Alternative Truths

by Bob Brown

  “’Course. You and me, Charlie-babes, forever; frozen or not.”

  I leant over and kissed her hard and long; the taste of cherry cola lingering on her lips.

  END

  DUCK, DONALD: A TRUMP EXORCISM

  Marleen S. Barr

  When Trump, near the end of his second term, sat on his golden Trump Tower toilet, he was in for a big surprise. After eliminating—and still ignoring the fact that the majority of American citizens wished to eliminate him from office—he looked into the golden bowl. The toilet was filled with bright red liquid.

  Feeling alarmed, Trump phoned Dr. Ben Carson to ask for a diagnosis. “Donald, I am a brain surgeon. I don’t do rectums,” Carson said. “And furthermore, I haven’t practiced medicine in years. Since I am spending all of my time using my experience as someone who has lived in houses to serve as Housing and Urban Development head, my medical acumen has become a little rusty. Although you are not concerned with professional qualifications—everyone remembers how you hired a pollution lover to run the Environmental Protection Agency—I must say that I am not able to help you.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Get a colonoscopy.”

  “Are there any ass doctors left?”

  “I now regret to remind you that most of the ousted Obama administration H.U.D. employees got jobs as doctors. It was logical for them to pull this switcheroo. They figured that if a doctor with no government agency experience could run H.U.D., then H.U.D administrators could be employed as doctors. You may want to choose wisely as to whom you allow to probe you. These people have memories, and frankly, sir would you like to spend all day looking up assholes? Pussy groping is a lot more fun.”

  After Trump’s symptoms continued and he was certain that he had colon cancer, he again sought Dr. Carson’s advice. “You need to have surgery,” Carson said.

  “Are there any colon cancer surgeons left?”

  “I am not sure. As you are aware, after you rescinded Obamacare, most people could not afford to see actual doctors. The whole medical system collapsed. Real doctors gave up their practices and were replaced by alternative doctors—such as the former H.U.D. folks. I will refer you to America’s last qualified colon cancer surgeon.

  Trump was wheeled into the operating room. The last of the Mohicans in relation to colon cancer surgery, Dr. Cochise Sitting Bull, slit open Trump’s abdomen and peered inside. He saw, perched atop the President’s bloated spleen, a bright red devil waving a trident. His feet were resting firmly on a cancerous colon. Afraid to remove the devil from inside Trump, he left the devil where it was, extracted the cancer, rerouted the colon to an Ivanka designed colostomy bag and sewed Trump up. Shocked by finding a devil within someone he considered to be a horror, Dr. Bull had a heart attack. Since cardiologists no longer existed, Dr. Bull died.

  Trump did not enjoy life with an ostomy bag. Melania divorced him.

  “I took all of your shit in order to have money beyond my wildest dreams. But that was alternative fact shit. I didn’t sign up to deal with real shit,” said Melania as she descended down the Trump Tower escalator for the last time.

  Trump could not cope with the ostomy bag hanging from his now flawed body. Alec Baldwin, using Trump’s condition to comic effect—against a background tape of Trump mimicking the handicapped New York Times reporter—did a Saturday Night Live skit involving a plastic bag filled with chocolate ice cream. Chocolate ice cream sales plummeted. Unable to endure further public humiliation, Trump choose to have reconstructive surgery. After again facing the lack of a qualified surgeon and reasoning that a rusty brain surgeon was better than a former H.U.D. employee, Trump convinced Dr. Carson to perform the surgery.

  Dr. Bull never told Carson about the devil. The latter doctor had a great surprise in the operating room. “Enough already,” said the devil as he jumped out of Trump and landed feet first on the operating room floor. “I wasn’t alone in there,” he continued as a plethora of gremlins, trolls, witches, and fire breathing dragons followed in his wake. Carson looked as if he had seen a ghost. “Don’t be so surprised. Trump is not thin. He has a big abdomen. There was a lot of room for all of us in there,” said the devil. And with a great grin added, “but wait, there’s more.” He jabbed his trident into a particularly swollen portion of colon. It burst.

