by Heide Goody
Clovenhoof’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh, my,” he sighed. “Did Ah faint?”
“Let me help you up, ma’am,” said a secret service agent.
“Well, bless your heart, young man.” Clovenhoof came to his feet unsteadily, making sure his wig was still in place.
“Debbie Li, Channel Twelve News.” A woman thrust a microphone in Clovenhoof’s face. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Oh, Ah am so embarrassed,” said Clovenhoof demurely. “This little one is so heavy. Ah shouldn’t be out in my condition. Ah would not be surprised if he shot out right now with all the excitement.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” said the other secret service guy with a note of genuine fear in his voice.
“Ah’m going to call him Donald John, after his daddy. DJ for short.”
“Are you saying you are pregnant with Trump’s child?” said Debbie Li from Channel Twelve News.
“That Ah am, honey-pie.”
“We can’t do this interview here,” said the agent.
“First amendment rights,” said Debbie Li with hardnosed ferocity. “Ted, get a tight shot on her,” she told her cameraman.
“Ah don’t want to cause no fuss now,” said Clovenhoof.
“You’re not causing no fuss,” said Debbie Li. “You tell us your story in your own words.”
“Well, it was—” Clovenhoof quickly counted on his fingers “—It was February and Donnie – Ah call him Donnie – came by my daddy’s place. He was canvassing. We’re grand ol’ party people, real Republican supporters. And Donnie came calling and we asked him to sit a spell on the veranda.”
The secret service guy was talking in his earpiece again. “Control, Eyeline Two. We have a Magpie in the north section. Magpie in the north section.”
“Ah, could see that Donnie had taken a fancy to me,” said Clovenhoof. “When we were introduced, he couldn’t keep his tiny little hands off of me.”
“No,” hissed the agent. “Not an actual magpie. Press intrusion! It’s code for press intrusion, Kyle! Godammit man!”
“And what happened then?” asked the Channel Twelve reporter.
“Well, daddy and Donnie had some business to discuss but Donnie came looking for me.” Clovenhoof dabbed at the non-existent tears on his cheeks. “And then he grabbed me by my … by my special place.”
“Your special place?” said Debbie Li, horrified.
“Uh-huh. The old cypress tree down by the bayou where we have the swing. He grabbed me by the cypress tree and held me close and he said, ‘Mary-Pam—’ Mary-Pam he called me because that’s my name ‘—Mary-Pam, Ah ain’t nothing but a low down dog but Ah want you and, even though Ah am married and it is a sin against God in Heaven, Ah will have my wicked way with you.’ And he did.”
The crowd gasped.
“He had sexual relations with you?” said Debbie Li.
“Oh, Ah am so ashamed, Debbie. Ah knew it was wrong. But Ah let him do it, even though he had done it to my two sisters, Mary-Sue and Mary-Lou before me.”
“Your two sisters?”
“Three of us in a row in one afternoon. Wham, bam, thank you Pam. But he promised he’d do right by all of us. We were going to go to Utah and get one of them polygamous weddings even though we ain’t Mormons nor nothing. But he abandoned us and Ah am here today to make sure he supports us. Ah am sure there’d be room for all of us in the White House.”
“You think Trump is going to win the presidency? After what he did.”
“Sure, honey-pie, even though he’s been grabbing woman after woman in their special places and spreading his adulterous seed all over the Deep South, Trump is the only one who will see a return to those traditions and moral values that everyone associates with good ol’ Dixie. The South will rise again!”
The members of the public around Clovenhoof were variously appalled, angry, confused and fascinated. A couple cheered. Barely anyone within sight was paying any attention to the presidential candidate on the podium. There were now at least three news teams gathered round Clovenhoof, and he was thinking it couldn’t be going any better, when a loud voice from the nearby seats said, “Hey! Aren’t you that Professor Baboon ass off the TV?”
Clovenhoof looked at a fat round face attached to fat round body which was attached to a gallon-sized cup of soda. Clovenhoof recalled the fat face and fat body hurling a cup of strawberry milkshake at him the previous night.
