Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom

by Heide Goody

  “This is going to be an all-nighter,” he told himself. He pulled in at a 7-Eleven, stocked up on Minotaur energy drinks and nicotine gum and hit the road to a classic rock soundtrack, courtesy of 93 Nine The Mountain radio, cranked up to eleven.

  7th November 2016

  Somewhere in the southern United States

  Clovenhoof screamed across America, literally. Around two in the morning, his bone-tired body had reached caffeine and nicotine saturation and the hallucinations kicked in. His eyes were so worn the world was reduced to blocks of colour which flew at him like some trippy hyperspace movie sequence. He shouted at imaginary road-users, failed to spot actual road-users, alternately freezing and sweltering as he switched back and forth between heating and air conditioning to keep himself awake.

  Somewhere in Louisiana, Clovenhoof became convinced he was travelling faster than the speed of light. He was certain he had bypassed Mississippi completely. Pressed on the matter, he might have conjectured he had hit a bump in the road really hard, leapt clear over the Gulf of Mexico, and landed in West Florida. Clovenhoof’s eyes, ears and brain had ceased to be reliable witnesses over a thousand miles back.

  At some point he found himself having a telephone conversation with Mason the taxi driver. Clovenhoof couldn’t remember who had called who or whether the phone call had ever truly happened.

  “I’ve failed,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Failed, bro?” said Mason.

  “I couldn’t even get to speak to him. He wouldn’t listen. I’m going to have to kill him.”

  “Kill him?”

  “Terminate with extreme prejudice, for the sake of the world. And Topless Darts on Ice.”

  “Are you all right, bro? You sound super-spaced out.”

  “I’ve been driving for thirty hours without any sleep.”

  “That’s not good, bro.”

  “I drank a lot of Minotaur energy drink. It turned my tongue blue.”

  “That stuff’s lethal.”

  Clovenhoof swerved to avoid a big red blob that honked its horn at him. “It turned my piss blue too, Mason. My piss!”

  There was a pause. “I thought you said you’d been driving non-stop, bro. Where did you—?”

  “Piss? In an empty bottle. Now I don’t know which bottles are which. They’re all blue!” Clovenhoof grabbed a random bottle off the passenger seat and tried to gauge by its warmth if its contents were Minotaur or devil pee. He shrugged, took a swig and still couldn’t be sure.

  “You’re gonna meet me in Sarasota at eleven. At the fairground. Trump’ll be there.”

  “Sarasota. That hundreds of miles away from Miami.”

  “And you’ve got—” Clovenhoof squinted at the clock on the dashboard. It was just a blur. He put his face right up to the display until the luminous green nearly blinded him but it was still no good. “You have hours,” he told Mason.

  “I’m not coming,” said Mason. “Pull over someplace and get some sleep.”

  “I need to kill Donald Trump.”

  “The police and secret service will shoot you before you get within a hundred feet of him.”

  “I’ve got a secret plan. I’m gonna sneak in. They won’t even see me.”

  “Get some sleep, bro,” said Mason. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

  “You don’t believe in me, Mason,” sniffed Clovenhoof. “We were supposed to be a team. Love, honour and obey. Did those vows mean nothing to you?”

  Before Mason could reply, Clovenhoof killed the call and dialled another number.

  “Wagwan,” said a voice.

  “Francis, it’s me,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Who?”

  “Jeremy Clovenhoof. I mean Professor Baboon. We shared a dooby at the poolside. You sold me some brownies.”

  “Dude!” said Francis in greeting. “How’s it hanging?”

  “I’m not sure anymore,” he said. “Are you still in Miami?”

  “No, dude. I’m back home.”

  “Sarasota?”

  “Sarasota.”

  “Excellent. Remember you said that if I ever needed an elephant.”

  “Um. I might have done,” said Francis. “I say a lot of stuff when I’m high, dude.”

  “I need an elephant.”

  CERN, Switzerland

  Michael pressed the intercom button. “Yes?” he said.

  “This is the police,” said a voice over the speaker.

