Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom

by Heide Goody

  Defeated, he got up, wandered to the window and by chance happened to see, by the pink neon light of the hotel sign, the long-haired man in flip-flops and a bathrobe down by the pool, poking the water. Intrigued and bored in equal measure, Clovenhoof stepped out onto his balcony. He could hear the engines of passing traffic, mingled with the sounds of a city with a million air-conditioners. He descended the metal steps to the poolside.

  The long-haired man, a roll-up clenched between his lips, was sprinkling various gobbets and drops from a squeezy pipette into the pool, stirring them with his fingers.

  “What are you doing?” said Clovenhoof.

  The man stumbled, spat out his roll-up in surprise, almost falling into the pool after it. “Damn it, dude!” he snapped. “Where’d you spring from?”

  “Spring? Nowhere. I merely am.”

  The long-haired man ignored him while he fished in the pool for his roll-up. With an “Ah-hah!” he caught it and, rather optimistically, was about to put the damp slug of a thing back in his mouth when he gave Clovenhoof a suspicious glance. “You a cop, dude?”

  “Nope,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Fed? CIA? NSA? You have to tell me if you are.”

  “I’m none of those things,” said Clovenhoof. “I’m more of a bad guy.”

  “You swear?”

  “I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” said Clovenhoof, fingers raised in the Boy Scout salute.

  The man had to hold the spliff up with three supporting fingers just to get it straight. He knew he was onto a loser before he even attempted to relight it. He laid it aside on the concrete to dry and, with another suspicious glance at Clovenhoof, went into the little pouch strapped to his waist and pulled out the weed, tobacco and papers to roll a new one.

  “In Britain, they call those bum bags,” said Clovenhoof, conversationally.

  “Do they?”

  “Amazingly, fanny pack sounds even more stupid than bum bag. First time I heard someone talking about their fanny pack I thought they had a deck of porno playing cards.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “See? That’s what cannabis does to your mind. What you doing anyway?” Clovenhoof pointed at the smears of liquid and powder the man had dropped in the pool.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I’m sure it’s entirely possible.”

  “This—” he gestured to the pool and the plastic tubs and chemical bottles in front of him “—is ‘Francis Jackson’s plan to save life on Planet Earth’, cos let me tell you, this planet is fucked with a capital…” He stopped, licked his fresh spliff and inserted it between his lips. “Did I say ‘fucked’ or ‘screwed’?”

  “Fucked.”

  “Capital F,” said Francis. He lit his spliff and took a deep drag before offering it to Clovenhoof.

  Clovenhoof obliged. It was a sweet and calming head-rush but it wasn’t a patch on a half-bottle of Lambrini.

  “You know what life is?” said Francis.

  “God’s greatest mistake?”

  “Ha! True dat. Life is just chemicals. Proteins and molecules and shit floating in the primordial sea.”

  “Ah. And this is you creating life?”

  “Still tweaking the formula, dude. But once I’ve got it, I’m bottling it up and then, when all the nuclear winter shit has blown over, we can start afresh. Birds, insects, fish, elephants. Hey, you wanna know a fact about elephants?”

  “Do I ever!”

  “This is a fact. A true fact. The CIA and Secret Service can’t detect elephants.”

  Clovenhoof considered this. Francis dropped a lump of something spongey into the pool. Neon ripples spread out from the point of impact.

  “You don’t believe me,” said Francis. “Dude, it’s true.”

  “The Secret Service can’t detect elephants?”

  “Trust me. I work with them.”

  “The Secret Service or elephants?”

  “Elephants, dude,” he said, slapping Clovenhoof’s shoulder. “I work over at Florida Safari Gardens in Sarasota. I’m just over here visiting my girl for a couple of days. I’m doing my doctoral thesis while I’m there. You want hooking up with a midnight elephant ride or a gnu – we got the best gnus – then I’m your man.”

  “And the Secret Service can’t detect them? I only ask because elephants are, you know, kind of big.”

