Then he swore a blue streak, a red streak, and an ultraviolet streak. “I thought we fixed these, all of them, worldwide. Be right back.”
* * *
Okay, now. Time out.
Alert readers—that would be all of you—astutely recall from the prologue in heaven that Hephaestus already knew about this snafu.
So why is he surprised here?
Good call!
To confess, I have—or rather the author has—written this novella in all haste against a deadline, that being the shameful day of inauguration.
Such mix-ups occur in early drafts with amazing frequency, usually to be patched up in later drafts.
We’ve decided to leave both passages be.
Think of it as a hiccup of dream logic . . . or as the imperfect stitch in all Persian rugs.
We, the author and I, here offer our minima mea culpa.
Cool?
Okay, then.
Back up and off we go!
* * *
Then he swore a blue streak, a red streak, and an ultraviolet streak. “I thought we fixed these, all of them, worldwide. Be right back.”
The burly blacksmith winked out, then in, holding his clone of the Trump psyche, a sphere standing a foot and a half tall. “Take a gander. This is what his clone in the psyche factory looks like. Should be an exact match. Didn’t we fix the goddamned human race a few years back?”
God gestured into the air and said, “You tell me. Scan the world.”
Hephaestus scanned. “Holy shit!”
“No such thing. I neither take nor give a shit. And until I saw this dreadful, wankeresque specimen of a human being, the same was true of my puke.”
God glared. “Now explain that,” he said, pointing into the heart of Trump.
Hephaestus popped out a clone, this time of the man’s current psyche, a sphere of the same size, but boy oh boy, was it a mess.
Hephaestus gave a low whistle. ““Beats me. We had them, as always, perfectly in synch. This is a total cockup. I remember his psyche now. But what it has turned into is even worse than I recall. Let me give close scrutiny to them both.”
He bent to the task, examining first one, then the other. His sure hands pried open each psyche and peered inside.
He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s almost as if the old psyche, bad as it was, fought back against the fixes we tried earlier. As if it dug in its heels, turned its back, and found the vilest swamp it could to wallow in and get all defiantly mucky.
“With your permission, I’m going to head back to the psyche factory with these two specimens and figure out just where the disconnect is, not only for this psyche but for all the world’s psyches.
“Go ahead,” God said. “But be snappy about it.”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish
Comment on this Bubble
Your comment and a link to this bubble will also appear in your Facebook feed.