Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom

by Heide Goody

  Michael looked down at himself in dismay. Ordinarily, he would be immaculately dressed, but three days’ travelling, combined with last night’s rough camping experience in the Carpathian mountains had left him grubby, stained, and perhaps a little bit smelly.

  “Her name is Ibolya Zsengellar and she’s an opera singer,” said Michael. “She also had a minor pop hit in the Eighties with the song, Bang Bang my Boom Boom. I can hardly see her coming out to the pavement just because someone sends a message. She will need some persuading, and I’m not sure how we can do it, dressed as we all are.”

  “I will do it, no problem,” said Todor.

  “You can’t do it, you’re dressed like— What is it you’re dressed like, exactly?” asked Michael.

  “A colourful peasant,” said Heinz.

  “Maybe one of the chorus from Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin,” said Todor with a wink. Before anyone could object, the sliding door was open and he had slipped out.

  “Meet us in the nearest café on the main road,” called Michael.

  Aisling started the engine. They watched as the huge man lumbered around to the stage door and disappeared from view.

  Michael, Aisling and Heinz passed two hours in the café discussing Todor’s possible fate. Michael visited the toilets and attempted to spruce up his appearance slightly with damp paper towels, hoping he appeared careless and bohemian. Knowing, deep inside, he looked like a tramp who’d simply wiped his face.

  “I bet he’s been thrown out,” said Aisling.

  “No, a resourceful guy like that will be fine,” insisted Heinz. “I would not be surprised if he is in the orchestra pit by now, enhancing the ensemble with his Bontempi.”

  At that moment the café door opened and Todor walked in with a statuesque woman. She was dressed in an outfit which reminded Michael of a fortune teller’s tent. Todor had somehow acquired a gold cape. He twirled it flamboyantly as they approached the table.

  “Best party ever,” said Todor.

  “Such naïve charm,” said the statuesque woman.

  “Ibolya Zsengellar, everyone,” said Todor.

  “Charmed,” said Heinz and kissed her hand.

  “Ibolya is a megastar,” said Todor, speaking like a sudden convert, “but she will come with us because of the excellent company.”

  The woman gave him a twinkling smile.

  Michael pulled out a chair for Ibolya to sit down. “You know about out music project?” he asked her.

  “It is fine. I explained,” said Todor.

  Ibolya addressed the group. She actually addressed the entire café, as her voice had a penetrating quality, like a great orator. Or a drill. “I had just come off stage. I am currently performing the role of Grandmother Burya in Jenůfa, you see. Happily, it is a role where I can relax early in the evening, so I spent some time understanding your fascinating mission from this accomplished gentleman.”

  “We had champagne!” said Todor, giddily.

  “We certainly did!” boomed Ibolya. “We drank champagne from France, and we ate the finest pastries from Austria. All of this is possible through a strong and united Europe. I am committed to keeping it together in any way I can. I am a member of the European parliament, as well as being a singer, did you know this?”

  “It was mentioned in our dossier,” said Michael.

  “A dossier! How clandestine!” Yes, I am the only politician in Brussel who can shatter a wine glass with her voice! Who wants to see that?” She swept an arm round the entire café, inviting everyone’s opinion.

  “How much champagne has she drunk, would you say?” Michael asked Todor, sotto voce.

  Todor started to count on his fingers but gave up and shrugged. “I’ve lost count,” he said. “But I’ve had a bit too, so…”

  “Hey, Ibolya, can I teach you a song about figs?” said Aisling, leaping to her feet. “It’s got some real tricky parts. I haven’t been able to properly master it myself.”

  Aisling and Ibolya went into an intense, not all together silent huddle. Michael stepped away from the group to pay the bill and enquire about somewhere they might get rooms for the night. Perhaps with good sound insulation. He checked his cards and found that one was missing. He was just about to call up the bank’s app to report the card lost or stolen when his phone vibrated. He answered.

  “Hello, Mr Michaels? It’s Trish from A Song For Europe.”

