A Wasteland President, Part 16

It was still dark when Donald raided another Shocko Bell. The stars glittered as he casually devoured the chicken tacos placed haphazardly on his lap. He didn’t know what Barack was on about. Go up to the counter, ask for good, receive food. Simple as that. Plus, he was showing the world that he didn’t need the Secret Service or private jets or adulation to survive. He could survive on the purified nut of mother nature.

The parking lot of the Shocko Bell was understandably empty, except for Donald of course. More cow-faced cats prowled beyond the lights provided by the franchise. They were waiting for a quick and easy meal.

“I know what you’re after,” Donald said to them. “And you’re not getting for it. You’re going to have to work for it like I did.”

One of the cats looked at him fiercely, and then quickly jumped into the bushes. Donald was a little spooked by that. He decided to get up and then walk quickly to the nearest road, which was crumbling and studded with potholes. The road was poorly lit, oozing darkness. He decided to walk until something happened. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for a blue Cadillac to pull up beside him.

“You look a little under the weather. Why don’t you get in the back. Take a load off,” a rough-looking man in his fifties said, pulling on Donald’s sleeve to anchor him to the vehicle.

“Okay,” Donald replied, sliding into the backseat with a grace few enjoyed. The driver turned to look at him, his eyes glowing like one of the cow-faced cats. Donald was more spooked now than he was being alone in that parking lot.

“I’ve been following you for some time. Quietly.”

“My people would’ve noticed,” Donald said haughtily.

“You don’t have people. But I can change that.”

“Huh?”

“I think you should run for President.” The man who spoke wore a long hood. His voice sounded positively…senatorial.

“I’ve been floating the idea around. I like the way you think.”

The man leaned closer to Donald. The hood grazed a sweaty forehead. “Let me put it to…you…this way. Palm Beach–nay–all of Florida, needs your help. But more importantly, you need Florida’s help.”

Donald squinted. “I don’t really understand.”

“You’re a talker, not a thinker. And that makes you the most important man alive. More importantly, if you want to remain that way, you’ll have to ascend to the presidency. Florida memorial cannot cure what ails you. But the government can. What do you say?”

Donald’s head dropped. “The people won’t elect me looking like this.”

“Oh, you…underestimate…your ability to inspire pity. You ran on anger. Run on pity now. For your sake. For…Florida’s sake.”

Donald was wondering what was wrong with the man. Why was he pausing so much when he spoke? He didn’t have much time to ponder that question as the Cadillac abruptly stopped. Secret Service men were getting out of the vehicle blocking its path. They didn’t look happy.

A Wasteland President, Part 15

A Wasteland President, Part 1

 

 

All of a sudden, his life changed…

Apparently, you can use the like button too frequently. Strange. I wasn’t aware there was a cap. I understand that cuts down on spam, but as another blogger said, I go through spurts of both reading and interacting…which I guess some might deem as “spamming.”

Anyway, maybe “objectively” I clicked the button too quickly and repeatedly, but I’m still a person. Worthy of respect and having his “like” button back. Admittedly, I might have gotten a little crazy with it, but unless you set a clear limit on something, I’m probably going to exceed it. It’s what it means to be human. Does that make me a “spammer”? If so, I don’t want to be NOT a spammer!

Adam West Fiction “One Final Labyrinth”

The beloved bat looked forlornly at the wall made up of crushed gallons of milk. His sidekick was looking at the wall too, squinting at the harsh sunlight.

“When do you think it will end, Batman?”

“The madness, you mean?”

“No, I meant the sunlight,” his sidekick said. The beloved bat looked at his sidekick, who was gangly-looking and wearing bright red lipstick.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider changing colors? You might look less garish.”

The Prince of Green looked at the bat. “Red wards off the run. And besides, it complements my hair.”

“I can’t argue with royalty,” the bat said. “You are the Prince of Green, after all. Say, why don’t you summon an airship or a retinue of veterans to rescue us from this purgatory.”

But the Prince didn’t answer. Indeed, the Prince wasn’t present at all.

“Where did you go, my dear Prince? I’d of thought you would’ve stuck around to the end.”

