Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom

by Heide Goody

  “No.”

  “That one?”

  “No.”

  “He is.”

  “Is not.”

  “What? Mr ‘ISIS poison our bacon’?”

  “Wide awake and all cylinders firing.”

  “Okay. But that one?”

  “Nope. The guy dribbling into his cup behind her is. But she didn’t eat one.”

  “The chemtrails guy was on acid though, surely?”

  “He had a brownie, yep.”

  “See?”

  “But he was saving it for later.”

  “Jeez.”

  Mason watched through all the clips a second time, even went back to some of them a third time. In the end, working out which opinions were drug-inspired and which were just bat-shit stupid was nothing more than guesswork.

  “It’s chemically impossible to make Trump supporters come across as any more stupid than they already are,” said Clovenhoof, frustrated.

  “I could have told you that,” said Mason. “One of the beauties of this country. You think you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. That barrel has no bottom, bro.”

  Clovenhoof shook his head and consulted his three part plan to defeat plan. His first strand had failed utterly. There was no discrediting the man or his followers. He was Teflon and they were rubber. No filth would stick to the man himself and his supporters repelled any assault with a shield of idiocy.

  “I’ve got to convince him to step down,” Clovenhoof decided.

  “Good luck with that,” snorted Mason.

  “He’s already left here but he’s appearing in Reno on Saturday night. I’ll speak to him then.”

  “If you say so.”

  Clovenhoof patted Mason. “To Reno, my good chap.”

  Mason looked at him like he was crazy and laughed. “You any idea how far Reno is from here, bro?”

  “No. That’s why I’ve got you, Tonto.”

  “I am not driving you to Reno. You need to catch a plane.”

  “You’re losing a fare here, Mason.”

  Mason started the engine. “I’m driving to a Motel 6. We’re booking two rooms. I’m gonna sleep for twelve hours straight. And then I will drop you off at Charlotte Douglas airport and go home.”

  “I thought we were in this together, Mason. Like Bonnie and Clyde, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Like Bert and Ernie.”

  “Motel 6,” said Mason firmly. “And you’d better have the cash to pay.”

  4th November 2016

  Budapest, Hungary

  Michael woke up in high spirits. A night in a comfy bed, even though he’d shared the family room with Heinz, Aisling and Todor, had restored him greatly.

  Todor’s bed was empty. It was probably in the blood of the green grocer to be an early riser.

  Michael went out and bought fresh fruit and some kifli yeast rolls so that they could get on the road straightaway, but everyone was slow to rise. Ibolya’s room was so quiet, Michael wondered if she’d gone out for a walk. Eventually she opened the door, a hotel sheet wrapped around her. Her makeup had slid down her face like a selection of wax crayons left on top of a hot radiator. She sank to her knees after the effort of standing upright proved too much and looked at Michael with a deeply pained expression.

  “Please don’t make so much noise,” she begged.

  “I haven’t spoken. Did you go straight to bed last night?” asked Michael, realisation dawning.

  “Yes! We went straight to bed after the party,” said Ibolya.

  “Party? What party?” asked Michael.

  “The end of the Jenůfa run party,” said Ibolya. “It’s a tradition and I couldn’t miss it! We went after you left us. Todor found it such an education.”

  “I bet he did.” Michael surveyed the wrecked room. “Right, I’ll get you some orange juice, and paracetamol if you need it. We should be on the road to Switzerland.”

  “Soon, yes. Maybe noon, or a little after?” offered Ibolya.

  “No,” said Michael firmly. “We need to leave within the next thirty minutes.”

  “Don’t worry.” Todor’s muffled voice came from under one of the pillows on Ibolya’s huge and ruffled bed. “I have a plan. When this is all over we tie him in a chair and you sing at him until his eyeballs pop.”

  “That’s the spirit! Up you get!” said Michael cheerily, and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Hours later, they were driving through Austria, the sun high in the sky over emerald fields and the blue of a distant lake.

  “Can you hear that noise, Aisling?” Michael said, frowning.

  “Which one? The rustling of the tomato sacks, the snoring of the hungover diva, or the sound of Heinz farting and trying to cover it up with a cough?”

  “Hey!” protested Heinz.

  “No, listen. It’s more like a knocking sound. Almost as if it could be the engine, but it’s coming from the back,” said Michael.

  Aisling gave him a withering look, but before either of them could speak there was a loud bang from the back. The van shuddered to an abrupt halt.

  “Well that’s strange,” said Michael. “Something’s definitely gone at the back, but what’s happened to the engine? Why don’t you open the bonnet and we’ll take a look?”

  Aisling pointed at the front of the vehicle. “Michael, do you see where our legs are?”

  “Yes,” said Michael, hesitantly.

  “And do you see how close to the outside they are?”

  “Ye–es.”

  “The engine is in the back, yer feckin’, half-boiled eejit!”

  Michael turned in his seat; he shouted in horror. Flames were licking up the rear of the van, presumably from the now defunct engine. “Out everyone! Quickly!”

  The entire band – even the snoring Ibolya – went from nought to total evacuation in under ten seconds. They stood by the side of the road as Aisling tackled the fire with a tiny extinguisher she’d grabbed from under her seat. It was very clear the extinguisher was never going to quench the fire’s enthusiasm until it had done a lot more damage. Eventually Aisling threw it down in disgust.

