Trump In The Afterlife Chapter 3: Reentry

     Being an angel bestowed upon Marty certain powers and gifts not readily accessible to man. He had a mostly direct conduit to God and the heavens, and access to an understanding of the very fabric of the universe. At least to some degree. He could see things that humans could never comprehend. He could manipulate physics, and even time, but only in a very rudimentary way, and only with supervision. The angels who were higher up in management, and even some demons from hell, had a lot more free reign.
     To Marty's way of thinking, it wasn’t really free reign though. It was simply more responsibility, and although God was a mystery to him as well, he knew enough about the Almighty to know that It was pretty happy being the Almighty. There was still oversight, and God was not going to let anything mess up His whole master plan. If indeed it was a master plan. Sometimes Marty would witness some stuff where in the end, God seemed to just claim it was part of some grand scheme, the equivalent of saying “I meant to do that!” when you trip over the rug.
     Marty never really cared enough about any of it, and certainly never cared about mankind, or the other billions of types of beings that populated the universe. He had seen enough scenarios like the one he was in the middle of now play out in the past. It might seem like it was some cosmic battle for someone’s soul, or some great journey of discovery, but in reality it was simply routine bureaucracy. No one was going to learn anything, and fate was already set in place by some unknowable and inaccessible deity, who most likely wouldn’t even admit if it wasn’t planned. Even with all of Marty’s knowledge about the inner workings of the universe, of all space and time, he just couldn’t be sure of just how much She knew and what She controlled.
     Like that, right there. God wasn’t even a specific gender. When Marty thought of God, or discussed God with the other angels, he never knew which pronoun he might use. Sometimes it was “he,” sometimes “her,” sometimes “it.” Sometimes it was “them,” not just as a singular pronoun, but because as his mind thought of God as he was thinking or speaking, it conjured up the idea in his head that They were somehow more than one entity. It was like the very idea of God was a constantly shifting and fluid thing.
     How exactly was Marty, or anyone, expected to please Him or do the right thing? It was like hitting a moving target that didn’t even appear the same from one second to the next. One more reason to not bother trying. There wasn’t even any real company mission statement, just some vague concept of good versus evil, and no clear idea what constituted either.
     Like this orange dolt he was in charge of now. Was he evil or stupid? Probably both. He most likely succeeded in being evil in spite of himself. He might not even know any better. He was probably just sick in the head, but in the profoundly sick society mankind lived in, most people didn't notice. There were a bunch of sick people in hell who weren't evil, just saddled with psychosis and mental illness.
     By the same token, there were certainly a lot of clueless people who got into heaven not because they made a lot of conscious decisions to be good and wholesome. Most of them were clueless, but they never did anything bad enough to warrant going to hell. It wasn’t like they were harboring any terrible thoughts and desires inside them, they were just boring and unimaginative. They took no chances, and they sort of snuck in under the wire. Eternity wasn't much different for them than life was, they simply sat up here and watched the time pass, almost like they were in a coma.
     The system was broken. "Oh well, on earth as it is in heaven" thought Marty, with his usual cynicism.
     It was all very relative and confusing, and Marty hated that he even thought about it. Still, no matter how many times he made up his mind that none of it mattered at all, he would find himself obsessing over the same pointless questions. Marty had a lot of trouble making his epiphanies and resolutions stick, even for a moment, so in that regard he was very much like humans after all.
     Marty and Trump were now traversing the astral plane. It would have filled any human soul with incomprehensible wonder, but Trump was just looking intently at his phone. In what Marty was afraid was just one more bit of proof to Trump that he could get whatever he wanted by complaining, he had finally just relented and given him his phone. He made it so that Trump could only see what was going on back on Earth, he couldn’t tweet or interact with anyone. He knew he shouldn’t have done it, but he just couldn’t take all the whining and complaining anymore. He assumed that since he was able to do it, that it must fit into the Divine Plan somehow, so he didn’t worry about it.
     “Look at this crap!” Trump was saying now. “I can’t believe what they are saying about me down there. I’ve never seen people say such awful things about someone who just died.”
     “Well,” Marty replied, “to be fair, it’s pretty much the same things they were saying about you when you were alive.”
     “Really?” Trump responded, seeming genuinely surprised. “I noticed some nasty comments from reporters during my press conferences, but nothing like this. It’s like people really hate me.”
     “Of course they hate you,” Marty confirmed. “You’re a horrible person, I keep telling you that. Didn’t you ever read any of the billions of articles criticizing you and your actions? Didn’t you read any of the replies to your tweets?”
     “Tweets have replies?” Trump said. “I never realized. And I don’t read articles by haters and phony news organizations, or from all the eggheads who think that they know more than me. That’s why the common man loves me!”
     “I’ve been watching human history for a few thousand years,” said Marty, “and I have to tell you, a lot of those “common men” aren’t really the best judges of character. People in charge tend to keep a lot of them in the dark about a lot of things. Most of them are good people, as far as people go, but they live their whole lives in a tiny world of their own making.”
     “Yeah, they’re stupid!” Trump exclaimed. “I hate them, but they are useful.”
     Another sigh from Marty.
     “Yes, you hold them in contempt. We get it.”
     “No,” Trump clarified, “I just hate them, and think that they’re beneath me. They're worthless, other than getting them to work themselves to death or vote for me.”
     “Yes, that’s pretty much the definition of contempt ...”
     “It’s hilarious, really,” Trump continued on uninterrupted. “They constantly vote against their own interests, and all I have to do to get them to do it is appeal to their hate and anger.” He laughed uproariously. “They’re so fucking dumb!”
     “They aren’t dumb,” Marty protested, “they’re misinformed and demoralized. They have no tools to figure any of it out, or think beyond their own noses.”
