Narrated by Elizabeth England

It’s January 10th, 2025. Welcome to our sci-fi satirical tale, set in another Trumpiverse, where karma is still a bitch! We certainly did not plan to make the release of Chapter 2 on the same day our real-life Trump officially became the first President ever to take office as a felon. But we at TFD would like to think we are tuning in on the karma that is long overdue, not just for Trump, but politicians of both sides who seek to distract us all from climate change, which threatens the right and left alike’s very existence.

In Chapter 1 – SHROOM AND GLOOM’s J6 2025 premiere, we asked: What if, after the ill-fated debate, the Joe Biden of another universe never dropped out of the 2024 race? Then, upon losing all 50 states, after the CIA claimed they had solid proof Trump hacked the 2024 elections, with the help of Elon Musk and Putin, Joe decided to lock up Trump at Mar-a-Lago!

Check out Chapter 1 here if you have not yet had the pleasure and meet us back here….

OK…? Ready for some karma, even if it is just, in another universe?

CHAPTER 2 – OPERATION PARTY POOPER

Stars wheel over Lake Michigan and the city of Milwaukee in the distance. Sunrise shifts red to orange, reflecting off the Lake Michigan waves, making Trump more orange than usual. A splash of water douses Trump.

He snaps to consciousness gasping for air and squints opening his bloodshot eyes, shocked to see he’s aboard a heaving sailboat manned by an angry crew of black militia.

Sweat-soaked, Donald J. Trump bolts upright in his Mar-a-Lago bed, choking. “Fucking fever dreams. Ever since I caught Covid!”  Trump rubs his leathery freckled neck and says in relief, sinking back into his pillow. “Wow. Rebel General Michelle Obama hung me from her yacht’s yardarm to get my nuclear secrets. Too real. That black bitch must really want to kill me because I beat Joe like a drum in all 50 states!”

Colonel Robert Tulsa, black, 40s, head shaved, tightens the ropes that bind the disheveled Trump’s tiny hands. “Morning, Mr. President.”

Trump blinks up at the furious Tulsa. “Wh-what year is this?”

Tulsa laughs to the stunned crew who join him in mocking laughter, “Second year of your second fucked up term.”

“2022?” puzzles Trump.

“Look at this shit.” Robert turns to the three dozen heavily-armed African American troopers surrounding he and Trump. “Man forgets he lost in 2020 and beat 34 felony counts by stealing the 2024 elections!”

“2026 then?”

Colonel Tulsa backhands Trump. “Cough up the code. Ain’t got time for your dementia guessing games!”

General Michelle Obama calmly sits yoga style on the deck before Trump, her medals glowing in the sunrise. “Morning Donald, give me the code to disarm the North Korean nuke.”

“Nuke?” wonders Trump, flinching as Tulsa gets ready to backhand him again.

“Play the video,” says Michelle, disgust twisting her normally sweet face.

Video plays on an iPad Tulsa shoves in Trump’s dazed face. Trump watches himself in the Oval office.

“My fellow Trumptopians, in this vicious sneak attack, Blue forces led by the evil Barack Obama, murdered my…my brave boy Don Jr. in cold blood. This is personal now! Therefore, Obama the puppet master, and his puppet Biden, have left me no choice but to order, herewith, a tactical nuclear strike on the blue city that is giving he and his troops sanctuary: Milwaukee,” says Trump on TV before his image freezes.

“Ha! The problem with you communist ANTIFA is you can’t tell a good deep fake video from the real thing. I’d never call in a nuclear strike on American soil, even in a traitorous Blue state,” says Trump.

The black soldiers all boo.

Michelle checks her watch. “Let’s cut to the chase. Our intelligence, from one of your loyal leakers, says you have the codes to disarm Kim’s nuke set to go off… in, oh, about 10 minutes.”

“Suck my dick, you black bitch,” says Trump defiantly. One of the female soldiers lunges for Trump and Robert shoves her back in line.

“I don’t do mushrooms. Give me the abort code right now and you walk,” says Michelle calmly to the laughs of Robert and the troops.

“I’d rather die in the nuclear tsunami and take all of you niggers with me,” bluffs Trump.

Robert backhands Trump mid-sentence, “Save it, Trump,”barks Tulsa. “The code now or you walk the plank!” 

“Look.  I don’t even know what god damn year it is and you expect me to remember a nuke code?”

The young female black soldier takes aim at Trump’s head, “I can’t take his bullshit! Gotta waste this senile fuck!”

Robert stands between the soldier’s aim on Donald and says, “Put down the gun, kid.”

“Move aside, Colonel! Or, I, I swear to God, I’ll shoot you to kill Cheetoh Jesus!”

Trump squirms as a hangman’s noose is placed around his fat neck by Robert. “Give us the abort code and save your fat ass, Donnie,” whispers Robert.

“Ha! You’re bluffing! I know you, Robert! You used to be my body man!” pleads Trump.

“This is not one of our poker games I used to let you cheat at, Donald,” says Robert in defiance.