  “You’re from the BBC?” said Michael. “I’m pretty excited about next year’s Eurovision. I can tell you we’re going to blow—”

  “Yes, we’ve got your application form here. We don’t need too many details from you now, Mr Michaels. That can all come later. It’s just a courtesy call to say that your form was successfully submitted.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “There is just one small detail I need to clarify with you, though. You haven’t told us the name of your act.”

  “The act?”

  “I can add that to the record, if you’d like to give it to me.”

  “Well, I’m still in the process of forming it. If you could see us now. Honestly!” He looked at his party. An Irishwoman, a Finn, a Bulgarian youth and now an operatic Hungarian eurocrat. “It’s all the countries of the world, or it certainly feels like it. Hello…? Hello—!”

  The battery had died. Never mind. Michael checked his watch, wondering if there might be anywhere still open selling coloured chinos. Ibolya hit a high note in the fig song and a wineglass shattered on the other side of the café.

  Concord, North Carolina

  Clovenhoof’s eight hundred mile journey to North Carolina could briefly be described as beaches and palm trees, followed by rivers and mossy woodland, followed by shaggy forests. All of it interspersed with low-rise housing, isolated fast food outlets and the rusting shells of defunct factories and businesses. Clovenhoof and Mason ate breakfast cheeseburgers at Whataburger in mid-Florida and a Chicken Finger Plate lunch at a Zaxby’s in South Carolina. None of it had an impact on Clovenhoof’s constipated innards, and he listened to the lullaby of his churning guts as Mason drove the last couple of hundred miles: up round Charlotte and out to an entertainment arena in the suburb of Concord.

  By the time Mason found a space in the nearly full parking lot, evening had fallen.

  “I’ll be waiting here when you’re done, bro,” said Mason, pulling his flat cap over his eyes and sliding down his chair to sleep. “And if you forget where we parked, just remember, mine’s the only vehicle that isn’t a pick-up with raised suspension.”

  Clovenhoof climbed out, carrying his weapon of choice, and strode into the arena. It was an odd building, with all the charm of a down-at-heel dog-racing track. It couldn’t decide if it was a warehouse, a sports stadium or an oversized village hall. From the already busy floor, rows of plastic seating rose up in tiers to the corrugated iron wall. Flags, pro-Trump banners and harsh spotlights hung from the rafters. Placards aplenty and TV crews were in attendance. Many supporters waved Women for Trump cards. Some waved unofficial It’s time to grab America by the pussy! cards.

  A middle-aged woman in a glittering red cowboy hat stopped Clovenhoof. “And what do you have here?” she cooed.

  “Patriotic brownies,” said Clovenhoof. He’d stuck a little flag on a cocktail stick in the central one.

  “Well, aren’t they just darling?” she said.

  “Please,” he said, proffering the tray.

  “Not for me, sweetheart. I’m watching my weight but – Gill! Gill! Come over here and try one of these.”

  A man in a baseball cap and several acres of checked shirt, who was clearly not watching his weight, came ambling through with several friends in tow.

  “Wha’ is it, Paislee?” he said.

  “You must try this darling man’s brownies.”

  “Where they at?” said Gill, scooping up one of the LSD-laced cakes.

  “Pass them round,” suggested Clovenhoof. The tray was lifted away and absorbed into the crowd. Jo
b done. The way Clovenhoof reasoned it, if Trump supporters were clueless bigots most of the time anyway then a light dosing of hallucinogenic narcotics would tip them over into full blown loons.

  “You’re not from round here, are you?” said Paislee.

  “How can you tell?” Clovenhoof gave a raffish grin.

  “You got one of them posh accents, like him on House. You here to cause trouble?”

  “Oh, I cause trouble everywhere,” he said.

  Paislee laughed. “Well, a word in your ear. It don’t matter how posh you talk, the boys round here don’t take kindly to liberals. There was a girl up there, with a big Jew star on her coat, making some protests about something. And a man with a sign – something about the Nazis. Security had them out of here before the boys could give them the kicking of their lives.”

  “Duly noted,” said Clovenhoof. “And your opinion on liberals, Paislee?”