     Marty thought about it, and was horrified to realize that he was actually sticking up for people. Horrible people, at that. A lot of people happened to be born into bad circumstances, and raised on hate and ignorance and never taught how to give or receive love, was it now their fault that they were horrible? Yes, of course. But no, maybe not. Why did Marty care about any of this? He hated people.
     “Look,” he finally responded, “they might be dumb, and maybe a little bit evil, but a lot of them never had a chance.” He thought some more.
     “Okay, most of them had plenty of chances to figure it out, I guess.” Marty was floundering. “Still, a lot of them are good people in other ways. Of course, you can extrapolate that to the whole “Hitler loved dogs” thing.” He was clearly struggling with all this.
     It was then he looked at Trump, and saw that he had a look that was a mixture of incredulousness and disgust on his face. Trump was just staring at him, almost in disbelief.
     “What?” Marty asked, annoyed.
     “Who the fuck cares?” Came Trump’s reply. “The people you’re talking about don’t matter at all. They’re just part of the big mass of humanity that exists to work and die. I mean, I guess it’s sad, I don’t know, but that’s how the world works. Important people like me get to make the rules and get the benefits, and most people just do all the grunt work. That’s all they're worth. If they wanted to be something more, they should try harder to make something of themselves and get ahead.”
     Marty didn’t even bother responding to that. He knew all about entitlement and opportunity and socioeconomic status. He knew about generational cycles, and how hatred and ignorance was passed down. He knew about a hundred other things that made up all the complexities about the convoluted myth of the common man and getting ahead in the world, but he caught himself before he wasted any time trying to explain it.
     Marty had watched all of human civilization, even if just in passing. He saw that men like Trump were common as well; elite plutocrats and tyrants, dismissive of people they viewed as somehow lesser than them for a multitude of superficial and manufactured reasons. Less than human. Slave labor that greased the wheels of industry, cannon fodder that fought pointless wars, billions of people denied their humanity because they were seen as so much brick and mortar that made up the world they ruled over. Nothing could change the mind of a person who lost sight of the simple fact that everyone was human and deserved some kind of basic dignity and respect.
     Marty had to remind himself again that he didn’t really like people. Still, he supposed that he didn’t hate them. He didn’t want them to suffer. He just didn’t care … He stopped himself there because he realized that maybe he was like Trump in some ways. The thought horrified him. No, it was different. He didn’t take advantage of people, he wasn’t evil. He just wanted nothing to do with them. They had nothing to offer him.
     He winced at that thought as well. He didn’t only care about people who could help him, did he? Maybe he just hadn’t thought about it in those terms. Who cares?  He finally ended up chiding himself in his mind.  I’m not human, I owe them nothing, and they owe me nothing. I’m just some shit head angel who thinks too much. Besides, they had finally arrived on Earth, to see if Trump could help his first charge and gain some points.

     Marty and Trump arrived in an office, and the man sitting at the desk had his head in his hands, and was obviously distressed. He picked up some papers off his desk, and rifled through them, and tossed them back on the desk again. He stared into the distance and emitted an audible groan, and wondered just what he was going to do.
     “Okay,” Marty said, “This man is Carl, and his business is …” He trailed off as he noticed that Trump was still looking at his phone, not even paying attention. “Mr. Trump!” He said loudly.
     “Huh?” Trump replied, not looking up. “What is it?”
     “Will you put your damn phone away and listen to me!”
     Trump looked up, studied Marty’s face, and even though he wanted to go back to his phone, the angry glare he was getting from the angel made him slide it into his pocket.
     “Okay, I’m listening,” he said.
     “Well, as I was saying,” Marty started again, “this man is Carl, and his business is going under. The pandemic and the recession has hit him hard, and he’s in danger of losing everything. He’s afraid that his family will wind up in the street.”
     “Okay, so what do you want me to do?” Asked Trump.
     “This is why you’re here. You need to help him, to make him see that it will be alright and he can get through this. You need to inspire him.”
     “Inspire him? Okay, I got this. Let’s see …” Trump thought for a moment. “Okay, I got nothing.”
     “Really?” Marty asked. “There’s nothing you can think of to help him?”
     “Well, to be honest, I don’t really know a lot about the nuts and bolts of business.”
     “Aren’t you a billionaire? Didn't you write a book about it?”
     “Yeah, what’s your point?” Trump just stared at him.
     “Well, you’re going to have to do something. I’m going to make it so he can see and hear you now, so you better think fast.”
     Marty waved his hand, and Carl looked on in shock as the recently deceased Donald Trump materialized in his office.
     “Omg, I’ve really lost it,” said Carl. “I have lost my mind.”
     “You haven’t lost anything,” Trump replied, annoyed. “I’m like a ghost or an angel or something, and I’m here to help you, I guess.”
     Carl continued to stare in disbelief.
     “So I hear you have money problems,” Trump continued. “I can figure this out.” Still, he just stood there staring back at Carl.
     “Okay,” Carl said tentatively, “what can I do about this mess?”
     Trump just continued to stare, and half-heartedly shrugged his shoulders.
     “Um, get some money, I guess …” Trump said. “Oooh, yeah! Borrow it from your dad!”
     “My dad doesn’t have any money,” Carl replied. “He’s on a fixed income.”
     “Well, I don’t know what that means.” Trump looked over at Marty and held his palms out, and shrugged his shoulders again.
     “I don’t know what this guy wants from me,” he told the angel.
     “You really don’t have any advice at all for him?” Marty asked.
     “I don’t know, when my businesses failed, I just got more money from my dad.” Trump truly seemed at a loss.
     “Excuse me,” Carl interrupted. “Who are you talking to?”
     “I’m talking to Manny here,” Trump explained. “He’s my angel.”
     Carl just looked on, dumbfounded.
     “First off, it’s Marty,” Marty reminded him again, “and he can’t see me. You’re supposed to be doing this on your own.”
     Trump turned back to Carl.
     “Look Ken, …” he started
     “Carl!” said Marty.
