The knock on the door is loud. It’s a man in sunglasses.
“President Lewin,” he says. “Should I get your pants?”
“Pants?” I ask him. “What do I need pants for?” And indeed, it’s nine-thirty in the morning. Nine fucking thirty. “Pants do not come on until eleven. They do not come on until eleven! And why are you calling me President?”
“No time!” he says, and then three big guys snatch me up and ram me into the back seat of a limousine. My private parts kiss the leather. Something dribbles out of a hole.
“You can’t do this to me!” I scream.
“Sir, you’re the President. We’re just helping you do your job!”
And then it comes to me. Back before last night’s bottle of scotch, there was a dream: me, Trent Lewin, taking power to defend the poor, the meek, the helpless. I shake my head. Jostle my testicles. “Give me some coffee. Now.”
They arrange a funnel. I start sucking. It’s hot, burning. Fuck yeah. By the time the limo gets to the airport, I’ve pissed all over the place. One of the agents tries to cup my hot, smelly blast. He’s got a handful of piss, and it’s dripping between his fingers. I kick him in the crotch on the way out.
On the plane, they put me in overalls.
“There’s been a shooting, Mr. President,” says one of the agents. “Random event in a town called Fuck-Me-Yet-Again-Istan. The country needs you, sir.”
“How many dead?”
“Five. Twenty injured.”
“You woke me up for this?” I yell at them. “Five dead? Five? I don’t get dressed unless twenty get tagged!”
“There’s still a chance of additional fatalities, Mr. President. Lots of people in the hospital. Gunman still on the loose.”
“Right,” I tell them. Out the window, the sky is blue. The moon is fading. It’s hard to play with your testicles through overalls. I mean, I want to ask them to hire me someone who can play with my balls for me, but I don’t exactly know how to write that job description. Here I am, Trent fucking Lewin, the most powerful man on the planet, and I can’t hire a single person to nudge my junk.
“Get me Umba,” I tell them. “Umba from Strasburg.”
“Trenty!” comes Umba’s voice, a few minutes later. “How are you? Most powerful person on the planet and you choose to call your friend Umba?”
“I got problems, Umba. Some dipshit shot up a frozen yogurt store. This keeps happening.”
Silence for a moment. Umba’s clearly eating. I can hear his tongue licking his lips. “Trenty, you must release budgies. Only budgies can help with this.”
“Budgies? Like the birds?”
“Yes, put some budgies in cages and then release them as good thoughts for peace. Budgies are very stupid but highly peaceful. You will see, Trenty.”
“Are you sure about this, Umba? Sounds like a shit idea.”
But he just goes on chewing his food. I make a call and get some budgies into cages, have them hauled out to Fuck-Me-Yet-Again-Istan. “Release the budgies!” I cry into the phone. “Make sure we’re taping it!”
An agent pulls up a screen. Under a tree next to a barricade, cages are opened. Blue and green birds leap into the air. “That’s a fucking budgie?” I ask. The agents assure me that they are. Up they fly, the cameras following them, until they run into the blades of the news helicopters flying overhead. One by one, the budgies are shredded. A hail of blood and feather sinks to the ground. “Holy shit!” I cry. “They never had a chance!”
“What now, President Lewin?”
“Take me to Fuck-Me-Yet-Again-Istan. Right now!”
The plane banks. I bank. For a moment, I wonder if this is a dream: a dream of doing the right thing in the wrong world, where budgies get chewed up by helicopter blades and bullets shred up machines that make frozen desserts. I take a drink of whiskey. And the whiskey takes a drink of me.
We land and I run down the steps. They have a Suburban waiting for me, and we race to the yogurt store. There’s bodies on the pavement. Blood in the gutter. I smell shit. Vomit. People are crowded around.
“Death count has reached eleven, Mr. President,” an agent tells me.
Fuck yeah. That’s right: double digits. I put on my double-digit-massacre face, the one that sits in-between the sad nod of the less-than-five-dead ambivalence and the now-it’s-serious-solemnity of the twenty-dead-and-counting sweet spot. Then I spy someone in the crowd: it’s a brown guy.
“You ever see a brown guy in this town before?” I ask one of the local cops. He’s just a kid, looks like he’s pissed himself.
“It’s rare, Mr. President.”
“That guy over there look brown to you?”
“He does, Mr. President.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Give me your gun, son.”
And then I’m off. My first shot streaks into the crowd. The brown guy opens his mouth as everyone else gets the hell away from him. “I’m coming for you, mothermucker!” I scream, running. The second bullet grazes him on the arm, and that’s when he starts to run, but he doesn’t know or properly understand that this country is the country of Trent fucking Lewin, the incorruptible, unerring, big-balled patriot that everyone’s been waiting for since Jesus was a baby. “Jesus was a baby!” I cry, as I give chase, firing into the streets of Fuck-Me-Yet-Again-Istan.
