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 …”
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 …”
Good Stuff ! This made me chuckle .
ReplyDeleteYay! That's what it's supposed to do!
DeleteHehehe... I'd like to see this one performed live!
ReplyDeleteWe can always dream ...
Delete