  “Right. Right,” said Francis. “They’re tall but the spooks are trained to spot threats at head height. Elephants are above all that. And their body density. The thermal imagers and the body scanners can’t read them. The elephant’s body fucks with ’em. They think the elephant’s a tree or some shit.”

  “A big grey walking tree.”

  “Right.”

  “With tusks.”

  “You got it, dude.” Francis regarded his spent spliff, took a last drag on it and looked at his pool polluting experiments. “This planet’s fucked,” he said softly. “The country’s going to hell.”

  “You never know. Clinton might win.”

  Francis snorted and tossed the dog-end into the pool. “I’m voting for Trump, dude.”

  Clovenhoof was genuinely surprised. “Really? You sound like a smart guy. You look kind of … liberal.”

  “You could paint me commie red if you liked, dude. I would have voted for Bernie Sanders if he was on the Democrat ticket but, in a choice between Clinton and Trump, I’m gonna have to vote for Trump.”

  “Okay. You’ve definitely been smoking too much pot.”

  “No way, dude. That’s a physical impossibility.” Francis switched out from his crouch and dangled his feet in the pool. After a moment, Clovenhoof did the same and dipped his hoofs in the water. “This country needs a big shake up,” said Francis. “Clinton. She’s just gonna be four more years of the same old shit.”

  “Cheap healthcare and gay rights,” said Clovenhoof.

  “And special interest groups. Trade agreements that cost jobs. Drone strikes on civilian populations. Democracy is a joke but, you know what: Trump’s in on the joke. American politics – all of America, period – is a 24/7 rolling reality TV show, except recently it’s turning into This Is Spinal fucking Tap and Donald Trump is the star.”

  “So, you’re going to vote for him because he’s entertaining?”

  “Kill or cure, dude. If we need to have a revolution to get our country back to what it once was, maybe what it never was but we always wanted it to be, then President Trump is the man to get the ball rolling. He’s like—” Francis hesitated and grabbed at the air as if he could pull his lost thoughts back down. “Like – fuck! Who’s that dude? A voice crying in the wilderness dude.”

  “Bear Grylls?”

  “Dude from the Bible. Ate locusts and honey.”

  “John the Baptist.”

  “Right!”

  “The man was a nutter,” said Clovenhoof. “Trust me. Spent his days dunking people in the river and telling them that God forgave them. Who knew you could get into the Almighty’s good books with a quick wash? So Trump’s John the Baptist, is he? You know things didn’t end well for old John?”

  “You think I care? Trump is a vile racist thug who thinks sexually assaulting chicks is just swell and groovy. He’s just the catalyst. At least with him, what you see is what you get. He wears his stupids on his sleeve.”

  Francis raised his gaze to the road beyond the hotel grounds. There was a breeze in the air – not cool, just the same static warm as the pool water and the concrete. Off in the distance, there was the vaguest suggestion of a coming dawn.

  “I’ve got to muck out the tiger in a couple of hours,” he said. “Might need to get my head straight before I do that.”

  He opened his fanny pack drugs kits, considered it for a goodly long while (during which Clovenhoof suspected he actually dozed off for half a second) and then decided that, tempting though it was, going into a tiger cage while high was not the smart choice.

  “Yep,” he said, closed the bag and looked
at Clovenhoof. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Professor Baboon.”

  “Saw that, did you?” said Clovenhoof, smiling.

  “I reckon Trump’s not the only one who’s in on the joke, huh? You know what I think a man like you could use?” He waved a sealed plastic bag that looked like it was full of brown turds.

  “Shit biscuits?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Snacks for the ultimate road trip, dude. My own blend of mom’s chocolate brownie recipe and thirty mils of top grade acid.”

  “For when life just ain’t trippy enough?”

  “Right on, dude,” said Francis.

  Clovenhoof gave it some serious thought. “Do you take credit cards?” he asked.