I hit the brown guy three times before he comes to a stop. He’s lying in a gutter. I have my dick in my hand. “This is what happens to mothermuckers in this country,” I tell him, and let the piss fly.
“I didn’t do anything,” he squawks, his eyes wide as he peers at my manhood.
“The fuck you didn’t,” I return, as the agents arrive. “I don’t see anyone else around here that looks like you. Agents, unzip your pants. That’s right. Reveal your dicks and point them at this guy. Don’t be shy – this is our country, and we have to stick up for it! Now, produce your urine.” And the piss flies. It’s many streams coming from many directions, mingling with the blood seeping from the brown guy’s wounds.
On the plane home, I’m feeling good. I’m feeling right. I’m having my way with a bottle of whiskey, and the whiskey – it’s having its way with me. I suck the spout. Stick my tongue in the opening. And when the bottle upends itself, I know I’m a hero. Trent fucking Lewin. Bigger than God. Bigger than the universe. Bigger than anything.
“Trenty!” comes Umba’s voice on the phone. “You have problem!”
“I fixed the problem, Umba. The guy’s in the hospital for now but we’re going to execute him in a couple of months. You want a ticket?”
“Sure, sure, Trenty, but there was a second shooter! He has escaped!”
I grit my teeth. “Where is he, Umba? You tell me right now.”
What he tells me upsets my buzz. Produces a sound from my ass. Blood runs up and down my body, like I’m alive or something and this is just a depraved dream of a depraved man with nothing better to do than complain about the things that just happen, again and again, with no thought or reason or explanation that can be told by one person on this shining ridiculous sun-soaked rock to another. It defies belief. Wraps itself in a whoopee cushion waiting for God’s ass to come back from vacation. Blah. Here comes the sound. The wailing. The sycophant dodge. The unanswers. The unattempts. The unbelievable crud crusted on the back of the gorilla’s anus that gave birth to me, and you, and everyone in-between that stands unwilling, unable, un-everything that you can think of, from your head to your toes, from that fleshy incompetent thing between your legs to the dream that you stuck in a pile of horseshit and set on fire with a flaming pool cue.
“Give me the football,” I tell my men.
“The fucking nuclear football. I have just learned that the second shooter is on a rocket to the moon.”
“Sir, that’s not really possible!”
But I look at them. And they look at me. Don’t dodge me, you assholes. Don’t question a thing. Don’t let the reasons bother you. And don’t dare bother the reasons. So they hand me the football and I pop it open. A key goes in one hole. A key goes in another. And the whiskey flows down my throat, like it’s anxious to be converted by my organs into a flow fit to fill a godforsaken ocean.
We land the plane. We look at the stars. Up there, there’s a moon. Down here, there’s a problem. I take off my clothes. Put them in a pile. And then I hit a button.
In the middle of nothing, there’s nothing to fear. Nothing to see. We stand there, waiting. The night passes. Physics has a fight with my mothermucking crossed arms and dicey binoculars as I stare at the moon. Somewhere around four in the morning, there’s a flash as a few hundred missiles congregate on that bullshit disc in the sky, the fucking thing that doesn’t do a goddam thing for us no matter what we need. I scream as the impacts light up the night sky. “Fuck yeah!” I cry. “I’m pretty sure we got him!”
“Who?” asks an agent. “Who, Sir?”
“The second shooter!” I tell them. “Good going, boys. He almost got away.” Up above, there’s a crack in the moon, a jagged line running right through the middle of it. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Fuck. Yeah. “Now, boys, I want you to go find some reporters and tell them what your President just did to make the world a safer place. Don’t call me a hero or anything. They’ll get to that word all by themselves.”
We get back in the plane. The phone rings, some tragedy that’s in progress. Some event that needs my attention. But I’ve done my work for the day. Yeah fuck yeah. Just say it with me: fuck yeah! We did it. We fucking did it, all of us. We got here, and now here we go. The moon’s falling apart. The universe is expanding. And I, Trent Lewin, your President and your Savior, stand up and take a shit on the seat, because that’s who I am, and that’s exactly who you want me to be, no matter what you say, no matter what you do: it doesn’t matter who I am, all it matters is that you, the lot of you, are just you. And you, and me, and everyone in-between, are simple, incontrovertible, lazy assholes. So bake me a cake – right now! – and then take a shit on that, too, because it’s a happy fucking 2019 for we the wankers, and the moon – it’s fucking split in two.
If you have any decency, you will spread the shit out of this post. My tag line on this blog is ‘rage hard, dream hard’. You got to rage if you want to dream. And in this day and age, a little rage can lead to a lot of love if it’s done right. Just think it through. Get a little angry for starters. Then get to work.