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.
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