  Flying feces joined the alternative personages parade. “Duck. Donald’s shit is hitting the fan—again. Everyone take cover,” Carson said to the operating room staff. Afterwards, when Carson supervised the sew up and cleanup, Trump opened his eyes in the recovery room. He saw a young attractive black nurse. (Unlike doctors, qualified nurses still existed.) “Since you’re helping me, I can respond to you as a person,” said Trump. “So even though you rate as a nine point two, I won’t grope your pussy. Such a shame that you live in a crime ridden drug infested murder sodden ghetto.”

  The biopsy, done by secret agreement at a Canadian lab, told the story. Trump never had colon cancer. The red liquid in the toilet bowl was merely devil urine—a red shower. Even Putin could not have contrived this alternative fact. The surgery, which exorcised the evil living inside Trump, had not been a waste. No longer a loud mouthed narcissistic barbarian, Trump reinstated Obamacare and stopped substituting alternative facts for facts. When Elizabeth Warren followed him as President, Trump made sure that a smooth power transition ensued. In memory of Dr. Cochise Sitting Bull, Trump never again called Warren Pocahontas.

  During Warren’s inauguration ceremony, Trump stood beaming next to the new Mrs. Trump. Mrs. Trump the fourth was seventy-five years old and she was not thin. Trump never found out that she was also not human. This spouse was a feminist separatist planet denizen sent to Earth to keep Trump in line—just in case he might have a relapse. To make Trump feel comfortable and to compensate for her lack of American popular culture knowledge, extraterrestrial Mrs. Trump presented herself in an eastern European guise as the long lost clone of one Angela Merkel. Donald and Hildegard Trump lived happily ever after. Donald never made his alien wife register as an illegal immigrant.

  END

  WALKS HOME ALONE AT NIGHT

  Wondra Vanian

  Everyone knows that it’s dangerous for a woman to walk alone at night. What most people don’t realize—or don’t care to admit—is that safety is a privilege of the financially secure. It’s easy to warn others against wandering the streets after dark when one knows they’ll be tucked away safe behind locked doors in their gated communities long before evening falls. Everyone else? Well, everyone else takes their chances.

  Meena scanned the darkness as she stepped off the bus. Her neighborhood had never been particularly safe but things had gotten steadily worse since Donald Trump rose to power. Harassment and hate crimes were so common that they no longer made the news. It was just expected that if you were dumb enough to visibly be anything other than Christian or unlucky enough to be just a little too brown, you were fair game.

  Of course, Meena mused as she tucked the jersey hijab she wore under her chin, plenty of people are both.

  She didn’t like to think about that very long.

  In normal circumstances, it would be wiser for a woman on her own to stick to the brightly lit streets where it was easier to maintain the illusion of safety. But nothing had been normal in America for some time. Meena clung to the shadows as she walked in the direction of her apartment building.

  She heard the growl of the truck before its headlights fell on her. Her stomach tightened anxiously as the vehicle drew near. It was difficult to keep her step steady. The hem of her abaya seemed determined to wrap around her legs and trip her up.

  Meena knew what would happen the moment the truck crawled to a idling stop beside her. She took a deep breath as she braced herself for what came next.

  “Well, lookie what we got here,” a man’s voice called out. “It’s one of them Allah girls.”

  Meena knew there was no point trying to pretend they weren’t talking about h
er. She turned in time to see a pair of men climbing out of the truck’s cab. Two more spilled off of the open flatbed. They all looked solid, brawny types. Probably from some building site or road crew, if the high visibility jackets they wore were anything to go by.

  She held her tongue.

  “Sure looks it,” one of his companions agreed. “Reckon she’s gotta bomb under there, TJ?”

  “Maybe we oughtta check. Be damned un-American of us not to.”

  “Immigration status,” the one called TJ demanded. He held out a hand.

  Meena knew the drill. The ID card declaring her a third-generation Muslim American from India was affixed to the front of her gown, as federal law required, but she didn’t want the man’s meaty paws anywhere near her chest. She unclasped the card and handed it over.