  “Yes, I got that bit the first time,” said Michael. “How can I help you?”

  “We wish to speak to the leader of the group occupying the control room.”

  “Leader? Todor’s doing lead vocals, whereas I suppose I’m more sort of management.”

  “Am I speaking to the leader now?”

  Michael hmmed. “I’m not sure I’m happy with such a hierarchical definition. We’re kind of going for a loose team or cell structure. But you can speak to me.” He instinctively felt the conversation had got off to a poor and woolly start. Then again, it wasn’t every day one was woken up after a night camping inside the large hadron collider by the voice of law enforcement demanding entry.

  “And what is your name?” said the police officer.

  “My name? “said Michael warily. “Surely that’s not important. Is there a problem?”

  “Sir, are you Michael Michaels?”

  “Ye-es, Michael Michaels, that’s me.”

  “And you’re part of a cell of the, let me see, All the Countries of the World? That is the name you gave when you first contacted the European Broadcasting Network’s representatives in London.”

  “What? No. I was speaking to Trish from Song for Europe. I said our band is like all the countries of the world.”

  “But you’re not directly affiliated with them. I understand.”

  “Affiliated with whom? Is that a thing? What kind of an outfit do you think we are?”

  “We understand from our Austrian counterparts that you were arrested two days ago for propagating fascist ideologies, and now you have barricaded yourself inside the CERN control room, with some accomplices, having deployed explosives in the entrance hall.”

  Michael leaned away from the microphone and addressed the others. “What are they talking about?”

  Stefan pointed to a screen that showed CCTV footage of the entrance hall. There was a suspicious bundle on the floor between the front entrance and the control room. “My missing sausages,” he said mournfully.

  Michael peered at the screen. He had no expertise in the field of explosives, but they certainly looked dangerous.

  “Oh for goodness sake!” he said. “Let’s just set everything straight, shall we? Heinz, who was it gave us permission to come and film in here at the weekend?”

  Heinz made a see-saw motion with his hand. “It wasn’t exactly like that,” he said. “It was more like a man sold me a pass and some bolt cutters in a bar, and told me where the fence was not covered by the cameras.”

  “Oh.” Michael drummed his fingers on the edge of the console, finally realising how this might look from outside.

  Heinz joined him. “You know, Michael, this isn’t all bad. In terms of getting noticed, it’s pretty good, actually.”

  Michael looked at the rest of the group. Ibolya and Todor were wedging chairs under the door handles, Aisling could be heard muttering excitedly about what might rhyme with siege. Only Stefan looked a little anxious.

  “As your attorney,” he said, “I must point out this could be very bad. Although, we might gain some legal wiggle room from the fact that we are in a cross-border situation.” He stepped to one side. “France.” He stepped to the other. “Switzerland.”

  Michael pondered. “We can use the opportunity to get our message out there,” he said eventually. He turned back to the microphone, pressing the button. “Hello again. I want to tell you that we intend no harm to anyone with this small endeavour of ours, but we do have something we want to bring to your attention. Please listen to this m
essage. It is our dream and our mission to see the unification of Europe, and we’re starting that process today. Not far from here, not so long ago, some people had a dream of a Europe brought together under a single banner. We plan to rally together like them and create one people. Our belief in Europe is unshakeable and our will is overwhelming.”

  There was a long pause from the speakers, and Michael wondered if the link had been severed.

  “We understand,” said the police officer. “And do you have any demands that you wish to share with us now?”

  Heinz indicated that Michael should let him take over the microphone.

  “Yes. Our creative director will share that with you,” said Michael, moving aside so that Heinz could speak.

  “Hello negotiators! It’s a pleasure to speak with you! I’m going to need quite a few things from you, so please have pencil and paper ready, yeah? Let’s start with the dry ice machine. Got that? Also, we need TVs and cameras for the live broadcast. Actually, can you tap into CERN’s CCTV and record it for broadcast? You can? Excellent. Hang on, my friend is flapping his arms at me.” Heinz stared at Todor’s mime. “Oh! Yes. Some doves.” He winked at Todor. “We need a flock of at least twenty.”