  Avlona, Greece

  Michael’s initial assessment of the van’s roadworthiness didn’t change much once it was moving. They careered precariously along the northbound motorway, through rolling countryside with a surface layer of green and an underlying terrain resembling something left in the oven too long. Michael was determined to check the tyres when he got a chance, because it felt as if they were all flat. According to Aisling some of the gears could only be engaged when the van was going downhill, which meant they spent much of the travelling time subjected to a migraine-inducing whine from an over-revving engine. Or a bone-shuddering vibration, permanently on the verge of bringing them to a stop but never quite making it. At least, reflected Michael, they were in Aisling’s hands rather than the psychotic taxi driver’s. Aisling seemed to understand something about keeping on the correct side of the carriageway, even if her attention was prone to wandering as she contemplated the song that she needed to write.

  “So guys, we need an amazing song. I’ve been working on a little thing about figs.”

  “Figs,” said Michael.

  “They are amazing, don’t you think? They grow on trees and you can just pick them, yet they’re so sweet.”

  “That’s perhaps a little specific to your own experience,” said Michael carefully. “I’d imagined to bring Europe together we’d want something a bit more universal.”

  “Who doesn’t love a fig?” said Aisling. “Anyway, it’s a song with a message. Get a load of this.” She sang, in a high and melodious voice:

  “Fig tree, my lovely fig tree.

  “Nobody could ever accuse you of bigotry.”

  Michael was briefly dumbstruck. Aisling’s Celtic brogue and the delicate tune she’d applied made it sound beautiful, and it did carry a hint of the sentiment that he was after, but…

  “No,” said Michael. “Figs are just not right.”

  Perhaps he was being old fashioned, perhaps he remembered that the Son of God had not been a fan of figs, cursing them left right and centre, but even in this day and age figs would not do. He cleared his throat and switched on his tablet.

  “As it happens, I have done some research on this. I’m sure someone of your song-writing calibre can take this on board and use it.” He tapped the screen. “I have analysed past winners and you will not be surprised that the majority of them are in English.”

  “Yep, English would have been my—”

  “However, there are other languages that have won, so it might be prudent to include some of those as well.”

  “A multi-lingual song?” said Aisling stiffly.

  “Absolutely. You will want to include snippets of French, Dutch, Hebrew, German, Norwegian, Swedish, Italian, Spanish, Danish, Ukrainian, Croatian, Serbian and Crimean Tatar.”

  “All of them?” said Aisling through gritted teeth.

  “Now, it stands to reason that each language should be represented in proportion to the amount of times it has provided a winner. So, while one minute and twenty-three seconds of the song will be in English, for example, you will only need two point seven seconds of Crimean Tatar based on—”

  “I’m not so sure,” Heinz interrupted loudly from the back, “that Aisling’s on board with the multi-language approach.”

  “But it’s integral to my entire plan,” said Michael.

  “I remember Liam mentioning a little twitch she gets at the corner of her eye, just before Aisling has one of her episodes.”

  Michael gave the Irishwoman a fearful look. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckle intensity. “Episodes?” he said, voice hoarse.

  “Post-traumatic stress,” said Aisling. “I once had a boyfriend who, as they used to say, ‘done me wrong’. He was trilingual, Swiss. Now I can’t hear two languages squashed up close together without the red mist descending.”

  “I will make a note of that,” said Michael and shuffled a few inches further away from her.

  “So, what else you got, Michael? Any other songwriting tips for the girl who wrote more Eurovision winners than anyone in history?”

  Michael eyed her. “It will keep until later, I’m sure.”

  They travelled for an hour or two without further comment, through terrain that was increasingly green and less over-cooked. Michael became aware that Heinz was exploring the back of the van. At some point in the past it had been fitted with cupboards.

  “Hey, this is pretty cool: there’s a tiny stove, and a thing which looks like a heater.”

  “That would have been worth knowing last night,” said Michael, remembering how chilly he’d been, stretched out listening to Heinz snoring.

  “The heater runs on diesel directly from the fuel tank,” said Aisling. “Can’t have you wasting it keeping warm, so. We want to get to Sofia today, don’t we lads?”

