revision

The Bad Dream


“I too have a Nuclear Button, but it is a much bigger & more powerful one than his, and my Button works”, said Donald.  The playground monitor stared at him, then moved away.

Kim stuck out his tongue. 

Donald was having another bad dream.  Per their pre-nup, Melania slept elsewhere; had since Barron’s conception.  He tossed and turned in silk pajamas, POTUS embroidered across the back in mother-of-pearl, fabric straining at the seams, fly agape.  Perhaps a second piece of Mar-a-Lago chocolate cake washed down with Diet Coke hadn’t been such a good idea. 

Kim and Donald faced off across the expanse of sandbox.  Kim wore a corduroy jumper.  Jelly covered his chin.  Donald had on sherbet colored golf pants, golden pull-ups peeking out over the waist band.  A red tie trailed down between his legs, spilled out over the sand. 

Donald studied Kim’s hair, a meringue the color of circus peanut candy ending in a duck’s ass flip.  He touched his own hair, called to General Kelly to bring a mirror.  Aghast, he saw that a jet black flat top topped his own noggin, wide white side walls glaring above jug ears.  Cats eye glasses perched on his nose.  General Kelly turned into a turkey vulture resplendent with beady red eyes and funereally black feathers.  He rose into the sky and began circling the sandbox. 

Kim picked up a toy ICBM and brought it down hard on Donald’s head. 

“That was so unfair”, Donald said.  He reached for his i Phone, intending to answer the assault with an angry Tweet.  Roy Cohn, his old attorney, had taught him to hit back, hit back hard.  The device lit up and emitted musical bleats.  There was no screen, only big fat colored buttons.   Blood trickled down his brow. 

Kim moved to bring the nuke down on his head again.  “Mad Dog, Mad Dog”, Donald screamed.  General Mad Dog Mattis, doing one-handed push-ups by the monkey bars, ignored him.  Kim flattened Donald’s nose.  The blow made a sickening crunch. 

Little Stevie Mnuchin and Gary Cohn were busy playing Goldman Sachs, taking turns stuffing cash down each other’s pants.  Mikey Pence was giggling in the bushes with Roy Cohn.  Pauly Ryan, who never went to recess, was at his desk reading Atlas Shrugged and scheming to take benefits away from poor people and hungry children.  Stevie Bannon, his very best pal, had been expelled for shitting in Mitch McConnell’s lunch box. 

“Who’s going to save Trump”, Donald said.  Suddenly, the sandbox was surrounded by a gathering crowd.  Donald noticed many black and brown faces, and lots of women in pink pussy hats.  The disabled, Muslims, transgendered and gay people mingled with journalists and Mr. and Mrs. Kizer Khan.  Mr. Khan was waving a copy of the U.S. Constitution.  Was that Bobby Three Sticks?  Coal miners and steel workers flocked, brandishing lead pipes.  A group of very formidable looking women flanked by lawyers glowered at him.  They were pressing in, jeering.  General Kelly circled, joined by more vultures.  General Flynn?  That Papadopolis kid? 

The crowd parted.  Up walked Fred Trump.  Donald raised his arms.  “Up, up.” 

“Look at you.  You’re nothing but a fucking loser”, said Fred.  He laughed at Donald and exhorted the crowd to join him. 

“Loser, loser, loser”, the crowd yelled, laughing and pointing.  Kim stood up, dropped his pants, and waggled his bare behind in Donald’s face.  Donald wet his pants and wept loudly. 

He woke with a start, drenched in cold sweat.  His pajama bottoms bundled and reeking.  Only a dream.  He reached for his i Phone.  It worked.  Thank God, it worked. 

“My button is So much Bigger”, he Tweeted.  “Big and Beautiful.”

Eduardo, his illegal Mexican valet, swept into the bedroom with a silver tray bearing the television remote and the first of the day’s dozen Diet Cokes.  “Trump is back”, said Donald.  Another day of winning commenced. 


The End