  “What do we do now?” she said.

  Michael pointed. “There’s a town up ahead. Let’s see if we can get help.”

  After half a mile, they reached a car park next to a lake. Apart from a parked up coach, the car park was empty. The town was another half mile or so distant.

  “Hold my bag for a tick,” said Heinz. “I will see if there’s someone on the bus who can help us

  Michael smiled confidently at the group as they waited. “I know this seems like a setback, but you can be sure we’ll be back on the road in no time at all.”

  “Some of us didn’t want to be on the road at this ungodly hour,” muttered Ibolya.

  There was a toot from behind. Michael turned to see that the coach had pulled up, and Heinz was at the wheel.

  “Hop on everyone, we got transport!”

  They climbed on board. Michael nodded a greeting to the small band of elderly passengers, mostly American, who were already on the bus, and took a seat behind Heinz. The others found seats further back.

  “Why are you driving the coach?” Michael hissed.

  “The Sound of Music tour!” Heinz replied. “Their driver is on a break, so I’m taking over. I can’t find a hat to wear, sadly.”

  “The Sound of Music? Are you serious?”

  “This is Austria, my friend.”

  A growing sense of excitement gripped Michael. He peered through the windscreen. “So, we’re touring the locations where the movie was shot? And we’re presently in—”

  Heinz thrust a colourful guide booklet at him but Michael was already tippy-tappy-typing on his tablet.

  “We’re in Mondsee!” he squealed.

  “Oh. Okay,” said Heinz.

  “If we drive up here a little way we come to the church where Maria and Georg were married.”

  “Who?”

  “This is wonderful!” Michael not
iced that there was a microphone at the front of the coach. He picked it up, flicking it on and turning to address the passengers. “We’re delighted to join you on today’s tour. I’m not sure if you’ve had a chance to sing the classic melodies from Sound of Music yet, but we have some very special guests on the coach to help things along. Shall we start with My Favourite Things?”

  “Huh,” said Todor sourly. “They do not like Disney but Rogers and Hammerstein is all hunky dunky.”

  The church at Mondsee, its yellow and white exterior so gay and bright in the late autumn sun, was utterly charming. Ibolya was much in demand for photos after delivering an ear-splitting rendition of Climb Ev’ry Mountain on the coach.

  Michael spent his time there just standing by the church entrance, hands clasped, thinking about the glorious wedding scene from the movie. The story of Maria, forced from her religious role in life and finding herself in a loving relationship that no-one expected, was one Michael felt closely echoed his own. True, his beloved Andy wasn’t an Austro-Hungarian naval captain and it was deeply unlikely that Andy had a tiny army of von Trapp children for Michael to adopt, but otherwise it was a close fit.

  “I don’t get it,” said a voice.

  Michael looked round. “What don’t you get?” he asked the American teenager.

  “What everyone’s excited about.”

  “It’s the film, The Sound of Music,” said Michael. “You must have seen it?”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s sublime!” gushed Michael. “It’s got everything a story should have. A wholesome leading lady, a delightful love story, and a family’s flight from the evil of the Nazis.”

  “What’s a Nazi?”

  “What’s a— Surely you’re not serious?”

  The teen shrugged.

  “You’ve heard of Hitler? The bad guy who started World War Two? Killed six million Jews? Had a massive army who wore jack boots and marched around doing this?” Michael goose-stepped around the courtyard.

  “That just looks dumb,” said the teen.

  “You must know. All those rallies and everyone going Heil Hitler.”

  “You mean Hail Hydra?”

  “What? No!” Michael held his arm up in a Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler. Heil Hitler.”

  “Oh,” said the boy, slowly understanding. “Like the bad guys from Indiana Jones.”

  “Yes. Probably.”

  “What is going on, sir?” said a voice behind Michael.

  He whirled, arm still raised, to see two officers in the peaked caps of the Bundespolizei. One had his hand casually resting on his pistol holster.

  “Hello?” said Michael. “Can I help you?”

  “We’ve been watching you,” said one.

  “Yes?”

  “You are aware that such activity is banned under the Anti-Nazi Prohibition Act.”

  “What? This?” said Michael, pointing at his still raised arm. “I was just showing the young man.”

  “And chanting Heil Hitler. We heard.”

  The other officer dragged Michael’s arm down and handcuffed him, before propelling him towards the waiting car.

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  Clovenhoof sprawled out in the executive lounge at Charlotte Douglas airport and sipped his third piña colada of the day. Clovenhoof had never been in an executive lounge before. It was fine enough, but he quickly understood that the main perk of being in an executive lounge was that you weren’t in the bog standard hell of the main airport. To get true enjoyment out of the executive lounge, Clovenhoof had to pop out every few minutes, gaze upon the queues, noise and uncomfortable seating of the airport departure lounge and engage random passers-by in conversation; during which he would casually mention that he was relaxing in the executive lounge, so much nicer than the soulless human conveyer belt out here. It worked really well if he started the conversation with tacit hints that he might invite his travel-weary victim to join him in the cosy and luxurious sanctuary of the lounge. Which, of course, he didn’t.