  “Oh, I haven’t got time for their nonsense either,” she said, amiably enough. “They’re like the speech police. Tell us what we can and can’t say. I thought we had freedom of speech. Time was when I could call a black a black. I could call a homosexual a homosexual. Time was when men went in the men’s restroom and women went in the women’s restroom. And now, apparently, any man in a dress can whip his wangdoodle out wherever he likes. There’s so much political correctness ’bout what I can and can’t say I don’t know if I’m coming or going.” She wrinkled her nose unhappily. “Liberals. With their trigger warnings and their safe spaces. What the hell is a safe space anyhow?”

  “I genuinely do not know,” said Clovenhoof.

  “That’s what I like about Trump,” said Paislee. “He calls a spade a spade. He speaks his mind. He isn’t afraid to speak the truth and point out what’s wrong with this country.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Paislee gave him a meaningful look. “All the damn illegal aliens and terrorists,” she said simply. “Mexicans stealing our jobs. Syrian refugees coming over here and bringing their Al Qaeda terrorism with them.”

  “The refugees are all terrorists?”

  “Not all of them, but it’s like that bowl of Skittles.” Clovenhoof had no idea what bowl she was on about. “If there’s a bowl of Skittles, a hundred Skittles in a bowl, and you knew one of those Skittles was poisoned, would you eat them?”

  “What is life without a little risk?” said Clovenhoof.

  “No, sweetheart. You throw them Skittles out. Trump’s gonna build that wall and make the Mexicans pay for it. What’s Obama doing? He’s letting them hide out in sanctuary cities. He’s letting them get away with murder and robbery. You see, folks over in Washington, they’re obsessed with helping the illegal aliens and homosexuals in dresses. They keep saying black lives matter. Well, what about white lives? Washington doesn’t care about us. Trump does. He believes in this country. One nation, under God. Under God! Obama, that liar Clinton and all of Washington has forgotten this is a Christian country with Christian morals. If Jesus could vote, he’d vote for Trump.”

  “I wasn’t aware Mr Trump was a Christian.”

  “He’s a winner, that’s what he is!” said Paislee passionately. “He’s living the American dream. He builds things. He fights. He wins. America loves a winner. And Jesus loves a winner too.”

  Clovenhoof, who had met Jesus during his gap years on Earth, found this doubtful. Jesus’ greatest trick, in Clovenhoof’s opinion, wasn’t turning water into wine or bringing Lazarus back from the dead; it was turning an obvious failure into a PR victory. Getting nailed by the Romans was a pretty clear cut sign of a loser but, to hear the bloody Church go on about it, it was apparently the most cunning and resounding of victories.

  Maybe Trump was like Jesus. Maybe you could polish a turd.

  An hour after Trump left the arena stage to wild applause and more than a couple of “Yeehaws!” Clovenhoof trudged out to the parking lot. The North Carolina night was still and balmy. Clovenhoof kicked the headlights in on every alternative car on his way to Mason’s taxicab, but it did nothing to raise his mood.

  The car alarms he set off were enough to wake Mason. He sniffled, sat up and groaned. “Job done?” he asked as Clovenhoof got in.

  “‘Job done?’” sneered Clovenhoof in a very squeaky and very sarcastic voice. “This is a country full of morons.”

  “Watch your mouth, bro,” said Mason, though without much rancour. “You can say it’s a state full of morons, fine. But this is my country. We invented the lightbulb, the airplane and the nuclear bomb and we’ve got a one hundred percent record in winning world wars so just watch your mouth.”

  “Country full of morons,” repeated Clovenhoof sullenly.

  Mason punched him in the shoulder: hard, but like it was for his own good. “What’s the problem?”

  Clovenhoof produced his phone and scrolled through his snippets of video. “I gave out over fifty acid brownies. The TV news crews were doing live vox pop segments before and after the rally. I was there. I filmed them.” He angled the phone round for Mason to see and pressed play.

  A woman, talking to camera: “Hillary has too many hormones. She could start a war in ten seconds.”

  Cut to a skinny man who looked like he’d been on the all-bourbon diet: “Hillary has a body double who goes out and does all her public appearances.”

  “Why?” asked the news reporter. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she’s dying,” said the skinny man. “She’s got dementia from all that cocaine she’s been doing.”