     “Whatever. Look Carl, we can figure this all out, right? I mean, I’m a genius. I’m the president, for fuck’s sake …”
     “Former president.” Marty and Carl said in unison.
     “Whatever,” continued Trump, tersely. “I can come up with a solution.” He thought some more.
     “Okay,” he said, in a burst of inspiration, “just get the bank to give you more money. That's what they do. Problem solved!”
     “That’s not going to work,” Carl replied. “I’m already mortgaged to the hilt. My credit is maxed.”
     “Okay,” Trump forged on, “lay off your employees.”
     “I’ve already laid off most of my workers, I’m down to a skeleton crew as it is. It broke my heart laying off my people. If I lay the rest off, I’m definitely out of business.”
     “Well, that’s easy to fix,” Trump said, “Just keep them working and don’t pay them! In fact, there you go: just stop paying all your bills.”
     “I can’t just stop paying my employees and creditors,” Carl protested. “That’s nuts!”
     “I don’t know,” countered Trump. “I do it all the time.” He started chuckling at that.
     “Excuse me,” Carl asked, “What’s so funny?”
     “Well,” Trump said, “I just realized that I’m dead. I stiffed them all, and there’s nothing they can do about it! All those contractors, all those cities where I held rallies and never paid them. All those lawsuits and class action stuff. I never paid any of them, and now I'm dead!”
     Carl looked at him in disgust.
     “That’s not how I do business, Mr. Trump.”
     “Yeah, and look at you!” Trump fired back. “You’re going under!”
     “Okay, look, I’m confused,” Carl replied. “Are you here to help me, or ...I mean, why are you here?”
     “Yes, I’m here to help you, loser. Let me think.” Trump pondered some more.
     “And you don’t know any foreign “investors” who need a favor?” He asked.
     “Are you talking about helping foreign powers by giving them access to American secrets or politicians, or laundering money? Isn’t that illegal?”
     “Okay, you’re one of those,” Trump said. “Who did you vote for?”
     “Biden,” replied Carl.
     “Alright, seriously, fuck this guy,” Trump said, turning to Marty. “He didn’t even vote for me!”
     “And that means you’re not going to help him?” Asked Marty.
     “Hello!” Answered Trump. “Why would I help anyone who didn’t vote for me? I didn’t help any of those blue states. Fuck them.”
     Marty sighed, and his shoulders slumped.
     “As president, weren’t you supposed to help all Americans?” Marty asked.
     “Yeah, okay,” said Trump. “I was a republican, I’m only obligated to help other republicans.”
     “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how it works,” Marty countered.
     “Look, who’s the president here?” Trump exploded
     “Former preside …”
     “Fine, former president!” Trump bellowed. “I’m tired of this. Take me home.”
     “There is no home, Mr. Trump,” Marty reminded him.
     During all this, Carl just looked on helplessly. To him, it seemed like Trump was having some deranged, one-sided conversation with himself.
     “Look Mr. Trump,” he said, “I’m at my wit’s end here. Is there anything you can do to help?”
     Trump spun around to look at him.
     “You’re still here?” He asked, annoyed.
     Carl fumbled for an answer, but found none.
     “If you can’t help him, at least comfort him,” coached Marty. “Make him see that he matters and things can work out.”
     Trump continued to stare at him, as if he couldn't even comprehend what Marty was trying him, and it was making him angry. Finally, he threw his hands up as if to say "whatever," and turned his attention back to Carl.
     “Look, uh …” Trump started to say, but faltered and froze.
     “Carl.” Carl reminded him.
     “Carl, yes.” Trump looked very uncomfortable. “You know, uh, you matter, and, um, things will work out …”
     “Don’t just repeat what I said!” Marty half yelled.
     “Well, I don’t know what to tell him! I’m not good at this. I don’t really care!” Trump was getting really petulant now.
     “Don’t say that you don’t care!” Marty said, flustered. “He can hear you!”
     “But I don’t care! Why would anyone care about this guy? He can’t run a business, he can’t take care of his family, he’s useless!”
     “Oh my God!” Exclaimed Marty, materializing in the office. He turned to Carl, who was shell shocked at this point. “I’m so sorry! He didn’t mean that.”
     “I did mean that!” Trump said. “I hate this and I hate being nice and I hate Carl!”
     “You hate me?” Carl asked, taken aback. “Are there no answers for me? Aren’t you going to help me? I thought angels helped people.”
     “Don’t count on that,” Trump said, “this guy has been useless so far.”
     “Hey!” Marty protested. “I keep telling you, I’m not here to help you, I'm more of a guide… ”
     “Well, you're bad at that, too! Yet I’m supposed to help this guy? No offense, Carl, but you’re really not worth helping. I mean, I’m me, and no one is helping me at all, so what chance do you have.”
     Carl just slumped back into his chair and looked sullen and defeated.
     “Look at what you did to poor Carl!” Marty cried. “You are so bad at this!”
     "Poor Carl?!" Trump was back to being incredulous again. "What about poor me? This whole experience has been annoying and boring. I don't see anyone kissing my ass!"
     "And of course you make this all about you…" Said Marty." That's sure to get you into heaven."
     “Whatever,” Trump said dismissively, “I’m done. I’ll be over here in the corner on my phone when you’re ready to leave.” With that, he leaned against the wall, and started browsing the OAN site on his phone.
     “Look Carl,” Marty said, “I am so sorry about all this.”
     So you can help me?” Carl asked, hopefully.
     “Ah, no,” Marty told him. “That’s not how this works. People aren’t really my department.”
     “But you’ll send another angel that will help me?”
     “I’m afraid not,” Marty said, feeling very uncomfortable.
     “Well, then what’s going to happen?”
     “What’s going to happen is that I will erase the memory of all this, and you will have to figure out just what to do on your own.”
     “On my own?” Carl asked, panicking. “I can’t do this on my own! I thought that’s why you came here in the first place.”