  There was one other person in the executive lounge. A blonde woman in a patterned dress sat in the corner furthest from the bar, reading a magazine. Clovenhoof picked up his cocktail and clip-clopped over to the woman. “This is amazing, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Is it?” said the woman politely.

  “When we get on the plane I’m going to sit in the economy class and, when someone says I’m sitting in their seat, I’m going to reply loudly, ‘Oh, yes. I forgot! I am in first class!’ Then make a real fuss as I go find my seat.”

  “Why?” said the woman. “Everyone will just think you’re some kind of asshole.”

  “I am some kind of asshole,” he said as though she had hit upon a great profundity.

  There was something familiar about the woman, a playfulness in her expression. He clicked his fingers as he remembered. “You’re that singer.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “I like your song.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one that goes mmm-cha, mmm-cha, mmm-cha. You know the one?”

  “You don’t know the title?”

  “I listen to music with my hips, not my ears.”

  “Good for you,” she said, trying to return to her magazine.

  “I’m going to Reno,” said Clovenhoof, undeterred by someone deliberately ignoring him.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Cleveland. That’s in the opposite direction,” she said, pointedly.

  “Are you doing a concert there?”

  “Kind of.”

  Clovenhoof recalled a list of dates and venues from his recent research. “You doing a thing with Hillary Clinton?”

  She looked at him. She wasn’t exactly alarmed, but there was a concerned look in her eyes as she tried to gauge his own political leanings. “Yes. Me and Katy Perry and I can’t remember who else. Showing our support for Hillary.”

  “I’ve never met Hillary, but I’m sure she’s lovely. You know what I really admire about her?”

  “What’s that?”

  “For a grandmother, she seems really good with e-mail.”

  The singer tried to suppress a smile.

  “I saw her on stage the other night,” said Clovenhoof. “She was with Bouncy and Jay Zed.”

  “Jay Z,” said the singer.

  “It’s pronounced zed,” said Clovenhoof indulgently. “I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have thought Hillary would be into that kind of music.”

  “That kind of music? What kind of music do you think the future president should be into?”

  “I don’t know. Grandma music. Elvis or something. It’s just she does seem to get a lot of pop singers up on stage with her. Trump doesn’t.”

  The singer smiled. “You think there are any who’d be willing to share a platform with him?”

  Clovenhoof shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t need them. Maybe he’s got a personality big enough to fill a stage all by himself.”

  The singer pulled an expression that said a lot of different things, not many of them necessarily complimentary.

  “You don’t like him, huh?” he said. “You know, I was at an event last night and there were plenty of people who thought Hillary Clinton was the most evil and scheming woman on earth.”

  The singer put her magazine down. “No one’s perfect,” she said.

  “I come pretty close,” said Clovenhoof.

  “This election is like…” She sighed. “Imagine you wanted to go out for dinner. A really special meal at your favourite restaurant. Except your favourite restaurant is closed, so you have two choices. You can go to the Burger King two blocks down and have a Whopper and fries; or you can eat the mouldy, slime-covered thing that’s been sat at the back of your refrigerator for the past month. Which do you pick?”

  “That’s a trick question,” said Clovenhoof. He had eaten various slime-covered things and enjoyed most of them.

  “It doesn’t matter what yo
u dislike about Hillary,” said the singer. “The only thing that matters is how horrible the alternative is. And that’s why Katy and I are showing our support for her.”

  “You think she’ll sing I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “Unlikely,” said the singer.

  “Shame. I really like that song,” he said.

  “It’s a good song.”

  “I’ve kissed a girl, and I liked it too.”

  “It speaks to people on so many levels.”

  “I’ve recorded my own version,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Oh?” said the singer, truly disinterested.

  “Yep. I Kissed a Goat and It Bit Me.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve got a video of it on my phone somewhere. I sent it to Michael earlier. It’s very entertaining.”

  The singer, a true professional, gave Clovenhoof a warm and unprejudiced smile. She said, “Show me anything on that phone and I’ll call airport security.”

  Clovenhoof sighed. “You’re not the first person to say that to me.”

  Salzburg, Austria

  Michael sat in a cell, reflecting on the turn of fate which had brought him there. He had assembled all of the key components of his Eurovision super group – and in record time! Would they carry on without him? There was no doubt most of them shared his enthusiasm for the project, but none of them knew how high the stakes were. The apocalyptic prophesy could be enabled in a few short days, once America went to the polls.

  A police officer came to the cell door and unlocked it. Michael was taken to a side room and given a telephone handset.

  “You can make one call,” said the officer.

  “Only one?” asked Michael, checking his watch. “What if the person I want to call could either be at home or the gym? Can I call both numbers?”

  “One call only.”

  With a heavy sigh, he dialled Clovenhoof’s number. Michael was under no illusions about Jeremy’s actual usefulness, but even he could pass along a message to Andy. He’d get things sorted out.

  The call connected.

  “Jeremy, I need you to—”

  “Yo Mikey, how’s it hangin’ my friend? That’s how we talk here in the executive lounge. Did you check out that video clip I sent you?”