  “That can’t be right,” TJ said after a glance at the card. “This ID belongs to an American. But you don’t look like no American to me. Whatcha think, Maxie Boy? She look like a patriot to you?”

  The one who had suggested Meena be searched for a bomb spit on the ground near her feet. It took a considerable effort to keep herself from taking a step back. Instead, Meena flicked the hem of her abaya back and lowered her eyes so the thug couldn’t see the anger building in them.

  “Nope,” Maxie said.

  TJ tossed Meena’s ID card to one of his companions. “You know what the penalty for an Illegal impersonating an American citizen is, curry pot?”

  Meena gritted her teeth against the angry retort that wanted to be heard. The insult wasn’t that bad; far worse had been flung in her direction. What really bothered Meena was that “Maxie Boy” grabbed his crotch and winked at her as TJ spoke.

  “Man asked you a question, bitch,” one of the others said. “Answer him before I knock your goddamn teeth out.”

  Did Meena know what happened to so-called Illegals who were accused of using ID cards that weren’t their own?

  Had she been in a cave the last eighteen months?

  No. She knew.

  The penalty was the same for just about any crime perpetrated by a non-Christian or person of color: immediate relocation to a detainment camp where, if they were lucky, relatives in a country that wasn’t too afraid of President Trump’s power might arrange for their relocation. But the list of countries that refused to cow to Trump’s unpredictable, weaponised fits of rage grew smaller every week.

  India, in a bid to protect its burgeoning economy, had decided to toe Trump’s line a long time ago. Meena had cousins in Great Britain who would take her in, if she asked, but the British had problems enough of their own. The post-Brexit race riots still raged.

  Welcome or not, America was all Meena had.

  “The ID is my own,” she answered instead. “Feel free to call the Department of Nationalized—”

  Wham.

  The blow was not entirely unexpected but the shock of it rocked through Meena and left her dazed. That was the bit she’d been worried about.

  She might have given up, like her brother had done. When the constant slurs had gotten too much for him, Mo had put a gun in his mouth and swallowed a bullet. She could have become reclusive, like her mother had done after Papa was killed by so-called freedom defenders. Now, Mama relied upon the generosity of friends and neighbors to keep from starving.

  She could have chosen a dozen different paths, at any time. But, no, Meena had decided to stand up for what she believed in—which was pretty damn hard at moments like that.

  The men laughed. TJ tossed a smile over his shoulder at them. If he stuck out his chest and started flapping his arms, he couldn’t act a bigger cock.

  Meena’s lip stung. She brushed the back of her hand against it and the hand came away bloody. Clearly, her usual defenses of being polite and keeping quiet weren’t going to work.

  “Listen,” she said, “I don’t want any trouble tonight. It’s been a long day and I just want to get home.”

  “Shut your lying mouth,” TJ barked. “This ain’t your home.”

  “Yeah,” one of the men called. “Where you really from, raghead?”

  There were two answers to that question, the one that they wanted to hear, and the truth.

  Meena had never been one for telling people what they wanted to hear.

  “Richmond.”

  Wham.

  The second time TJ hit her, it was with enough force to knock her sideways. One of the men caught her and shoved her forward. Meena barely had the time to put an arm between her face and the concrete.

  Loud guffaws filled her ears and fueled the rage simmering in her blood. Before she could push herself up, a heavy workman’s boot came down on her shoulders, grinding her face into the sidewalk. A jagged pebble bit into her cheek.

  Gruff, masculine laughter filled the night air.

  Her tormenters were obviously enjoying themselves immensely.

  Rough hands grabbed her arms and hauled Meena to her feet. They didn’t release her.

  “I’ll only ask you once more,” TJ said. “Where. Are. You. From?”

  Meena raised her head to meet his eyes. She held his gaze steady as she spoke.

  “Richmond.”

  TJ shook his head. He threw his hands up in the air.

  “Call the Agency, Kenny,” he said. “Got us an Illegal for Detention.”

  “Now just hang on a minute.”

  One of the men paused, cell phone in hand.