“He’s a man in a dress!” yelled fat face.
Clovenhoof quickly grabbed the man’s soda and emptied it over his own crotch. “Oh, my! My waters have broken!”
“Ted, can you get a close-up on that?”
“Control, we’re gonna need an ambulance down here. Lady’s about to give birth.”
“Ah am about to produce a little Trump.”
“Give her some air! And an exclusive interview contract!”
“No, Kyle! It is not code!”
“Ah can feel it coming! Where’s Donnie? Donnie! Your baby’s coming!”
“Don’t push! Don’t push!”
The crowd rippled as a pair of very prompt paramedics pushed through. People stood. The crowd swelled. And by the time the paramedics reached the spot there was nothing there but a gaggle of camera crews, an apoplectic secret service guy and a discarded blonde wig.
“You look pleased with yourself, bro,” said Mason as he drove the getaway cab from Bayfront Park.
“Indeed I am,” said Clovenhoof from the back seat. He shuffled out of his dress and delivering himself of a bouncy baby pillow. “I’ve labelled the champion of the ultra-conservative right as a love-cheat and ravisher of virginal Christian ladies.”
“And where was that virginal Christian lady meant to be from? Your accent was…”
“A bit all over?”
“From another century, bro.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve sullied the man’s character. Just watch his popularity tumble.”
“If you say so. You fancy some breakfast, bro? You like Dunkin’ Donuts?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never dunked one before.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Mason and turned west towards the golden autumn sun and the sea. “Donuts are the best. I tell you, bro. Every day I get down on my knees and thank God for the gift of donuts.”
Sofia, Bulgaria
Michael jolted awake from a dream where souls in torment howled for mercy. Heinz had picked up Aisling’s guitar and was strumming chords and more words to the fig song.
“When I think back on all the fig trees I’ve known
“I know in my heart I’ll never be alone”
Michael winced at Heinz’s coarse voice. “I thought we were dropping the figs? Anyway, it’s essential we don’t mention hearts in the song. Nine of the lowest placed acts since the turn of the century have performed songs about hearts. It’s the strongest characteristic shared by losing songs.”
“And how many of those losers sang songs about figs, Michael?” asked Aisling with a steely glare. “It’s none, isn’t it? You have no evidence that a fig song couldn’t be a winner.”
Michael closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
He woke for a second time as the van rattled over cobblestones. “Is this Sofia?” he asked, peering out at a street market piled with fresh vegetables, nuts and honey.
“It is indeed,” said Aisling. “And where now are we going to find our man? This address seems to be something like a plaza. It’s just up here.”
“I think we’ll know him when we see him,” said Michael.
Aisling parked the van near a café. They all climbed out, grateful for the chance to stretch their legs.
“Let’s get a drink and something to eat while we work out how to find Todor,” said Michael, heading for a café table. He sat and looked around. The café filled a corner of the plaza, commanding a view of a square crowded by the market. Stallholders vied for the attention of a dwindling afternoon crowd.
“T
ri kafeta, molya,” Michael said to the waiter before casting about the square. “Right, let’s see who can be first to spot our future Eurovision champion. Who wants to go first?”
Heinz leaned forward, gave an exaggerated wink and whispered conspiratorially. “I like the kids with the skateboard. They’ve got some amazing moves. We use them for the video, yes?”
They all watched a pair of youths, skating across the top of the steps of a stern Soviet-era building. One jumped, flicking the skateboard up with him and rode down the metal handrail onto the cobbles.
“Gnarly nosegrind,” said Aisling as the lads disappeared behind some of the market stalls, all the while maintaining a look of studied insouciance.
“They’ve got talent,” said Heinz. “But they need a haircut, yes?”
“Video. I hadn’t thought about a video,” mused Michael.
Heinz choked briefly on his coffee. “Seriously? You want to win over the hearts and minds of Europe and you hadn’t thought about a video? I have ideas. Many ideas, but they could be expensive.”
Aisling looked intently around the square, sucking her teeth. “There is very little poetry in this place. I can’t begin to imagine the visuals for our fig song.”