  Cut to a young woman in an oversized T-shirt: “I mean she’s a lesbian. Everyone knows that. Hillary’s in love with Huma Abedin. That marriage to Bill is a sham. That’s why Huma Abedin left that wiener of a husband. It’s gonna be Madam President and the First Lady.”

  Cut to a red-faced guy with bulging frog-eyes. “And that’s why Canadians are refusing to sell us any more bacon.”

  “Because…?” prompted the reporter.

  “Trump is going to use it as part of his extreme vetting. You wanna come through our wall? You wanna come into our country? Eat this bacon. Eat it. Show that you’re not one of them ISIS terrorists. They can’t eat bacon. They can’t do it. And that’s why they’re poisoning the bacon.”

  “Who is poisoning the bacon? Canada?”

  “No, man!” said frog-eyes. “ISIS. ISIS are poisoning our bacon. You tried to buy any in Walmart lately, have you? No, you haven’t. ISIS are poisoning our bacon.”

  Cut to a sweet, curly-haired granny: “Cos Trump’s got to stop Obama. We’ve got to have that wall because Obama wants to make us all into one big country. Mexico down there and Canada up there. That’s what that NAFTA thing is about. He wants to sell us out. He wants to flood the country with Mexicans cos they’re going to vote for him.”

  Cut to a man in a thin beard and sunglasses: “Door to door gun confiscation. They’ve got a secret code word and one day Obama is gonna pick up the phone and say that code word and that’s the signal. Every law enforcement agency in the land, with no warning, will go from house to house, taking folks’ guns. From my cold dead hand, Obama!”

  Cut to a big guy with a bead of spit at the corner of his mouth: “Chemtrails,” he said as though nothing else needed to be said.

  “What about them?” said an off-camera voice.

  “President Trump will stop the chemtrails. All those planes, going back and forth. Don’t tell me that’s water vapour coming off their wings. I ain’t dumb. Chemtrails. And you know why they’re doing it? It’s the atheists, trying to kill off the angels in heaven. I seen the evidence. Don’t tell me it ain’t happening.”

  Cut to a woman in a smart suit, as though she’d come straight from the office or the bank: “And we’re still not getting answers about Hillary Clinton’s e-mail server. She’s under investigation by the FBI. They’re going to find those e-mails and they will prove she had all those people killed. Vince Foster, Ron Brown. She killed Kathleen Willey’s cat. She did.�
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  Cut to a young man who seemed too excited to control his own breathing, let alone his speech: “Hillary is a demon. She is a demon. Everyone knows it. Even Donald Trump – God bless Donald Trump! – knows it but he can’t say it or else the Washington media will … will— He can’t say it. She is the spawn of hell and she has been sent to torment us.”

  Cut to a pair of near-identical men in Blue Devils basketball shirts: “And what are we gonna call her? What is it? Presidentess?”

  “Presidentess,” said the other.

  “And what about the oval office?”

  “They’re gonna have to change it round cos she’s a woman.”

  “Yeah, they’re gonna have to change it because she’s a woman.”

  Cut to a grey-bearded man who simply shouted: “Fluoride! Fucking fluoride in the water! They been doing it for decades and no one’s stopping them! They’re not getting me! I’ve been drinking my own water for years! My own fucking water! Someone better do something about it, you hear me, or there’s gonna be a reckoning. My own fucking water! Jesus!”

  Cut to a woman who looked like a mad old cat lady who’d just lost all her cats in a court hearing: “You can feel it, can’t you?” she whispered to camera. “And you know it’s happening. Barack Hussein Obama. Huma Mahmood Abedin. People say that this place is going to turn into the Islamic States of America. No. No. It’s already happened. They’re everywhere. It’s already happened. They’re watching us now. Watching!”

  Clovenhoof stopped the video and stared at Mason.

  “I’d say they were pretty spectacular results,” said the taxi driver.

  “Yeah?” said Clovenhoof. “So you’d be able to tell me which ones were on acid and which were clean and sober morons?”

  “They weren’t all high?”

  “Nope,” said Clovenhoof.

  Mason was thoughtful. “Show me again.”

  Clovenhoof did.

  “Okay. That one’s on acid,” said Mason.