The only response the bat received was the hard-to-perceive sound of those decaying gallons. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t decay in enough time to spare his patience. So he walked the lonely paths lined with rejected vessels hoping the Prince of Green would appear.

“We’ve always had a tense relationship, dear Prince. That’s no reason to abandon a well-functioning duo.”

Before the bat could finish his speech, he fell through a question mark-shaped hole in the ground. All of a sudden, he was soothed. Here he was in his natural environment, nestled in a labyrinth beneath a labyrinth. Those pesky gallons still formed barriers against anything else, but Adam was coming to peace with them. They were part of this world, slowly rotting away.

“Whatever happens to this world, I’ll persevere,” Adam said to himself. “Unwanted gallons be damned!”

Adam approached what looked like an altar.

“Go due west,” the altar said, a voice coming from below. “You’ll find your answers there.”

Adam decided to follow the altar’s advice. He headed due west, through ever-narrowing corridors dotted with question marks. Clay hand prints dotted the dots, making Adam suspicious. Something nefarious was going on. He started to doubt the sage words of an always reliable altar. But as soon as he did so, he entered a cavernous room. The gallons had gone, replaced with rocky walls and more clay hand prints.

A being was sitting in a posh chair covered in red. “The Prince of Green! I’d recognize that shade of red anywhere!”

It was indeed the Prince of Green, but his left arm ended in a clay-ish stump. The Prince offered a malicious glare.

“Sorry for the deception, bat, but it was necessary.”

Adam became a little flustered. After all, his sense of justice had been rattled.

“Deception is a tool of the morally polluted!”

The Prince of Green motioned with his clay-ish stump, and shadows started to come out of the woodwork, revealing their true selves.

The Joker appeared, seeming calm and cool-headed. The Penguin, short but devious, took off his top hat, bending a bald head. A riddler wearing pjs stepped out of the dark, yawned and looking benignly at the bat.

“You’re surrounded, my friend,” said the Prince of Green, who tripled in size as the mind behind the shape let go. It was clayface in all his dramatic glory. Vines crept up behind his massive shoulders, and a throne of ivy was rose above his head, sitting inside it was  of course the red-haired poison ivy.

“The Goad-dess of plants herself!”

“At your command!” she said.

Adam was confused, and getting a little angry. Why were they being so nice to him?

“It’s time to let go, Adam,” clayface said, his mask of sadness deepening in the candlelight.

Adam smiled, the reality of things finally dawned on him. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But there’s just one last thing.” He looked expectantly into the shadows.

Robin appeared, giving a bow. So this was it. The end of an era. As Robin and the bat walked into the doorway of light, Adam thought that nothing could be this simple. There had to be a catch. But his old enemies were smiling and waving. The Joker, the archbishop of Evil, his greatest nemesis, was waving too. Adam did the same, punching Robin lightly on the shoulder as they passed from one level of existence to another.

Maybe Adam would give David Bowie a call. It was only fitting.

 

Adam West-A little Empathy is in Order

Adam West, American Icon, Beloved Bat, his titles are numerous and infinite. He achieved fame during his portrayal of Batman in the 1960s television show. But rather than mourn the bat, the best friend of everyone’s silver screen, it’s time to mourn the three-dimensional man beyond the bat.

Mr. West’s career extended far beyond the Caped Cruiser, touching with his bright star various cop procedurals and westerns. He also lent his voice to The Simpsons and starred in The Big Bang Theory. He was the voice of the mayor in Family Guy.

But a man is not just his celebrity, he is a man involuntarily wrapped up in his celebrity. The mantle chose him before he chose the mantle.

I’ll always love Batman. But I’ll always appreciate Adam West not just for his portrayal of the superhero, but for his willingness to assume the mask and permanently step into American mythology. Despite his mythological proportions, he was a person, plain and simple.

I haven’t mentioned Adam West is dead yet. He died of leukemia at age 88. Death shouldn’t shroud a man only to dehumanize him. He’s still a man, in my view.

And since everyone is allowed one inappropriate question:

“Will his casket look like the batmobile?”