“It’s not a fig song,” said Michael.
“Our … song then,” said Aisling. “If your man over there would pack in those godawful Disney tunes, I might be able to think for a moment.”
Michael and Heinz looked at the stallholder who was upsetting Aisling. He was a barrel-chested young man in a bow tie, a grocer’s apron and a fat moustache. His stall seemed to sell nothing but tomatoes: ranging from tiny cherry ones still on the vine to enormous beef tomatoes the size of a baby’s head. All the while he beamed at passers-by and sang in a high-pitched disco diva voice.
“What is that song that he’s singing, though?” said Michael. He struggled to place it before realising Aisling was right. “It is a Disney song.”
“Beauty and the Beast or Tale as Old as Time. Ashman and Menken. 1991,” said Aisling.
Michael listened closer. “Does he have a drum machine under that stall?”
Heinz leap to his feet and started to dance. “It’s kind of cool,” he said, strutting between the tables like a pale, pot-bellied John Travolta.
Michael couldn’t keep the smug grin from his face. Aisling looked at him and groaned. “You’re feckin’ kidding me!”
“No,” said Michael.
“The falsetto with a Bontempi organ?”
“Trust the algorithms.”
Miami, Florida
Knowing his Stateside mission was done, Clovenhoof spent the rest of the day ticking off items on his Miami To Do list. He bought a white suit, pushed his sleeves up Eighties style, rented a speedboat and cruised up and down the bay, singing the Miami Vice theme song and trying to arrest tourists for being “drug-dealing scum”. Then he switched the suit for a leopard print mankini and walked the length of Miami Beach, making sure all the women (short, tall, young and old, because Clovenhoof was an equal opportunities arsehole) got a salacious wink, a good look at his package and a double entendre.
Pleased with his accomplishments, Clovenhoof returned to the Tuna Apartments and turned on the television to see how the mighty Trump had been brought down by an evening and a morning of Satanic mischief making.
As night fell, Francis, the friendly neighbourhood zookeeper, drug-dealer and recreational life creator, knocked at Clovenhoof’s door and entered to find the devil sat on his bed, surrounded by several dozen Halloween candy wrappers, forlornly scrolling through news channel after news channel.
“Brought your order, dude.” Francis placed a baggie of acid brownies on the nightstand. “Put my business card in there in case you need a re-order.” He looked at all the wrappers. “Got the munchies?”
“I’ve been eating nothing but sweets and cold pancakes for two days,” said Clovenhoof. “My colon is more bunged up than the M6 at rush hour. Thought shoving more in might encourage things to move along.” He sighed very heavily. “I’m also eating because I’m depressed.”
“Dude,” said Francis sympathetically.
“You saw me on TV last night. I was scintillating. And this morning, I pulled a full blown one woman protest at Trump’s rally. I’ve accused him live on air of being a woman, a 9/11 conspirator, an illegal immigrant and impregnating three sisters in one afternoon. I tore the man to pieces. And is it on the news? Is it? Is it?” Clovenhoof continued to flick through TV channels. “It’s just soundbites from Trump about Clinton and this e-mail server. I don’t even understand what that’s got to do with anything.”
“You were on WVLN last night,” said Francis, as though that explained everything.
“Yes. And?”
“Well, maybe you didn’t know WVLN is affiliated to a certain global news corporation whose bosses are buddies with Trump.”
“What?” Clovenhoof was confused. “You mean they played it down because they didn’t agree with it?”
“They’ll have buried any anti-Trump story you might have been part of, dude. And your protest today, unless you were being filmed by Channel Nuebe, will be buried too.”
“Well that’s a floating turd in the swimming lane of my life,” said Clovenhoof, disgusted. “And I put on my best dress and everything!”
“You can’t directly attack Trump through the broadcast media. The right wing has that sewn up every place west of New England and east of California. You could prove Trump injects heroin into puppies’ eyeballs and you wouldn’t dissuade the voters. He’s beyond that. Dude, folks are gonna vote for him because of what they expect him to do. Everything he’s done, nobody cares.”
