Donald Trump Dies and Goes to the Devil

I explore Donald Trump's journey through the afterlife.

Donald Trump Dies and Goes to the Devil

Donald Trump lay in his bed in his White House bedroom watching CNN. He told his hillbilly followers that CNN was fake news, but deep down inside he knew CNN was what respectable, intelligent people watched, and those respectable, intelligent types were forever pulling a fast one. So Trump secretly watched CNN to keep up with them.

Donald was enjoying a couple of Big Macs, two Filet of Fish, a large fry, a sizable piece of chocolate cake and diet coke. A diet coke about the size of the lampshade on his bedside lamp. Donald had always believed that if you took the proper amount of diet coke with your meal, the calories would average. And to this he attributed his athletic build, a build the news media failed to acknowledge.

The coverage shifted to Anderson Cooper talking about the border wall. In the background was a mock-up of the current version of the wall. Hundreds of Mexicans were using ladders to hop over it. Drones were flying over the wall and Mexicans were using the transparent portions of the wall to land the drones, discharge the cargo, pick up the money and return the Mexican side on GPS autopilot. A feature common to many medium priced drones that would sometimes fly out of visual range.

As Mr. Cooper continued to speak on the cost of the wall, a video came on depicting a truck driving under the wall in a tunnel and an elevator that would lift the truck into a garage/warehouse on the San Diego side. Trump was immediately on his phone screaming at Sarah Sanders, or as Trump referred to her, Baghdad Huckleberry, to counter this in her 10:00 AM press briefing tomorrow. Trump turned back to the television just in time to see Barrack Obama having a pleasant chat with Prince Harry and his wife.

Rage overcame Donald and he sharply inhaled in preparation to scream. But in doing so, Donald inhaled a large piece of partially masticated Big Mac into his wind pipe where it lodged tightly. The television was turned up loud and the staff had been told to stay far away (so as not to see his sheets) and nobody heard his distress.

Trump flopped about like a big, sweaty, orange catfish on the flagstones of his bedroom floor until he turned blue and starred at the ceiling with bulging, sightless eyes. A huge fart then issued forth. Some of the religious people watching the security video the next morning felt this to be Donalds soul leaving his body. Others simply felt if was the bowl spasm of a dying man. The preoccupied staff did not closely guard the video and the fart, in it's entirety, ended up on Twitter as a youTube video entitled “Trump's Final Message”.

From Donald's perspective, there was the horrible choking sensation, the world going dark and then the sudden awakening in a room where a folding table and chair sat on a grimy concrete floor. The beige walls had lots of nail and tack holes in them and the area around the light switch was black with finger prints. The fluorescent light itself pulsed and buzzed uncomfortable. It was hot in the room.

The door opened and a slim, elegantly dressed and well composed gentleman, with a severe dark widow's peak and neatly trimmed, pointed, black goatee entered and seated himself opposite Donald. He pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket, opened it and after glancing at it said, “Well, it's about time to get started”. There was an audible “snap” as he closed the watch and returned it to his pocket.

“Are you gay?” Asked Donald Trump.

The unflappable gentleman suddenly seemed a bit flapped. “What?” He asked in a loud, disbelieving voice.

“No offense”, replied Donald, “it's just that most really skinny guys like you are”.

“You got bigger things to wonder about right now”, the gentleman replied. “Now, have you figured out where you are?”

“No”, replied Donald.

“You're dead. That last bite of Big Mac got you.”

“Where am I now?” Asked Donald.

“You're nowhere really. I'm here to figure out where you should be.”

“Like Heaven? “ Donald asked with a hopeful note in his voice.

“Are you kidding? You think they would have you? The Lord didn't take to well to you using his White House Prayer Breakfasts for political ammo. And your pious acting Easter message pissed him off. But believe me, that's just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Then where? Not the other place!” Donald was becoming agitated.

“Relax, there are lots of other places. You're a long way from the fiery pit right now. That's only for incorrigibles. We like to give you a last chance, to see if you can develop some strength of character. Some courage and fortitude.”