  The day proceeded with more dance practices, even though they still had no song to dance to. Michael was gratified to see that the moves were starting to resemble dancing rather than the crew of a gale-tossed trawler trying to stay upright.

  During lunch, Stefan managed to bring up a local news channel on one of the overhead displays. The newsreader was part way through reading a story, with an image behind her that showed them all in CERN’s control room. The image was captioned with CERN SIEGE - LIVE.

  “Oh look, it’s us!” said Ibolya, regarding her image critically and tapping her nascent double chin as though it had let her down in the broadcast.

  “The leader of the terrorist cell has been identified as Michael Michaels,” said the newsreader, “a neo-Nazi travelling under a UK passport who was detained this week in Austria for alleged hate crimes.”

  “And rightly released,” said Stefan.

  “In his brief statement on taking over the CERN control room, Michael pledged to reunite Europe under a single banner.”

  “See?” said Heinz. “We’re getting noticed.”

  “These chilling echoes of Hitler’s fascist rhetoric,” continued the newsreader, “are all the more alarming given that, as we see in this footage here, Michaels attempted to detonate a suicide bomb device at the European Broadcasting Network on Saturday.”

  “I did what?” spat Michael.

  “Witnesses say Michaels, visibly agitated, demanded to see network executives and, when refused, gave a countdown and attempted to activate a device with his phone. It seems increasingly clear that the group will not relinquish the control room peacefully. We will bring you further developments as we get them.”

  “Well they’ve leapt to some wild conclusions there!” said Michael, annoyed. “Why on earth do they think I’m a neo-Nazi?”

  “Michael, none of this will matter once we get the song and the video sorted,” soothed Heinz. “Mind you, they’re taking their sweet time bringing the stuff we asked for.” He moved over to the microphone. “How much longer before the supplies arrive?” he barked.

  “We will update you shortly,” said the voice. “It’s all being sourced for you.”

  Michael took himself away down a corridor to think. He couldn’t help but feel things were a little bit out of hand. Perhaps Clovenhoof was having a little more success with his own mission. Unlikely, he thought. Clovenhoof was a walking disaster. In fact, thought Michael, already dialling Clovenhoof’s mobile, it would do him good to put things in perspective and find out how appallingly Clovenhoof was doing.

  Clovenhoof answered with a yell. “Mickey boy! Bad timing! Right in the middle of something here!”

  There was a wild and piercing horn blast.

  “What is that?” said Michael. “A trumpet?”

  “No,” yelled Clovenhoof. “That’s Delores. A dynamite gal and our secret weapon. Francis assures me she’ll get us past the secret service guys. Delores! Delores! This way! Look! Donuts!”

  “Secret weapon for what?”

  “What?” said Clovenhoof, clearly distracted.

  “I said what secret weapon?”

  “Delores!” shouted Clovenhoof, although whether that was directed at Michael or not, the archangel couldn’t tell. “Francis! Get her over here! Bring that jumbo down so I get on top!”

  “I’m trying, dude,” came a distant male voice. “But she doesn’t want to—”

  The call died. Michael stared at the phone. Well, it certainly sounded like Clovenhoof was make a disastrously bad fist of things.

  “Michael, can we have a word?” said Todor. He was with Ibolya. The pair of them stood hand in hand. They spoke quietly, clearly not wanting to be overheard by the others.

  “Yes, what is it?” said Michael.

  “Do you believe that Aisling will really create a song?” asked Ibolya, her face anxious. “You know we believe in your vision, but the stakes are higher now.”

  “Yes, I realise that,” said Michael testily.

  “I have a little song which I wrote myself,” said Ibolya with a modest blush. “Todor thinks it’s got a lot of potential, and it features yodelling, something I know I can deliver in a very powerful way.”

  Michael reached for a suitable response but found he was unable to simultaneously express reassurance all would be well, general encouragement for the creative pursuit of songwriting, and an absolute horror of yodelling. He settled for: “Oh.”

