Trump Fan Fiction

WAR DRUMS ON THE POTOMAC

By Hunter S. Thompson, ret.

Mar-A-Largo after midnight is a depressing proposition at best. The old money has had their Prawn Plate by 4:00, a cocktail and a half, and are off to bed by 8:00. Their children, those born with a Teflon spoon in their incest induced, horribly cleft palates, generally drink themselves into a stupor by 10:00 and that leaves the Help and an angry Roxanne Pulitzer left to entertain those of us hardy enough to want to see the sun rise.

I was one of those foolishly waiting to see daylight sneak over flotsam and jetsam of human wreckage bobbing on the Red Tide that was choking the Intracoastal Waterway behind us. My 350-pound Samoan attorney, The Donald, was another. Although, at the moment, he was busy chasing two graduates of the Ghislaine Maxwell Finishing School for Wayward Young Ladies across the courtyard with one hand full of NDAs and the other full of DMDA.

Ho ho. As I look back at that sentence even I shutter. The horror of it all. The Donald has one of the finest legal minds that has never been perverted by attending law school or passing a bar, and is quick to sue, but thankfully The Truth is still the ultimate defense in some parts of Florida, and The Truth will set me as free as Jeffery Toobin on a Zoom call.

The truth is also that The Donald more than likely is not a Samoan at all, but he always gets jumpy whenever anyone starts talking about birth certificates, so we rarely bring it up. The 350 pounds is up for debate as well. According to the finest staff doctors and nurses at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, The Donald tip the scales at just a shade over 245 pounds and stands 6’1” soaking wet; but as an old hand at judging pig flesh at the County Fairs of my youth in Louisville, Kentucky, I would conservatively put him at 350, 5’10” at best.

None of that mattered at the moment, as we were forced to confront the incredible dumbness of the US Constitution, an outdated shopping list drafted by syphilitic buffoons and slave owners. None of these dolts foresaw the coming of The Donald. How could they? He was like a crazy, freak comet burning across our skies that only appeared once ever thousand years.

Frederick Barbarossa, Constantine, and Salah al-Din are often mentioned in the same breath as The Donald by those that know their history. Doris Kearns Goodwin and Howard Zinn have been known weep at the hem of his Sans-A-Belt Golf Slacks as he walks by. It is widely believed that Arthur Schlesinger often rails against God for taking him before he could see The Donald’s ascension to the presidency. And they want this great man to be bound by a 233 year-old checklist Thomas Jefferson tossed off between rounds of violating Sally Hemings in the vineyards of Monticello and drowning nosey reporters in the James River.

Ho ho. Jefferson would have been right at home in the Clinton Family, and you want to tell me that the Electoral College, as mandated in the so called ‘Constitution’, has any bearing on The Donald’s second, third or fourth terms as president? I think not. There will be violence in the streets of DC this evening, and rightfully so. Proud Boys, hopped up like they just heard Hank Williams Jr. was getting the band back together, will patrol the streets of Pennsylvania Ave seeking out unaccompanied women and fey young boys to savage with the gusto of a hillbilly with a heart full of hate and none of his own teeth. Fox News will go into full lockdown to keep naysayers like Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Bell Graham off the airways. If you’re not with us, you are against us, Jack.

Kayleigh McEnany will rip at the face of CNN’s Kaitlan Collins with her Lee Press-On Nails, disfiguring her so savagely the Powers That Be at the Network will think twice before even allowing Collins in front of a camera to cover a hurricane in Belize. Mitt Romney will be hunted for sport as he tries to sneak home from the Cloakroom Gentlemen’s Club on K Street. Justin Amash, Francis Rooney and Denver Riggleman will be dragged from the Halls of House, stripped naked and forced to take a Game of Thrones inspired Walk of Shame through the streets of Georgetown.

The balladry of the Book of Revelations will seem like Jim Morrison’s moon/June doggerel by comparison to the poetry that will rise from the streets of DC tonight, and The Donald and I will sit back and watch it all from the TV room at 1100 South Ocean Blvd. as Roxanne Pulitzer cracks walnuts for us with her still firm butt cheeks and the Help sing ‘Massa Trump’ a song or two from the Old Days. Selah.