“Then how do I stop him?” demanded Clovenhoof sulkily, punching the bed and sending candy wrappers everywhere.
“Stop him?” Francis scratched the stubble on his chin. “The man’s a force of nature. I think he’s untouchable.” Something in Clovenhoof’s pathetically pouty face made Francis sit down and pat the downcast devil on the back. “Don’t worry, dude. Speaking as someone who’s voting for the man, he’s not going to win. Not really.”
“But you said…”
“Mine’s a protest vote, dude. Ninety percent of Trump’s supporters are racist rednecks who can take their mom, aunt and sister out for dinner at the same time and only need a table for two. The other ten percent are the jokers, the assholes and the counter-culture terrorists like myself. And even if we all voted for Trump, he’d have no chance against Hillary unless millions of perfectly ordinary rational Americans – Hispanics, African-Americans, women for God’s sake – switched to his side.”
“Oh,” said Clovenhoof, slightly mollified.
“Soo, dude, if you really want to nix Trump’s chances, you know, just to be sure, then you just need to remind those wavering voter what kind of swivel-eyed inbreds their fellow Trump supporters are.”
“Make members of the public look stupid?” said Clovenhoof. “I can do that. Where’s the next Trump rally?”
“He’s here, there and everywhere, dude,” said Francis.
Clovenhoof searched the internet on his phone and then called Mason.
“I’m going to need your services tomorrow. We’re driving to Charlotte. North Carolina.” Clovenhoof looked round for an uneaten candy bar as Mason’s voice went up an octave. “Okay,” said Clovenhoof. “So it’s a ten hour drive. Better be here nice and early.” He hung up.
“So, dude,” said Francis, “I was gonna go get some chicken wings. Maybe Hooters down in Bayside Marketplace. You coming?”
“Sure,” said Clovenhoof, rolling off the bed and onto his hoofs. “Did you know, Hooters was JFK’s secret service codename?”
“Kennedy’s codename was Hooters?”
“Secret service guy told me,” said Clovenhoof, grabbing his door key.
“Figures.”
Carpathian Mountains, Romania
Todor, the young Bulgarian tomato seller turned Eurovision hopeful, visibl
y sagged with relief when they crossed the unmanned border into Romania.
“Happy to give up the tomato selling life?” Michael asked.
“It is a hard life but a good life,” said Todor in hesitant but competent English, the lingua franca of the world at large, Europe in general and the van in particular. “But I have debts.”
He glanced back through the rear window of the camper van (dislodging some of the many tomatoes stacked up around him that he’d insisted they bring along). Michael suspected those debts were never going to be repaid.
“So, we will become rich and famous with our Eurovision song like Poli Genova.”
“Poli…?”
“Love is a Crime,” said Aisling from the front. “Bulgarian Eurovision entry 2016. Placed fourth.”
“Yes. She graduated from Lubomir Pipkov music school like myself. But, Mr Michael, Eurovision is not on until next year. Why are you starting this project now?”
Michael sighed. “I have to save Europe; save the European Union.”
“I did not realise it was in danger.”
“The UK has voted to leave.”
“Oh, that. Very silly. Tomato?”
“Um, no thank you.”
“They are good.”
“I’ll take one,” said Heinz.
“Aye, chuck one up here,” said Aisling. “And can someone roll me a fat one while they’re at it?”
“The thing I do not understand,” said Todor, “is why UK wants to leave Europe.” He bit into a tomato, getting juices and seeds in his brush-like moustache. “Why would they leave?”
“Some of us wonder the same,” said Michael. “They’re idiots?”
“No,” said Todor.
“No?”
“Just because someone thinks different does not make them an idiot.”
“Oh, okay,” said Michael. He leaned back (making sure he wasn’t leaning on any tomatoes) and thought. “I guess it’s, well, it’s a bit about immigration. People just think our country is overcrowded.”
“They do?” said Todor. “But I have seen pictures. England’s green and pleasant land.”
