Chapter 7: Lord Trump on the Run

Craig Breedlove’s Spirit of America, circa 1966

Read Chapter 7 of Lord Trump the Undead about how Trump’s noncorporeal father Fred Trump spirits him out of harm’s way by having the Beast from the Book of Revelation stash him away in a small house at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean several hundred miles off the east coast of Florida.

In his lifetime Donald J. Trump was often unfairly disparaged by Communists, Fascists, and Demon Democrats — Demon-Crazies, he calls them — as stupid. He was not stupid then, and he is certainly not stupid now.

DJT the man always had the cunning (and the stink) of the fox and the glib tongue (and scaly skin) of the serpent.

But now …

Now that he is undead and out in the world, after a full half century of gold-toileted confinement, there’s something else going on.

Call it supernatural assistance. Call it aid from beyond the grave.

He has never been put in a grave, to tell you the truth. But still.

When he steps out of the smoldering ruin that was Mar-a-Lago, barefoot but still in his blue suit and long red tie, he has a senior moment. He has no idea where he is or what he’s doing. Nothing makes sense. Not only do no ideas or images come to him — no words come to him. All his life and all his afterlife the words would always come, even, or especially, with no ideas to back them up. Now he seems to have run dry.

He stands stock-still there in the circular drive, afraid to look around, for fear of what he’ll see.

He does manage to say: “I don’t …”

And then a voice pipes up in his head. It — could it be? — it sounds uncannily like his Ku Kluxer father Frederick Christ Trump — talk about a voice from beyond the grave! 75 years the Grand Poobah’s body’s been moldering. And now it’s talking?

Lord Trump vaguely remembers the rally he organized back in the whatever, after he’d been indicted four times on 91 felony counts. He pretended to be talking to his parents, wondering what they’d say if they could talk. And now old dead Fred — Fred Christ for Chrissakes! — old dead Fred is gabbling in his ear.

Lord Trump’s dad got the middle name Christ from his paternal grandmother, née Elizabeth Christ. His paternal grandfather was Friedrich Trump, a German born in 1869. When Friedrich met Elizabeth they gave their son Fred both names: Frederick from the dad, Christ from the mom.

The German-American Ku Kluxer and closet Nazi Fred Trump was the son of Christ and kissing cousin to the Aryan Blond Beast of whom that other Friedrich, Friedrich Nietzsche — born a quarter century before the Friedrich who married the Christ — wrote in his waning years of sanity.

DJT in life was grandson to the Christ and magnificent iconic stand-in for his godfather in the fifty years of his unlife.

So but anyway, that voice pipes up in his head.

“Hang on, son,” it says, “we’ll get you sorted in no time.”

“D-dad?”

“Don’t bug me now, kid, I need to get you out of this mess you’re in.”

“Mess?”

“I don’t know another name for it, at least one that’s fit to print. Now shut up.”

Lord Trump shuts up.

So the Blond Beast that I mentioned a minute ago has now apparently just occurred to Fred Trump too, I take it the sly bastard was listening in on my narration, because about four and a half seconds later a Blond Beast that looks like a fat yeti but runs on all fours comes galumphing up and skids to a halt alongside Lord Trump. The Beast is pulling a car. The car is famous, but Lord Trump doesn’t recognize it, so I’ll tell you instead: it’s the Spirit of America jet body in which Craig Breedlove famously won the world land speed record out on the Bonneville Salt Flats in 1966, when DJT was 20.

Lord Trump is clearly gearing up to take credit for that land speed record, you know, he built Craig Breedlove’s car, the engine was from DJT’s jet, he and Craig have known each other since forever, etc. It’s not true, but that’s never stopped him before.

Now, for a change, he can’t work up the story. He’s lost a step.

And the Beast is getting impatient.

“Come on, get in,” he says. “We ain’t got time to be bragging about no race cars.”

“Where are you taking me,” Lord Trump manages to growl. “The moon?”

“Ha ha,” the Beast grunts. “Get in.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Fred Trump says in the good Lord’s inner ear. “He’s not going to be breaking any land speed records, where the two of you are going.”

Well, the discombobulated Lord Trump doesn’t have the presence of mind to ask further. He gets in. Fred Trump’s disembodied hand comes out of nowhere to slam the hatch, and they’re off.

Vaguely, very very vaguely, it comes to Lord Trump that if the hot-shot theocrats are organizing a desperate dragnet for him, and they almost certainly are, he won’t be on the run long, with this shaggy dog pulling the wagon. The Beast is straining at about half the speed he pulled up at.

Alive, DJT had tipped the scales at 350; undead, he weighs well over 500 pounds.

He’s mostly solid inside.

The Blond Beast is struggling to pull the load.

But now he reaches the water line — and plunges in!

Turns out the Blond Beast is a monster in the water. He swims like the devil is on his tail.

The Spirit of America fills with water, but never fear: undead, the Lord Trump is amphibious (who knew he had three sets of gills!?) and the Blond Beast has infinite strength.

As they dive deeper and deeper into Davy Jones’ Locker, Lord Trump blows out bubbles and says, sotto voce, almost as if he’s afraid of the boogie-man up in the world above the water:

“Catch me now, you Demon-Crazies.”

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