  Ibolya launched into her song. It was a powerhouse of incomprehensible ululations. Michael had a vague notion that yodelling had evolved as a method of counting sheep or some such; was he hearing a list of Hungarian sheep names? It somewhat resembled a recording he had once heard of a blue whale singing. He fretted that Ibolya’s titanic rendition would frustrate the blue whales of the world, who would find themselves unable to navigate to landlocked Switzerland.

  Todor was rapt throughout the performance, his eyes never leaving Ibolya’s face. His expression was adoring and Michael wondered if he’d pushed something inside his ears. He didn’t even flinch as Ibolya’s voice reached a new high. Something in the control room smashed, but Michael didn’t care, he just wanted the noise to stop. Eventually it did.

  “Ibolya, that was really something,” he stammered. His own voice sounded distant, his ears ringing with the aftermath of the trauma. “It could be a powerful standby, if Aisling is stuck.”

  He got up from the chair and tried to walk away, but his balance was affected. Halfway across the floor he met Aisling coming to meet him, similarly stricken. She clutched Michael’s shoulder and ushered him across the room, casting terrified glances back over her shoulder.

  “Promise me one thing, Michael. I know I’ve probably been a pain in the arse – what with not having a song and all – but please, promise me now that you won’t let her sing that again?” She pleaded with her eyes. “I mean, maybe if they send in the Navy SEALS or something and it’s a matter of life or death we could get her to— Or maybe we just take our chances with the Navy SEALS?”

  Michael nodded weakly. “We need a song, Aisling. We really need a song.”

  “Yes! Give me a minute, so. Just a minute. I swear nothing focuses the mind like pain. I think I have something. I really do.”

  As Aisling scribbled on a pad, Stefan murmured, “They won’t send the Navy SEALS in after us.”

  “It won’t come to that, will it?” said Michael.

  “No. The Swiss will send in the ARD10 commandos. Switzerland is landlocked. No navy, no SEALS. But ARD10, they’re fierce mofos, Michael.”

  Not long after, Aisling put down the pen and nodded reverently. She nodded to Michael. “It’s done.”

  “What? Already?” Could it be that simple? If Michael had known Aisling just needed to be traumati
sed, he’d have made her sit up front while Heinz drove through the mountains. “Can we hear it?”

  Aisling nodded. “It’s a song of two parts. There is the part like a thundering freight train. Todor will sing that. I saw how he sang and moved to the Meatloaf song. It calls for the same degree of subtlety. Anyway, Todor’s part goes like this:

  “Super collider, super collider

  “Wondering if you know what will we find inside ya?

  “Super collider, super collider

  “Spinning round in circles, gettin’ wider and wider.”

  Heinz appeared at once, jogging with high knees, fists pumping at his sides. “It has such energy! I love it!”

  Aisling beamed. “Now we have the soaring operatic part, for Ibolya:

  “Particle beams,

  “It’s like a river of dreams,

  “We all hope and dream,

  “Joining hands downstream

  “Towards a love supreme!

  “No yodelling, now,” she added firmly “But Ibolya will bring power and drama to the delivery as we know she can.”

  Ibolya ran over and hugged Aisling. “Please let me sing it now! Todor, come here, we must try it immediately!”

  They stood side by side and held Aisling’s notebook between them. Todor winked at Ibolya, and Aisling counted them in.

  As they started to sing, Michael found himself swept along by the energetic rhythm and the joy of the exchanges between Todor and Ibolya. They cycled through their two sections twice, and each time the pace changed it was like relay runners handing over the baton. No, it was more than that: it was like a pair of exotic birds on a wildlife programme. They circled and postured, in a loud and mesmerising courtship display.

  “Beautiful,” whispered Heinz as the song finished. “It will work so well with the routine and the costumes.”

  “There is one thing that’s bothering me,” said Michael. “You know the line about River of dreams?” It’s immediately followed by We all hope and dream.”