“So where do I go?” Donald again asked.

The gentleman rubbed his eyes and said, “I don't know. I have to think about this. You're sort of the special case.” He sat silently rubbing his brow for another minute and then resumed, “Let's start you with something easy. I think you should be reincarnated as Steve Bannon's toilet seat.”

“No!”, replied Donald.

“It's definitely better than the fiery pit”, replied the gentleman. “Well, a little better”, he corrected. “Actually”, he continued, “you don't have a lot of choice in the matter. I make the decisions here. But don't worry, Steve's 64 years old and that's bullshit about him not drinking. Why do you think he looks like he does? So it will be a short assignment. We'll see you back here short of seven years.”

With that the gentleman waved his hand and Donald found himself without arms and legs resting on the dirty porcelain rim of toilet A toilet in a filthy bathroom smelling of stale urine, cheap vodka, dirty hair and stale pizza. After about a half an hour Steve Bannon banged open the door, staggered in, extracted a somewhat greasy looking willie from his pants and began to piss on Donald's back.

“S**t”, muttered Bannon, as he corrected his aim to the center of the toilet.

Later that evening Steve returned, and this time he vomited on Donald's back and then tried to push the mess into the toilet with the toilet plunger.

The next morning was the worst of all, however, when Steve again returned and dropped of the remains off a 7-11 pizza, two pickled eggs and several bags of beer nuts.

This went on for 3.5 years. Donald then suddenly found himself back in the dingy little beige room, again sitting at the folding table.

The thin gentleman entered, sat down, stroked his pointed goatee to a sharper point and then began scanning a set of papers in his hand.

“This is your mid-term review”, said the thin gentleman. “The report says you were a good toilet seat. You didn't squirm or get unduly cold. But it also says that you never fully accepted your lot nor found fulfillment with it. And you lost a lot of points for that.”

“I tried!” Donald interjected.

“Yes, you tried. But, unfortunately you sort of flunked.”

“What!” Donald demanded with fear in his voice.

“Calm down”, said the thin gentleman. “That's what mid-term reviews are for. To give you a chance to correct your errors and improve your performance.”

“How?” Asked Donald.

“You must accept your lot as Steve Bannon's toilet seat. You must feel that this is your proper role in the universe and find fulfillment with it.”

And with this the slim gentleman waived his hand and Donald Trump again found himself as Steve Bannon's toilet seat. But this time it was different. For the next 3.5 years Donald tried to revel in his lot. He worked to achieve toilet seat consciousness and he gave thanks for his position every day.

And almost 3.5 years later he again found himself in the dingy room seated at the folding table. The elegant gentleman entered and again scanned the collection of reports in his hand.

“You did much better this time. Not only were you a great toilet seat, but you really tried to humbly accept your lot in life. And they were really impressed with how you handled Bannon's bowel problems just before he died. You done good.”

“So I don't have to be reincarnated as something gross again”, Donald asked.

“I don't think so. I think you're ready for your final position.”

“Is it bad”, asked Donald. A note of fear again in his voice.

“It's nothing that you can't get used to. At least over time. And you'll have lots of time.”

With this, the gentleman pulled a lever beside him and a trap door opened under Donald's chair. Donald landed in the fiery pit with a loud 'whooomp'.”

“Just f****n' with you Donald”, said the gentleman as he dusted his hands.

As he exited the dingy room, he had a little trouble with the door lock. As he messed with it he was heard to mutter, “Are you gay? ….. sheesh”.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Ha! A just reward, I'd say. I'm more subtle in my writing about the worst POTUS in history, but I dig every word you've written here. Hopefully, it won't be long before we can wake up each morning and check the news without worrying about nuclear war.

[Vivian Fisk]

Perfectly lovely! BTW, did you know that The Washington Post has $1 subscriptions for the whole first month? Wonderful reading...Jeff Bezos' gift to us all.

[Miss Fedelm]

Thank's for reading. I have over 65,000 comments on the Washington Post. I have it up constantly while I am working and I always have to put in my two cents worth.

[Vivian Fisk]

Well done!