“Ingrate. After all I did for you black mother fucker!” hollers Trump.

“Any last words, you orange devil?” says Michelle sadly.

“Yeah, Go fuck yourself, you black cunt!” Trump growls.

Michelle shakes her head sadly and nods to Colonel Tulsa.

Robert kicks Trump off the sailboat. Trump swings from the yardarm, choking, before the cheering troops. He chokes, gasping for air, while a mile away Lake Michigan erupts in nuclear explosion.  A tsunami rises and sweeps up the yacht and sends it, strangling Trump and all, for the Milwaukee skyline.  

Drowsy in the super-king poster bed beside him, gorgeously lit by the Florida sun, Melania groans. “You’re no visionary, Donald. Terrible nightmares you deserve for selling nuclear secrets to Kim Jong Un.”

Trump grumps, “Mine to sell!”

Furious, Trump swings his puffy feet from the bed and shuffles for the ornate bathroom, oblivious to a new razor wire fence furiously under construction just past the swaying palm trees outside his soundproof Mar-a-Lago bedroom windows.

Donald sleepily pulls down his red silk pajama and plops onto his gold-plated toilet seat. He picks up his cell phone and begins to one-finger-type a Truth Social Post “I Won!” when the phone in his tiny hands rings loudly. Almost jumping out of his orange skin, Trump sees the photo ID of his black body man Robert Tulsa. Trump groggily answers the call on speaker, “I just had one of my shitty fever dreams about you, Robert.  You were –“

“Boss, seen the razor wire?!” interrupts Robert.

“Razor what?”

“Look out your window!” says Robert, his handsome, worried black face filling Trump’s phone screen.

“Mind I finish my morning dump first?” says Trump over the disgusting sound of releasing gas.

“Army Corps of Engineers is here! And, and…”

“And what? Spit it out, Robert!”

“There’s over a hundred guys buildin’ a 15 foot high fence topped with razor wire ’round Mar A Lago!”

Bare-assed, Trump hops off the gold toilet and struggles to get up on his tiptoes to peer out the bathroom window. His orange puss goes pale as he sees a prefab guard tower getting lifted into place by a black Army Corps of Engineers worker, operating a noisy portable crane.

“What in fucking hell?” Trump bellows in rage, startling the sleeping Melania into an accompanying scream.

Melania gasps, “Donald, you scare me half to death!”

Donald angrily motions the naked Melania to the bedroom window. “Look! Look, Melania! They’re turning my beautiful Mar-a-Lago into an Auschwitz!”

Melania drolly pulls on a robe and gazes out the window, calmly offering, “Huh. Surprised it’s taken the stupid Democrats this long to lock you up for your one-man-crime-spree.”

“Would it fucking kill you to be supportive for once?!” shouts Trump as he storms from the bathroom.

Melania sobs. “God knows I’ve tried! But you never listen to me!”

“I listen!”

 Melania pounds on Trump’s chest, “Now I am a prisoner stuck with you in this run-down mausoleum! How can I shop? Not fucking Amazon,” pouts Melania.

Dozens of half-dressed Mar-a-Lago guests and low ranking MAGA politicos in party hats march slowly for the front gate, suitcases in tow, past grim, armed FBI Agents. An angry, tall, bearded guest, dressed only in polka dot boxers, turns to his dazed wife. “Donnie musta lost his case.”

Melania chuckles. “Ha! Which case?” Her angry laughter at her own joke is cut short as Trump races past her for the front gate to the “oohs” of the guest crowd.

“Rogers!” shouts Trump to the turned back of a tall, muscular, Secret Service agent.

Special Agent Rogers, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed thirty-something, spins to Trump from a conversation he’s having with a young hispanic Army Corps of Engineers Supervisor. Rogers smiles sheepishly and brightly offers, “President Trump, I’m sure you are wondering –“

“I won the fucking 2024 election last night! This anyway to treat the new President-Elect?”

“But you lost your J6 case the same day, sir,” says Agent Rogers sheepishly.

“That black bitch judge had it in for me! She and that smug jew Smith can’t turn my beautiful Mar-a-Lago into a fucking concentration camp!”

“Sir, a little fencing helps me and my guys do our job protecting you. A lot of angry Dem voters accusing you of having Putin hack the voting machines with help from Musk’s Starlink wanbarks Tulsapount you, um, ah, gone,” offers Agent Rogers. “Your ear’s healed amazingly.  Might not be so lucky this time.”

“Lucky?  I’m the fucking chosen one!” Before Trump can rant further, the Army Corps of Engineers Supervisor shoves a cell phone between Agent Rogers and Trump.

He says, “President Biden for you on classified Zoom, sir.”

Looking twenty years younger, Joe Biden grins from the cell phone at Trump. “Mornin’, Donnie. Sorry for the short notice on the Secret Service protection we’re putting up for you. All on the taxpayer’s dime I might add.”

Trump shouts, his face beet red, “Protection?! That what you call razor wire top of ugly as fuck chain-link fences, and kicking out all my election win celebration guests?”