     “Yes, well, sorry,” Marty stammered. “I’m sure it will all work out, divine plan and silver linings and all that.”
     With that, Marty held up his hand and a bright light flashed, and Trump and he were gone, and Carl was back holding his head in his hands, at the very moment before Trump and Marty showed up. He had a vague feeling that he had been talking to someone, but wrote it off as more stress induced crazy. As for now, he had no idea what he was going to do. He started to cry.

     “Well, that was a disaster,” Marty was telling Trump now, back on the couch in the holding room in the afterlife.
     “I did warn you that I don’t care about people,” Trump said. “This is kind of your fault.”
     “Listen, I can’t keep explaining this to you,” Marty said, “You better learn, or you’re going to hell. Forever.”
     “Yeah, I’m still not worried,” Trump stated. “I’ll be fine.”
     Marty waved his hand, and now the room was a bedroom.
     “Look, get some sleep, and we’ll try this again tomorrow.”
     “I’m not really tired,” said Trump. “I usually stay up until three, tweeting and such. I’m not about to go to sleep now. And another thi …”
     Marty had waved his hand, and Trump was instantly sound asleep. He really didn’t know how he was going to get through this. He couldn’t stop thinking about Carl, and wondered what would happen to him. It was easier to not care about people when he didn’t have to interact with them. Watching billions of them at a time on a big screen kind of insulated you from thinking of them as individuals, with hopes and dreams and heartbreak.
     Marty tried to remember what that was like, but as he drifted off to sleep later, he had a hard time recapturing his professional detachment. What was happening to him?
     Stupid fucking Trump … he thought, as he finally dozed off.

Trump In The Afterlife Chapter Two: Orientation

     After leaving the front desk, Marty escorted Trump over to a door set in the clouds. The door actually wasn’t there a moment ago; angels have the power to conjure up portals to most anywhere, and make them look like whatever they want them to look like. Even a lower level angel like Marty. He didn’t think of himself as a lower level angel, but he had to accept that was what he was. He had never moved up the ranks, even though he was a lot smarter than a lot of the other heavenly beings bouncing around up here. He got by doing the bare minimum.
     He was okay with that. Being better got you noticed, and while it might get you more respect, it also got you more work. Marty was what you would call a slacker, and while down on earth that might hold you back, up here it didn’t really matter much, at least not to him. What was he missing out on? This was heaven. It really didn’t matter if you worked yourself to death or not, the worst you could achieve was being an angel in the eternity of paradise. The best day on earth couldn’t come close to the worst day in heaven. Come to think of it, there weren’t really any bad days in heaven, up until now.
     There just wasn’t really a lot of incentive to get ahead. Maybe you might get to bask a little more in the adoration of God, but that was kind of overrated. To Marty, it seemed like a meaningless title, or gift certificate for lunch at Applebees you might get for being employee of the month, something that didn’t really cost the corporation much of anything, or do you much good.
     No, Marty didn’t care at all. True, he didn’t have a lot of fun hanging out with the other angels in his social strata, but he didn’t really have to hang out with them that much at all. Being smart and fun and conversational meant that he was accepted by a lot of angels that didn’t really associate with the lower ranks. He got to be friends with a lot of the higher ups, even if he did frustrate them.
     Peter, for example. Peter was always trying to get him to apply himself more. He thought Peter might even envision him as his replacement someday, even though the thought of an eternal being needing to retire was ridiculous. Peter wasn’t going anywhere, you don’t give up plum positions like that. He wasn’t even a real angel, he was a human who was made into an angel. The other upper crust angels never completely accepted him. Maybe that’s why he liked Marty. Marty didn’t care at all about any of that. He wasn’t some angel snob, he wasn’t defensive or slighted that God had placed a human/angel hybrid at the gates of heaven. At any rate, Peter wasn’t going to retire, not a chance. As long as he was the keeper of the keys to paradise, no other angel could truly look down their nose at him or challenge him. More likely, he was probably just bored and lonely, and Marty provided some relief from that. There was no room for advancement up here, not with Peter, not with anyone.
     And that just proved Marty’s point, actually. So many poor suckers all over the world and in heaven working themselves so hard for opportunities that didn’t really exist. It was bad enough that he had to escort this loser through the next few or weeks, or however long it took. Time wasn’t the same thing for an immortal being. He had been alive for all eternity, so a week or a year or a millennia was pretty much the same to him. He just hoped it didn’t take too long, because no matter how immortal you were, hanging out with morons was tedious all the same.
     Once through the door/portal, they arrived in a room with a couch and some chairs. The walls were blank, at least as far as Trump could make out. They didn’t even look like walls, but there was a feeling that there were walls there all the same. Trump plopped himself down on the couch without being asked, and just sat there, staring at Marty.
     Marty sat in one of the chairs facing him, and wondered where to begin. This wasn’t going to be an easy task, explaining what was going to happen here. He was still going over in his mind just how he wanted to start, when Donald spoke up.
     “Okay, whatever we’re going to do here, can we just get it over with?” He said brusquely. “I deserve some special treatment here. I’m rich, I’m powerful, I’m the fucking president, goddammit.”
     “Ex-president,” Marty quickly reminded him, completely ignoring the blasphemy.
     “Bullshit!” Trump exploded. “I didn’t concede anything! There’s no way I lost that election.”
     “Yeah,” said Marty, “simple math seems to contradict that. But I’m not here to discuss any of that stuff Mr. Trump, I just want to get this over with.”
     “Get this over with?” Trump seemed to have trouble understanding that concept. “Isn’t this my immortal life hanging in the balance? Aren’t you like my personal assistant or valet that is going to take care of this for me? Again, I am a very important person, in case you aren’t aware.”
     “Look Mr. Trump, if there is one thing you have to learn, and learn quickly, is that up here, you are like every other mortal soul. You are no better than anyone else on any social scale. You aren’t surrounded by sycophants.”