Who knows? That’s besides the point. Let me clean your mask, dear friend, and place it upon whatever earthly vessel you deem necessary.

 

 

Just thinkin’ about life

Just sitting here having a pint of Haagen Dazs’s white chocolate raspberry truffle and thinking about life, specifically getting older. Why do  we choose to cross the mighty Aegean daily? Are the mysteries on the other side fulfilling enough to justify the journey back to mundane shores? Did the elderly Hercules think about the…

…I just finished the entire pint of ice cream. If I see it, I eat it. It’s a sad, simple, recurring truth.

Anyway, will I be thinking about this expired pint when I am 60? Maybe. Probably not. What will I be thinking about when I am 60? Probably all of the unnecessary energy expended. Should life be about expending energy or doing all you can to preserve it? Sounds like a contradiction, no? But it’s worth considering in my view. What if it were possible to be robust and 60?

And, even if you are robust, will you be living during an era when that kind of thing isn’t frowned upon? In other words, how much of old age is reinforced by society? Is energy within humans a renewable resource? Can a polite smile lift the spirits of a man whose days were once thought to be behind him?

“I am not old. I am simply invisible.”

You are seen as a product of an era gone by. Yes, a “product.” Reduced to so many working or malfunctioning parts. A two-dimensional person long-dead, living in a 3d world.

I’m only 32, but sometimes I worry about these things. They seem irrelevant now, but they are rapidly approaching relevancy. The years are mercilessly ripped off the walls and thrown into the garbage. What do you do with that knowledge? Bury your head in the sand? If only others played along, that would be the safe bet. But they are playing to the beat of a drummer that passes you by.

There has to be a solution out there somewhere.

A Wasteland President, Part 15

Donald quickly closed his eyes and titled his head, in an effort to look unconscious. Unfortunately within less than a minute, he was unconscious, surfing the waves of the day’s events. He was fighting off a giant lyme tick on the shores of a tumultuous sea. James Comey walked casually along the beach, kicking up sand and sea shells.

“Comey! Hey!…James!” Donald yelled, but Comey kept walking, head down. As he reached the edge of Donald’s dreamscape, a Bannon orc materialized from a shimmering portal, cutting Comey down and vanishing back through the portal in the blink of an eye.

Donald woke with a lump in his heart. He felt tired. Like he could sleep away the next several decades. “Where am I?” he asked. He could hear a cold voice over a speaker system.

“You’re in the hospital, Donald,” Mitch’s voice said. “You fainted for the second time tonight.”

“I need to get to D.C. I need to get those tapes!”

Mitch smiled through Donald’s blurry vision. It seemed gentle and authentic. “You’re not going anywhere. Look, Barack’s team has everything under control.”

“I don’t trust him! He’ll use the tapes against me! He wiretapped me! He sabotaged by Presidency from Day 1!”

“Look in the mirror, Mr. President. You’ve sabotaged yourself,” said Barack, nodding to Mitch. Barack had such a cold look on his face, as if he didn’t care if Donald lived or died.

“Take a look, and remember this is only temporary,” Mitch said.

Trump gazed into the mirror, expecting to see his formidable features. Instead, he saw a remarkably pale man with black, spidery veins clinging to the left side of his face.

“What the hell happened to me?”

“You were bitten by  a Lyme tick. Relax. In a few months, everything is going to be fine,” Mitch said. He leaned closer. “You know, I have a private room here. Best establishment in the whole city. You’re going to love it!”

“The man is suffering from advanced Lyme disease, and all you can talk about is how nice the accommodations are.” Barack said.

“Where’s Michelle?” Mitch asked.

“Looking after things.”

“I…I think I need to lie down.”

The pair of men nodded, putting on their stately masks as they went away.

Donald had lied to them just then. In fact, it wasn’t the first time he had done so. He needed to get those tapes. Maybe he could hitchhike. Take a bus. Something! He had to wait until the nurses ended their shifts and everything died down a little.

The night eventually slowed, with the staff’s voices falling to a simmer and then eventually the only sounds left were the hums of the various machines keeping him alive. He started the mighty task of removing each of the prying tentacles, quietly, semi-efficiently.