“Little early to party when I’ve not conceded don’t you think, Donald?” says Joe sweet as pie.

Robert, runs up to the trio out of breath, senses the tense vibe and instantly wishes he’d stayed in the mansion.

“You senile old son of a bitch! I beat you fair and square in a record landslide!” roars Trump.

“Ah. My three years younger and way outta shape fellow senior citizen, you overreached, you greedy guy — like always — faking up a landslide. Ha. A landslide when I – Kamala at my side — restored law and order to this country. A landslide for you when I built the roaring economy you’re taking credit for? I’m not joking around here. No kidding.”

Trump bellows, “You f’d up on Isreal.  You f’d up on the price of eggs.”

“And you f’d up getting convicted of the J6 insurrection. Hey. Be grateful I’ve chosen to keep you on ice at Mar-a-Lago,” gloats Biden.

 Trump bellows, turning the heads of exiting victory party guests. “I won fair and square this time. Just wait until the foot is on the other shoe, Joe!”

Robert timidly offers, “Uh, think you mean the shoe is on the other foot, boss.”

“Shut the fuck up, Robert. You heard me wrong! Get your black ears cleaned!” he bellows in Robert’s sweet face, forgetting Biden.

“Record reports of election fraud. Real fraud this time we can prove in court, Donny boy,” says Biden calmly on the phone in the shaky hand of the Army construction Supervisor.

“Donny boy?! Call me President-Elect Trump, you Catholic son-of-a-bitch!” says Trump snatching the phone to his face.

“Don the con, the best you’ll get from me is ‘the former guy,” says Biden, leaning closer into the phone’s screen. “I don’t know how your buddy Putin hacked our voting machines, but my DOJ is gonna find out, one way or another, before January 6th.”

“You’ll rue the day you defaced Mar-a — “

“Zip it, Donnie I don’t have any more time for your lies and threats. I’m still unquestionably our president for at least the next two months. Thanks to your Big Lie and now the Big Hack, I’m dealing with the riots of millions of people in a dozen cities of every race, color and creed.”

“Shut up, you old windbag!” shouts Trump.

But Biden presses on. “No joke. Good American voters from both parties who believe their vote was stolen in your Russkie-rigged 2024 election!”

“You, you, you, can’t do this to me, Biden!” shouts Trump, snatching the phone to his face again, garnering rubbernecking from the exiting Mar-a-Lago guests pouring into waiting buses.

“How’s it feel to not get a concession from your opponent, wiseguy?” laughs Biden.

“I’ll see you, and your boy Hunter swinging from General Michelle Obama’s yacht yardarm!” shouts Trump.

“What? General Obama? Why in hell are you bringing Michelle into this mess?” puzzles Biden.

“Ha! I know you take marching orders from the mastermind Obamas!” shouts Trump, a bit unsure of himself for bringing his bad dream into all this.

“Lunatic! The fence is for your protection until you finish your appeals for the J6 conviction and/or we clear up your 2024 election shenanigans!” says Biden, as he grins while abruptly ending the call.

Trump smashes the phone at the Corps of Engineer Supervisor’s feet.

Robert scratches his head and cautiously asks Trump, “What next, sir?”

“I need a cofefe. I MEAN a fucking coffee.”

The line of exiting party goers weakly applauds Trump as he storms past them. Behind Trump’s back, Robert Tulsa encourages the small crowd to applaud louder… but they don’t.

“March off to your busses, sheeple! I hope the Feds drag all of you off to a converted Wal-Mart prison to be shot!” Trump paces off for the main compound, a shaken Agent Rogers and Robert Tulsa close behind.

A man shouts from the gaggle of guests, “I love you, President Trump!”

A half-dressed Ted Cruz steps in front of Trump, “Mind if I join you for a cup of Java, sir?”

Pleased Cruz is still on the Mar-a-Lago property and ready for scheming, Trump motions Cruz to follow. Special Agent Rogers whispers into his walkie-talkie, “Operation Party Pooper a success. The Fox is in the hen house. Repeat. The Fox is in the hen house.”

Rogers nods hearing the response and follows Trump to the entrance to the main building of what is already hashtagged #MaraLagoPrison.

From the press shouting thousands of questions, Joy Reid stands out, making Trump flinch. “Former President Trump, what do you think about Mike Pence calling you a fucker?”

“Call me President-Elect Trump if you want to keep your fake news job, you black bitch,” growls Trump, flashing the middle finger in Joy Reid’s angry face.

END CHAPTER 2 – OPERATION PARTY POOPER

Will Dark Brandon be impeached for his audacious OPERATION-PARTY-POOPER that threw the ultimate wet blanket on Trump’s election celebration? Will Putin spring Trump from Mar-a-Lago Prison Will Melania really have to shop at (yuk!) Amazon?

Tune in this time next week NOON PST. Subscribe. Meantime, if you enjoyed…please Donate and share.

Chapter 3 – Blue Frosting.