     “Of course not, we’re not even near the circus!” Trump replied.
     “What … the circus …” Marty stuttered in confusion.
     “Why the hell would there be elephants in heaven?”
     Marty sighed, the first of many exasperated sighs that would escape him during this tale.
     “Sycophants!” He spat out the word. “Not elephants.”
     “What the hell is a sycophant? A sick elephant?”
     “No, a sycophant is someone who just blindly agrees with you to make you happy. An enabler. Someone who lets you believe whatever you want rather than disagree with you, in the hopes that they might get ahead.”
     “Oh,” Trump said, in a sudden burst of understanding. “You mean friends.”
     “No, I don’t mean friends. I mean people who just tell you what you want to hear.”
     “Yes, friends. Like Rudy and Bill and Lindsey. Like my servants or employees.”
     “Those weren’t your friends,” Marty explained. They were just people who used you, or people who you paid to work for you.”
     “Aha!” Trump exclaimed. “I hardly paid any of them! That’s one of my secrets to getting rich. You might have known that if you read a little book that I totally wrote called The Art of the Deal. Amazing book, maybe one of the greatest books ever written. Stiff as many people as you can, then beat them in court, that’s my motto!”
     “Yes, I realize that. That’s one of the many reasons that this is a huge waste of time. You have no chance of getting into heaven.”
     “We’ll see about that,” Trump told him. “I am used to getting what I want, Mikey.”
     “It’s Marty, and …”
     “Whatever, I don’t really care,” Trump interrupted. “You’ll see, I’ll be fine, I always am.”
     “I don’t think things will work out up here the way you’re used to them working out.”
     “Then I’ll just complain and make such a scene that they’ll let me have my own way. Works every time.”
     “Tell me, do you know what being ‘smited' means?” Marty inquired.
     “I think so. It was something a Russian prostitute did to me once. It was pretty good, even if it was really weird and dirty. It was fun. I’ll always be up for a smiting.”
     “I’m glad you think so,” Marty replied, chuckling. “We’ll see how it feels for you when heaven gets through smiting you.”
     “Wow, I can’t believe they would even have that particular kink up here in heaven.”
     “It is not a sex act!” Marty yelled. “Let’s just move on, shall we?”
     Marty motioned towards the walls that may or may not have been there, and suddenly there was a large screen, showing a whole bunch of scenes taking place all over the world. Scenes of people experiencing wars, famine, death, loneliness, loss, and despair. All kinds of heartbreaking scenarios, playing out over the screen that now seemed to not just take up the wall, but stretch onto infinity.
     “This is humanity,” Marty explained. “So many moments filled with horror and pain, or sadness and fear. It will be your job to go down to earth in the present day and help people in crisis.”
     “Why in the world would I want to help people?” Trump asked, incredulously. “I don’t want to help people.”
     “You don’t want to help people? You were a public servant. You were the president. I mean, didn’t you lead the nation and take an oath to protect all the ideals put forth in the Constitution, and serve the country and the American people?”
     “Yeah, something like that. Why?”
     “No reason,” Marty replied, and yet another sigh heaved out of him. “So anyway, you’re going to try to help people in some of their darkest moments. Kind of like an angel would.”
     “Is this the kind of thing you do?”
     “Me?” Marty asked, taken aback. “Goodness, no. I don’t really care for people. Vile, dirty little things.”
     “Me neither!” Trump said happily. “You get it. See, we’re alike, you and me.”
     “Ah, no,” Marty replied. “I am nothing like you. You are one of the most vile, dirty little people I have ever seen.”
     “Well you’re just a nasty person!” Trump said.
     “I’m not a person at all, actually,” Marty corrected him.
     “You know what I mean!” Trump was agitated now. “You’re just trying to confuse me! You're worse than the lame stream media!”
     “I don’t think I need to try to do that, you seem pretty confused all the time anyway. And please don’t say things like “lame stream media.” It’s not nearly as clever as you think it is.”
     Trump just stared at him angrily.
     “Aren’t angels supposed to be nicer than you?” He asked.
     “Again, if you had read your bible, you would know that angels are not really that nice. We are God’s warriors, after all. We destroy cities and kill firstborns and all kinds of stuff.”
     “I could get into that,” Trump said thoughtfully.
     “Ugh,” was all Marty could manage as a reply.
     “Still,” Trump continued. “Aren’t you supposed to help people also? I mean, I couldn’t have gotten that completely wrong. I definitely remember angels helping people and doing good deeds.”
     “Maybe some of them do, but I’m not really interested in that stuff. I’m not really interested in most of the stuff angels spend their time doing.”
     “Great,” Trump said, “I get stuck with some loser angel that won’t even do his job. How is that fair?”
     “I’ll do my stupid job, don’t worry,” Marty told him. “I got Peter keeping an eye on me here, so I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?”
     Trump’s words actually stung a little. He was nothing like this idiot, and he resented the fact that Trump thought for even a second that they had something in common. Trump was evil and narcissistic. He was most likely a psychopath. Marty was just a little lazy, and was that even his fault? The whole system was set up to disenfranchise angels, that wasn’t on him.
     “Okay, so like I said,” Marty went on to explain, “and you’re going to go down to earth with me, and you’re going to help people, and prove that you belong in heaven.”
     “Yeah, I gotta say, that doesn’t really sound like me. I’m more into making things harder for people.”
     “And that’s why you’ll wind up in hell.” Marty reaffirmed. “Still, like everything else in your existence, you are getting an opportunity you don’t deserve. This is your chance to prove otherwise. Kind of like in It’s A Wonderful Life.”
     “What’s that?” Trump asked.
     “It’s a movie,” Marty said, “Like one of the most popular and beloved movies ever made. They play it every year at Christmas.”