  Max stepped forward. “Maybe we could be persuaded to look the other way this time,” he said, rubbing his crotch with the palm of his hand.

  She’d expected something along those lines from him. Max hadn’t taken his heavy-lidded eyes off Meena since he climbed out of the pickup. He was hulking and walked with his chin up, shoulders back.

  Ex-military, Meena thought. They usually weren’t difficult to spot; acted like they owned the world and only knew how to take what they wanted at gunpoint. She was willing to bet he was packing under his thick Caterpillar jacket.

  Max glanced at TJ. The other man shrugged, “Whatever you want, man.” He walked over to the truck and leaned against the side.

  Looked like Max was in charge then.

  Things were going to get messy.

  “Gee, Max,” one of the others said in a tone of mock confusion. “What do you mean?”

  And the Oscar goes to . . . Meena only just stopped herself from rolling her eyes.

  Max’s grin was malicious when he answered. “Ya know . . . if we had the right . . . motivation.”

  Meena turned her attention to the man with the cell phone. “Go ahead, Kenny,” she said around Max’s large frame. “Call them.”

  It would take some time for them to run her through the system; even longer if the man with her ID should “lose” it. Eventually, though, Meena’s paperwork would prove valid and she would be released. A month in hell. Maybe two months, max.

  She could live with that.

  Kenny looked to Max for guidance. Max took a step closer to Meena. He smelled like stale sweat and coffee.

  “Maybe you don’t understand,” he said in a low, threatening voice, “this is going to happen. But, if you try really hard to make us happy, we’ll go easy on ya.”

  He grabbed the front of her abaya in one meaty fist and pulled Meena hard against him. When he spoke, his voice was full of violence and his hot breath fanned her face. “Well, they might. Me? I’m gonna fuck ya ’til you bleed. Then, I’mma wipe my dick on this.”

  Max caught her hijab in his other hand and pulled it off. Several strands of dark hair went with it. Meena winced.

  The sound of a door slamming told her that at least one of Max’s cronies, though happy to beat her around, drew the line at rape. TJ, if she had to guess. She was almost impressed.

  “Uh . . . Wait a sec, Max,” the one with Meena’s ID said. “I think—”

  “Shut yer cakehole, Geoff,” Max snarled. “If ya don’t wanna play with the big boys, go hide in the truck with TJ.”

&nbs
p; The fabric under his fist tore. Meena’s gown fell open.

  “Really, man,” Geoff tried again. “You gotta—”

  Anger made Max’s face turn an unhealthy shade of purple. He turned on his friend.

  “You some kinda faggot?” he snarled. “You got some kinda problem with an Immi getting what’s coming to her?”

  “No! It’s just—”

  “It’s nothing. Shut the fuck up or fuck the fuck off.”

  Geoff told Max to go fuck himself, then turned his back on them.

  Max laughed off the other man’s insult. Meena’s hijab fell to the ground as he wrapped this thick fingers around her neck. “Now,” he said, “where were we?”

  Then he shoved a hand between her legging-clad legs.

  Max’s eyes opened wide in surprise when his searching fingers found more than they had anticipated.

  Because Meena did have a bomb, of sorts, under her abaya. The kind that pumped poison through her body and ticked down to the male pattern baldness that hit her older brother at twenty-six. If she followed in his footsteps, she had maybe four years before her hairline started receding.

  What a sickening thought.

  On the day that Donald Trump took office, Meena was eight months, two weeks, and three days into her year-long life trial. That was before the president signed an executive order that created a blanket ban on all gender reassignment surgery performed within the United States. Many hospitals in Canada were still happy to provide the surgery for American citizens but, even if Meena could have afforded it, there was always the possibility that she wouldn’t be allowed back in the country afterward.

  And it wasn’t a good time to be a Muslim without a country.

  Meena had plenty of time to ruminate as Max stared at her in confusion—though it was a little hard to do while the man had a tight grip on her penis.

  “Find what you were looking for?” Geoff said unkindly. He sniggered then said, “Can’t say I didn’t try to warn ya.”