  “Maybe we should get some sleeping bags then,” sulked Michael. “We can’t make great art if we’re all sleep deprived.”

  Miami, Florida

  Wednesday. Presidential hopeful Donald J Trump made his first public appearance of the day at a warm but windy Bayfront Park in Miami. Standing at a podium with a massive star spangled banner behind him, Trump told his supporters not to get complacent because the polls showed he was ahead.

  “The polls are all saying we’re gonna win Florida,” he said. “Don’t believe it. Don’t believe it. Get out there and vote. Pretend we’re slightly behind.”

  “What the buggering blue blazes is wrong with his hair?” said Clovenhoof, watching him speak from the back rows of the amphitheatre.

  “How can you say that?” said Mason the cabbie.

  “I mean, it looks like a thousand ginger toms all just moulted on top of his head and he thought, ‘Mmmm, this looks good. I’ll keep it.’ It literally looks like it’s trying to escape or evolve or something.”

  “I mean, how can you say that considering what you got on your head?”

  “Surely, Ah don’t know what you mean, suh,” said Clovenhoof in his best southern belle falsetto, and adjusted his blonde wig. In addition to the wig, Clovenhoof was wearing a large floral maternity dress, covering the plump breasts and pregnancy bump he had artfully constructed out of hotel pillows and towels. “And Ah’ll thank you to kindly keep your eyes up here,” he told Mason. “A true gentleman should never ogle a lady’s bazongas.”

  “Your bazongas came from the hotel bathroom, bro,” said Mason. “And you’d better return them when you’re done. What you doing anyhow?”

  “This,” said Clovenhoof, waving his arms. “Donald! Donald!” he called out. “Why don’t you return my calls no more? Donald!”

  Clovenhoof strode out towards the distant podium, waving and hollering. He was too far away for the septuagenarian Trump to hear, but members of the crowd looked at him and some of the TV news crews who hadn’t secured decent spots near the front started turning their cameras.

  Clovenhoof held his weighty eight-months-gone bump and waddled with affected difficulty towards the stage. “It’s your baby, Donald! It’s yours! Why won’t you acknowledge it? Do you want me to have one of them ungodly abortions?”

  There were some nearby boos; an elderly man made a disgusted shooing gesture at him. Two earpiece-wearing men emerged seamlessly from the crowd to block Clovenhoof’s path. One
moment they weren’t there, the next they were; impressive since both were about seven feet tall and build like rugby forwards.

  “You can’t come through here, ma’am,” said one.

  “But Ah need to speak to my Donald! He needs to face up to his responsibilities.”

  “You need to vacate this area, ma’am,” said the other.

  “Won’t y’all allow a fine southern gal speak to the man who made her with child?” said Clovenhoof, half-appealing to the crowd.

  “Ma’am, you need to go back the way you came.”

  Seeing that his obvious charms were having no effect on the secret service guys, Clovenhoof decided on another tactic. With a cry of “Oh, lordy,” he threw up his hands and fell into a faint into one of the men’s arms.

  They lowered Clovenhoof to the ground. One secret service agent put a finger to his ear and hissed, “Control. This is Eyeline Two. We have a pregnant woman collapsed in the north section. Repeat: pregnant woman is down.”

  The secret service agent listened for a moment. Clovenhoof lay limp.

  “No, Pregnant Woman is not code for Mike Pence. Mike Pence is codename Hoosier. We have a pregnant woman.” He listened. “No. No. Not Hooters. No one is codename Hooters.”

  “JFK,” said the other agent.

  “What?”

  “JFK. 1960 election. Codename Hooters, I swear.”

  “That is not helpful.” Finger to the earpiece again. “Control we have an actual pregnant woman collapsed in the north section. A pregnant woman. Code? Dammit, Kyle. We don’t have a code for a fainted pregnant woman.”

  Through half-open eyes, Clovenhoof could see a crowd was gathering around him. It was odd but true that a person lying perfectly still on the floor drew more attention than a disturbingly masculine pregnant woman waving and shouting hysterically.