     “Oh, fucking Christmas,” Trump replied. “I can’t stand Christmas. Or movies. Unless it’s like a mafia picture, I like those. Did you ever see Goodfellas? Now that's a movie! Well, and porn, of course. That’s how I met my wife.”
     "Okay, let's stay focused," Marty said. "It's A Wonderful Life is about a man who feels like he's reached the end of his rope, and falls into despair. He wishes he had never been born, and an angel appears to show him the way, that he has friends and is loved and has had a full and rich life. He learns how he's touched so many people, and has made the world better in so many ways."
     "Big deal," said Trump, unimpressed. "I helped so many people in my time. Just in the last four years. Big tax cuts for my rich friends, giving all my rich friends jobs, making things easier for my rich friends to control workers and citizens and take protected lands for business…"
     "Just stop!" Marty interrupted. "Helping rich people rob and steal and oppress people is not a good thing! You're supposed to help the poor, not the wealthy."
     "Eww, the poor? Those people are gross. A bunch of losers. Why would I help them? I really don't want to have anything to do with them."
     "You are a fucking horrorshow," Marty said. "How is it that you have no compassion at all for poor people?"
     "Because they deserve it," Trump replied. "They're lazy, and just want to sponge off others. They don't want to work for what they need, they would rather have it given to them."
     "That's not true at all! They just weren't born with the same advantages as you."
     "Nonsense!" Trump argued, "I was self made man, I had to go out and work my way up."
     "You were born into wealth! You went to the best schools! Your father gave you hundreds of millions of dollars to start your businesses! How can you believe the things you say?"
     "It's easy," replied Trump. "You just say it, and ignore anyone who disagrees with you. Life would be horrible if you let yourself get bogged down by other people's facts and opinions. So many people think that they're so smart, but if you just contradict or ignore them enough, they get tired of it and go away."
     Marty just stared at him, dumbstruck.
     "I don't even know where to start explaining to you how wrong that is," he finally said. "Regardless, facts don't care whether you acknowledge or agree with them, they are facts, and you can't change them with wishful thinking."
     "I disagree."
     "Oh my God, just shut up!"
     Marty wasn't sure how he was going to get through this. He was starting to think that maybe disintegration wasn't so bad.
     "Look, there are rules for getting into heaven, and no matter what you choose to believe, you are going to have to play by those rules."
     "Can't I just change the rules with an executive order? I am the president…"
     "Former president… "
     "... And I have the power to dictate the rules."
     "Not up here, you don't," Marty explained. "Up here, God makes the rules."
     "But God chose me!" Trump exclaimed. "That's my point! Some of the richest evangelical leaders on Earth told me that I was chosen by God to lead the nation. Churches full of people, dopey as they may have been, sang my praises and said I was like Jesus."
     "Yeah, those were more sycophants and users, and people who were disturbed and sick."
     "You mean sick elephants, remember?" Said Trump. "I thought we figured that out."
     For the first time in his eternal existence, Marty facepalmed.
     "The fact remains, God wants you to help the poor. It's all over the Bible. ‘Whoever is kind to the poor lends to the Lord, and he will reward them for what they have done.’ ‘The one who oppresses the poor person insults his Maker, but one who is kind to the needy honors him.’ It was one of Jesus's main talking points."
     "Yeah," said Trump," that doesn't really sound like much fun. I mean, what's in all that for me?"
     "I don't think that there's any reaching you." Marty said, dejectedly. "It's like your head's full of squirrels or something."
     "Yeah, speaking of which, where's that little kid with the wings and the Adderall? I could use a booster."
     "I think that was a one time thing," Marty started to say, but just then a cherub appeared out of the clouds and floated over, and jabbed another hypo into his arm. Peter must have been watching and felt pity on Marty.
     "See?" Trump was saying now. "I told you, I always get what I want, because I'm always right."
     "I think that was more of a case of them just wanting to shut you up because you're an asshole."
     "Exactly!" Trump beamed triumphantly. "Because I'm successful, and I am because I know that it only matters if you win, not how you win! That's why everyone respects me."
     Marty knew how wrong that was, but honestly, he didn't have the energy to fight anymore. Besides, he reminded himself in his head, I don't care at all about this mission or his idiot. I don't want to do a good job or get ahead. I just want it to be over. On that note, he decided that it was pointless to try to explain the rules any more than he already had, and he should just throw this douchebag into it and let him flounder and fail.
     "Follow me, Mr Trump," he finally said, "Orientation is over."
     "I'm not Oriental," Trump protested. "That's bullshit! In fact, I can't even stand the Chinese! I'm just thankful they're not allowed in heaven"
     Marty raised his finger and was about to explain the many things wrong with that, then remembered his resolve to not care at all, and pushed the urge down inside him.
     "Let's just go get this shitshow over with," he said as he got up and motioned for Trump to follow.
     "That's what I've been saying!" Said Trump. "See, you wound up agreeing with me too. Everyone does."
     As they walked through another portal, you could hear another one of Marty's frequent signs drifting back from the clouds, where the door had just disappeared.

Trump In The Afterlife Chapter One: Arrival

     It was a miserable November day, but it was even more miserable for Donald Trump as he sat in the presidential bathroom, glaring at his phone. He had already spent the last thirty minutes sitting here, tweeting out his anger and disdain for democracy, and railing against all of his enemies. Even here, in his sanctuary, designed to his specifications of the grandest and most tasteful decor and amenities, he did not find comfort. The fine marble pillars that held up the sink, itself covered in 24 karat gold, like all the fixtures. The gold wallpaper, dotted with pictures of silver dollar signs and women’s breasts, of all shapes and sizes. The giant painting on black velvet that covered one whole wall, a portrait of him, shirtless and his muscles rippling as he strangled a terrorist(or a Mexican guy, he wasn’t sure) with one hand, and held the three-breasted prostitute from Total Recall with the other. He had of course asked for more breasts be added once it was unveiled to him, but it had never gotten done.