After 20 minutes or so, he had freed himself. Donald looked out the window. He was on the third floor. But that wouldn’t stop him. He tied some sheets together, and slid down the silky serpent without so much as a second thought.

Donald stood in front of the hospital, behind some bushes. For the first time in a great while, he was happy. He had cut himself from the Obamas and the nasty ball of entangled headphone cords known as politics. The sky was the limit. He was preparing for the fact that he would have to defend himself occasionally in this new world, but there was always a price to pay for freedom.

A Wasteland President, Part 14

A Wasteland President, Part 1

 

 

A Wasteland President, Part 14

Trump didn’t know what to do. He was scared, alone, and hungry. And mildly claustrophobic.

“I don’t know who to blame,” he whispered. “Mitch, Barack, Michelle. They’re all dirty, as far as I’m concerned.”

He slithered through the vents like a snake, wondering where his next meal was going to coming from. But the exercise was erasing his mind. Everything seemed clear now. Bannon wanted the FBI smeared in time for election season. What possible purpose could that serve?

“Looks like I underestimated you, Steve. Good job.”

Donald was seeing light at the end of the tunnel, even though he couldn’t fit Mitch inside Bannon’s grand scheme just yet. Who was working for whom? Was he still leader of the free world? And what about James Comey? What happened to the friggin’ nut job?

So many questions as he plopped out of an air vent hole, like a recently birthed seal.

“Hold your fire,” came Barack’s voice. “He wears the mantle.”

“The mantle? Who talks like that?” said Michelle.

“It’s simply short-hand for presidential privilege. These guys know what I mean.”

Trump rubbed the top of his head. “I don’t feel so good.” He looked pale and and his eyes were sunken. He could’ve sworn something bit him inside the vents, that suffocating hell of worm tunnels and endless conspiracies.

Barack walked up to the crescent of Secret Service agents, parting the suit-and-tie sea with his eyes. He offered a hand.

“Get up, Donald!” Barack commanded.

“Is this your way of apologizing? Then I accept,” Donald said, then Barack withdrew his hand.

“One of you guys give him a hand. I’m tired of his ****!”

A Secret Service man nodded and went to help the former president. After the incident had resolved itself, Donald caught up with Barack.

“You weren’t very nice to me back there,” Donald said, choking the hallway and preventing any further progress.

“Yeah. That was kinda the point. It’s been one hundred years, Donald. You haven’t grown up at all?”

“In my defense, I was asleep for most of that time.”

“Look. Michelle isn’t hear to defend you and go on and on about your little gift. A god damn paperweight. Anyway, you need to start taking things seriously.”

“You basically tried to have me committed. What’s the point of trying to take things seriously?”

“Barack!,” Michelle said, coming down the stairs.

“Michelle, this isn’t up for debate.”

“Someone has to be guiding the poor man.”

“I’m just trying to keep him outta harm’s way. That’s the same thing.”

Trump shifted his weight to his left hip, and folded both arms. “I think I should decide what qualifies as harm.”

“James Comey running for President harm enough?” Barack said.

“Say wha?” Trump blurted.

“We needed those files from the FBI secured, Donald. I didn’t want you, Bannon, Mitch, or anyone else getting near them. I had to make sure the operation was a success.”

Trump didn’t know how to respond, so he fainted. He woke up hours later, the hum of the car engine soothing him back into unconsciousness.

When he woke again, the moon had taken full reign of the bleak-looking streets. He had only one name on his mind. Kushner. He was going to write a letter to Kushner and send it via homing pigeon.

Trump painstakingly wrote the letter in silence with a severely bitten pencil and a wrinkled piece of paper he had stolen from the elementary school, peeking over at the driver’s and passenger’s seats to make sure no one was monitoring him.

After a solid hour writing, he folded up the piece of paper and stuck it between the pigeon’s claws. “Take this to Kushner,” he whispered, and opened the window quickly.

“Donald, what the hell are you doing?” Michelle said, pulling the car over.

 

A Wasteland President, Part 13

A Wasteland President, Part 15

A Wasteland President, Part 1