The Last Trump: Part 1 Of 3 (A Farce Of Politics)
It has been quite a while since I posted anything in serial form here. So here’s something new.
I wrote this one with three scenes, so I will post it in three parts: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
The entirety is about 2500 words, so each installment should be a nice little read fit for a coffee break.
Update, Saturday — Now that all 3 parts are posted, LINKS TO THE EBOOK VERSION ARE POSTED ON PART 3. Go straight there if you’d like the ebook, or just go ahead and read through here, THEN get the ebook. Your choice!
Please — enjoy.
The Last Trump
(A Farce of Politics)
Act 1 of 3
In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.
1 Corinthians 15:26
King James Bible
The candidate, after looking back, forth, back to ensure no cameras were pointed in his direction (here, there never were, but he always looked even so), fidgeted. With a sterling fork he pushed an uneaten bite of his midnight snack around the plate. The plate was plain white, catering standard. He frowned at it. Too plain. With a jerk of his fingers, he shoved the blob of lobster he’d been torturing over. Fat black caviar grains and an autumnal cascade of gold flake spilled from the top. He set the fork down on the table, click, and crushed a salty fish egg into a smear of oil with a fingertip, which he licked.
“She should have seceded by now,” he misspoke. Nobody corrected him. “She’s a loser, a weak baby loser feee-male. Should have given up the second I was nominated. Ha. Ha.” His head glided side to side like the eye of an old-school Cylon, sweeping the campaign war room full of red eyes, half-unknotted ties, crumpled napkins, and five o’clock shadow. Where his gaze fell, heads nodded, lips smiled, throats pushed up a boil of plastic laughs.
He went back to torturing the lobster bite. His team went back to paying attention to the bank of televisions on the far wall, each displaying a different news channel. At the front of the room, a couple of interns clicked mice, refreshing news sites over and over. Trump’s fork clicked his plate. Click. The interns clicked mice. Click-click—clickclick. Somewhere a toe tapped a scuffed vibram sole on the leg of a folding table. Tap, tap. A round generic clock high up on the wall counted seconds. Tick-tick-tick. Time passed.
“CNN!” one of the mouseclicking interns shouted, and the clicking-tapping-ticking disappeared. Someone cranked the volume on the CNN TV.
“…again, calling California for Donald Trump, who we project will be the 45th President of the United States of America…”
Whoops and applause drowned out the audio. Smiling, nodding, not speaking, knowing he couldn’t be heard over the celebration, Trump retreated to his quiet room, a refurbished walk-in supply closet. He flicked the lights-fan switch, closed the heavy steel door, ignored the overstuffed chair and facepalmed.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mumbled. Fished in his pocket, pulled out a bottle of tumeric capsules, cracked one open on the table. He made a thin yellowy-brown line of it on the little laptop table beside the chair with a black AmEx and tooted it in one fell snort through a rolled Benjamin. “Whuhh,” he said, shaking his head as the—for him—drug opened his eyes and detached his reality from the world just enough for him to set his shaken persona firmly back in place.
“The show must go on,” he mouthed to himself, and opened the door. The cheers had died down to backslaps and energized chatter. On CNN a pair of announcers, now ignored, were finding out how many different ways they could re-hash “Trump won.”
“What did I tell you? I’m YUUGE! President Trump! America! Did someone order the letters? I want my name right dead up the middle of the Washington Monument the second I get my hands on a pen. Gold! With lights! Rename it. George Washington is old news, I like my monuments to be about TODAY’S President. I got some executive orders to write, starting with that one. Maybe the second one will be that wall around Mexico I promised. Trump keeps his promises! But first—I promised everyone champagne, who’s got the bubbles?”
After making the rounds for a couple of hours shaking hands, knowing the party, once started, would persist on its own inertia until the sun was well and truly up on Trump’s USA, Trump chose his moment and retreated to his quiet room again. He bolted it, dimmed the lights, loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes, and reclined in the baby-soft leather recliner.
“What a bunch of idiots there are on this podunk rock,” he said to the ceiling, closed his eyes, and was asleep in seconds.
END PART 1