     It wasn’t likely to be altered at all now, everything was falling apart.
     How could I have possibly lost this election? He thought to himself. There was no way to deny it any longer; he was going to have to admit that he lost. He had asked his generals, the FBI, the CIA, and a few clandestine departments no one outside of the top circles of government even knew existed to kill Joe Biden and that horrible woman he was married to. Or maybe she was his vice president. He wasn’t really sure who she was, only that she was female and not white, and he hated both those things. They had all refused though. What was the point of being president if you couldn’t have people killed?

     He started to get angry all over again. No amount of gold fixtures or breasts could soothe him these days. He went back to his phone, preparing to post another tweet about how unfairly he was being treated. Suddenly, he was sure that he tasted copper, and before he could feel the entitled disgust that it wasn’t a more precious metal, his heart gave out, and Donald Trump, 45th president of the United States, died of a heart attack while sitting on his gold toilet.

     Up at the main desk for intakes into the afterlife, Marty the angel smiled gleefully and accepted his twenty dollars from Saint Peter. They had both been watching the scene unfold in the bathroom.
     “How in the world did you know he would die that way?” Peter asked. “That was just blind luck!”
     “Actually,” Marty replied, “If you had been paying attention, you would have known that there really was no chance of it happening any other way.”
     "Fine, fine,” said Peter, perturbed. “Just get ready, he’ll be here any minute. We’re going to have to explain a lot to him, and I don’t think he’s that bright.”
     Marty sighed and went back to his binder of notes. He had been put in charge of keeping a file on Mr. Trump for the last three years. Usually, you got assigned to someone for life, but he was now the twelfth angel to be put on this bloated idiot. The eleven that came before him just couldn’t take it, and had all resigned or gone crazy. The ones who had gone crazy were locked away somewhere, and they were pitied, because it was really no fault of their own. They had just finally cracked under the pressure of witnessing this moron day in and day out.
     The ones who resigned … well, no one had ever resigned from the job of monitoring humans before. This was the afterlife, and it was eternal, so “resigning” meant ending your existence completely. You were scattered to the winds, your immortal soul dissipated and lost forever. The fact that so many of his coworkers chose that over simply watching Donald Trump and recording his actions said a lot. Marty had skimmed over the notes when he took over. Some of the entries were nearly indecipherable, because of the angels who had gone insane. They made no sense. They were the ravings of madmen, yet even they were slightly more coherent than the concise notes that described the actual behavior of this man.
     Marty had been worried about taking over, and hoped that he wouldn’t also go crazy or just lose the will to live. He was mostly worried about self preservation. To that extent, he actually did a real half-assed job of writing it all down. Truth be told, there were long stretches where he simply looked away and played games on his phone. Why torture yourself with the frustration of watching some idiot fuck up his life and the country when you could play Candy Crush instead?
     Whatever the case, Marty had survived, and now there was just the formality of assigning Trump to heaven(yeah, right!) or hell, or maybe reincarnating him into a stink bug or dung beetle a few times, just for laughs. Yes, in a few moments, he would hand over this accursed notebook to Peter, and he would be free to float around the clouds and perform some other mundane heavenly task.
     A few minutes later, the clouds parted, and Donald Trump floated up into view, and settled in front of the desk. He looked the same as he appeared on Earth, moments earlier when he died, and appeared to be just as angry.
     This struck Marty. Most of the people who appeared here after shuffling off their mortal coil would gaze around in wonder. They would find some inner peace, or their spirits would fill with joy and contentment. Trump just glared, a petulant look on his face. You could tell he was not impressed.
     “Just what the hell is going on here?” He demanded. “Where am I? Where’s Rudy?”
     “If you’ll just calm down, Mr. Trump,” Peter was telling him now, “All will be revealed in due time. Marty, the book of Mr. Trump’s life?”
     Marty handed the book over, glad to be free of it once and for all, and took out his phone and opened Candy Crush,and began to play. He heard Peter clear his throat, and he looked up to find him staring at him sternly. He put his phone back in his pocket.
     “Okay,” Peter continued, opening the book. “Let’s see what we have here.”
     Marty watched as he turned each page, and noticed his expression turning from interest, to bewilderment , and then to worry.
     “Well, what does it say?” Trump asked impatiently. “Do I go to heaven now?”
     A burst of laughter escaped Marty’s mouth, and he quickly stifled it. Peter glared over at him, and closed the book.
     “Marty, could I see you in the back for a moment?” He asked.
     “Oh no!” Bellowed Trump, “I demand to know what’s going on here! I demand to talk to the big guy! I should go straight to heaven. No one was more beloved than me down on Earth. No one ever did more for his country than I did!”
     Peter just regarded him with a look of amusement on his face.
     “Oh, Mr. Trump,” he said, “Lying might work down there sometimes, but up here no one is going to believe that bullshit.”
      Donald stood there silent for once in his life. Peter was a saint, and he had a way of imparting such a grievous tone, especially when he used words you wouldn’t expect like “bullshit,” that it could even make Donald Trump shut up and take notice.
      “We’ll be right back.”

     There was no actual “in the back” at the intake desk. Peter simply waved his hand and he and Marty and the book were whisked to another dimension, which was in fact only a few nanometers away from the desk, but invisible to anyone standing there.
     “Marty, what is this?” He asked, holding up the book.
     “It’s the book of his life, of course.”
     “Is it?” Peter replied, putting a lot of emphasis on the question, “because I can’t make heads or tales of it. There’s a lot of gibberish, there are whole portions of his life missing …”
     “Well, you know some of the other angles went a little … you know …” Marty twirled his finger beside his head, making the international sign for crazy. Peter did not seem impressed. To drive the point home, he started making the cuckoo noise.
     “I know what it means!” shouted Peter. “Your entries don’t make much more sense though. There are times when whole weeks or months are missing. This book is incomplete!”
