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

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.

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