      “Well,” Marty tried to explain, “it was excruciating watching it most of the time. I felt like I was going to go crazy myself. I mean, this guy was nuts! And they elected him president, for crying out loud! Honestly, Peter, it was terrifying. There is no way that any of this was part of His plan!”
     “Oh, now we’re going to start assuming we know what His plan is?” Peter asked. “Do you really want to start with blasphemy when you’re already in hot water?”
     “Blasphemy? Really, Peter? You mean to tell me that you don’t wonder sometimes just what the hell He’s thinking these days?”
     “Of course not!” Peter replied, trying his best to appear sincere. He saw that Marty wasn’t buying it.
     “Yeah, okay, I’ll let that one go, but the fact remains that I don’t have enough here to judge him on.”
     “But look at him!” Marty protested. “You know more than enough to just send him off to hell and move on. You know he’s one of the most horrible human beings who ever lived. Just kick him down there and let’s go have lunch. My treat!”
     Peter Sighed.
     “You know that’s not how this works. Rules are rules. In these instances, the clause kicks in, and as his official bookkeeper, the responsibility falls on you.”
     “No!” Marty was horrified. “You cannot be serious!”
     “Oh well,” Peter smiled, “At least you won twenty bucks.”

     Then they were back at the desk, and Trump looked even more annoyed than when they had left, which was odd, because due to the whole different dimension thing, no time had actually passed. He stood there with his arms folded and his lips pursed, glaring at all he surveyed.
     “So do I get to go to heaven now?” He asked petulantly.
     “Well, you see, Mr. Trump,” Peter explained, “I can’t rightly send you to either place because I don’t have enough of your earthly record to judge you accurately.”
     “What the hell does that mean?”
     “It means that we have to figure out a way to decide where you belong.”
     “I’m sure if you just let me talk to God, he’ll be very understanding and let me into heaven.” Trump said.
     Peter and Marty laughed heartily at that.
     “Mr. Trump,” Peter said, “I don’t know if you’ve ever actually read the bible...:”
     “Of course not!” Interrupted Donald, “What am I, one of those stupid evangelicals I duped into voting for me?”
     “Yes, yes, they are pretty horrible, Mr. Trump,” Peter continued, “but if you had read the bible you would know that He isn’t really that into the whole understanding or being reasonable thing. No, I think it’s best that we just follow the rules and see how that goes.”
     “Okay, so what are the stupid rules?” Trump asked. “Do I get any special treatment because I’m the president?”
     “Former president,” Peter reminded him. “Nope. You are just like anybody else. Well, let me correct that, you are not like anybody else, thank Him, but you will be judged just the same.
     “Marty here will accompany you while we give you chances to redeem yourself and prove that you are worthy, of either destination. When we have enough information, we will decide.”
     “Marty?” Trump asked, “Who the fuck is Marty?”
     “Uh, I’m Marty,” the angel clarified. “I’m the angel who was in charge of keeping track of everything you did down there.”
     “Oh, you were my guardian angel?”
     “Oh, no no no, that poor guy quit some time ago.” Marty said. “ And by quit, I mean vaporized himself into the ether. Can’t say I blamed him.”
     “So you’re saying I beat Covid all on my own!” Trump exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew it! I knew I was strong!”
     “Not exactly, Mr. Trump,” Peter explained hesitantly. “If you recall, you had access to first rate medical care. Anyone else in your position would have died.”
     “Yeah, because they’re losers!” Donald beamed triumphantly. “Just like all those suckers buried in Arlington.”
     Peter looked horrified. He waved his hand, and he was back with Marty in the other dimension.
     “What the fuck?!” He exclaimed. “What the actual fuck?”
     “This is what I’m trying to tell you!” Marty said. “He’s absolutely horrible!”
     “Well, I had gathered that, but … but … this is just some deplorable shit right here. I mean, Manson didn’t even say anything this crazy when he got here.”
     “And you want to saddle me with this abomination?” Marty asked. “Can’t you please just send him to hell and let us move on?”
     “I have to say I’m tempted,” Peter replied, “But we have to do what’s right.”
     He waved again, and they were back, and now Trump was really ranting and raving, about the election, about fraud, about conspiracies.
     “Do you get Fox News up here?” He asked. “Is there a TV somewhere?”
     “No, Mr. Trump,” Peter said, “Fox News is only broadcast in hell. Could you please try to focus on the matter at hand.”
     “Well,” Trump replied, “focus isn’t really my long suit.”
     “That’s true,” Marty confirmed, “he’s really all over the place a lot of the time. Can we get him some Adderall?”
     “We do not use drugs here, Marty!” Peter replied sternly, much to Marty’s dismay.
     “No bother,” Trump was saying now, “I’m going to need lawyers, and I’m going to need someone to handle the press. I’m also going to need some whores, the younger the better!”
     Peter stood there with his jaw dropped open, not sure what he was seeing.
     “Did any of you see my phone anywhere? I need to tweet about this. I’m sure the democrats had something to do with all this. Does Obama have cameras here as well? I bet Hillary is behind it!”
     “Peter, seriously, how am I going to work with this?” Marty implored. “You have to do something.”
     Peter sighed, and waved his hand resignedly. A small, winged cherub appeared from the clouds, and flew over to Donald. It produced a hypodermic needle, and shot 50 mg or so of liquid Adderall into Trump’s arm. Trump sighed contentedly, then shook his head and looked on with renewed focus.
     “I’m ready to kill this, whatever it is!” Trump exclaimed.
     “Okay, Mr. Trump,” Peter was telling him, “you’ve killed enough. If you’ll just go along with Marty, we can get underway.”
     Marty moved from behind the desk, and started off, and Trump followed him, moving awkwardly.
     Peter sighed heavily, and called after him: “Mr. Trump, could you please pull up your pants …”