BEST OF GT- ESCAPE FROM MAR-A-LAGO!

Uh, speaking of my older work being rather political, here’s the Saturday morning cartoon fight between me and my robot Fritz vs Trump and the Dark Cabinet. I knocked this thing out in one shot over, like, 5 hours, which is pretty impressive for writing & editing 2k words and it, y’know, not being entirely junk. At least for me, I dunno what kinda cyber-keyboard-Shakespeare-monkey-thing you got goin on over there. Well, “not junk” is my opinion, certainly, but you give it a look-see. I had a lot of fun writing it, but it certainly didn’t kill the traffic meters when it dropped. That said, there’s a lot more of you these days. If you like it, tell Hollywood, baby! And if you don’t, no worries, I never did this again- it’s way more work to write a coherent narrative than one of my rambling reviews. Oh! It’s also vaguely a review for Terpenstein shatter, but really it just references another review I wrote for that lovely gooey goodness.


How many days had passed? Weeks? Time was a meaningless concept locked away alone in a cold cell deep underneath the fabulous Mar-A-Lago Club at Trump National Golf Course. Lucky for me, I’m long used to talking to myself. If anything, the hallucinations I endured in solitary made the whole thing a bit less awkward. GT and I passed the time reviewing the ill-fated plan that landed us here in the first place and attempting to send psychic distress signals to my robotic BFF, Fritz, a la those most star-crossed of lovers, Scott Summers & Jean Grey, but so far to no avail. Honestly, It hadn’t seemed like it would be that that hard to get in. My costume was, in retrospect, flawless.

“Oh, this unruly vag of mine! If only I had a big, strong President to grab it…”

Heavy footsteps interrupted my reverie. I looked up as the bolts slid back and the door was opened, but was blinded by the flourescents reflecting off the immaculately shining golden breastplate of the guard. “Aaaargh,” I said testily. Ignoring me, the galoot grasped me with a hairy, oversized paw and yanked me upright in a single, shockingly strong movement.

“Boss…wants to see ooo,” the grunt rumbled gruffly.

“Ah, brilliant. Show on the road, eh? Right, then. Take Me To Your Leader.”

Slowly, my vision returned, but the sights I saw shocked me. “Fake” news anchors chained and wailing as masked white coats prodded them with macabre instruments and forced noxiously glowing serums into their bloodstreams. Their screams were disregarded. Only the green digits and graphs displayed on the monitors elicited any reaction from these paragons of Hippocratic corruption. “My God.” Some innate desperation to confirm this reality, my sanity, prodded me to look over at my captor, perhaps find some far walled-off shame in his heart over his role in these atrocities…

My eyes met his. I screamed. The beast’s unnatural face contorted in primal rage at this affront and I felt the back of my head smack the wall behind me before the world went black.


“Put him down there, Manafort,” came a snide voice I’ve heard countless times over the airwaves for the past two years as I came to. A belligerent, braggadocious demeanor wonderfully suited to enticing wayward souls to step right in and see the painted Jezebels dance in the carnal house just through that door, young man, it’s gonna be great, believe me. A second-rate, back alley dealing kinda sleaze that I wouldn’t trust to wash my windshield in a Manhattan rush hour, God forbid keep our nation safe and prosperous. A horrible, slimy, disgusting-

“You’re monologuing at me. Unfair!” the President of the United States tantrumed at me, turning to his genetically-modified ape-man for sympathy like a toddler would its mommy. The creature’s brow furrowed and it raised a large fist over my aching skull like Damocles’ hammer, but Trump shook his head curtly, then addressed me. “See, this is what I’m taking about! You media, you twist everything up in knots before I even get a chance to explain myself! My administration is a fine-tuned machine. I’ve gotten so much done and it’s not my fault! I inherited just an awful sloppy joe of a shit-smeared mess from the Nobamas and Lyin’ Hillary!” The pace of his confusing, double-speak laden exclamations accelerated like a finely tuned sport bike and even an experienced ranter like myself was having trouble keeping up. That was probably the concussion, though. “RADICAL ISLAMIC TERRORISM!” he answered to no question that I had heard asked, as though he were simultaneously watching an invisible, inaudible episode of Jeopardy, then eyed me warily. It had been a challenge, it seemed.

“Umm, right, ok. First off, I’m definitely not the media. I don’t even write news. But since you ask, what’s up with Son of Kong here?”

“Manafort? Muslims invading our country, drugs cheaper than candy, but you wanna know about Manny here? Okay. He’s fast, he’s strong, he’s got crates of bananas and at night…” President Trump paused. He and his gorilla-at-arms shared a chilling leer that struck me for its similarity. “The keys to Melania’s menagerie. Have you ever heard the death-rattle of a giraffe, by chance?” His bright orange mug presented a facade of sublime satisfaction. “It’s exquisite,” he breathed softly.

“You’re sick,” I replied in revulsion, my stomach desperately attempting to disconnect from the images in my brain.

“I just wanna help my buddies get loans but you keep spouting fake facts you made up about my Russian buddy Putin that helped me win the election! Which isn’t true! Or wouldn’t be if it weren’t for all the damn illegals that voted and then didn’t even bother to show up at my inauguration! Which was YUGE, BIGGEST EVER FOR ANY PRESIDENT !!! Well, until…” His mood had suddenly evened out and he began humming a tuneless ditty to himself with a wan smile.

“Until what?” I prompted, utterly befuddled.

“You know, GT,” he said calmly, almost fatherly. “We’re not all that different, you and I.”

“We are nothing alike!” I screamed back at him, quickly coming unhinged.

“Oh, no? We both started as internet trolls-”

“Disagree. I think Metropolitan Wellness Center selling ounces of flower for $600 plus to medical patients is trolling me, in fact-”

“We tapped into the anger, that hate, the pain of the people,” he went on, licking his lips, “all that rapturous wrath.”

“The only thing I hate is bad weed, bro,” I stated clearly. Manafort snorted.

He stared at me with the patient, soulless eyes of some prehistoric predator. “I want to share my vision with you, GT. I’m going to make America great again. You’ll see. Come,” beckoned Trump, turning from me and stalking off through a high security door behind his desk. I remained seated, more trying to grasp what was transpiring then protesting, when I felt the behemoth’s breath on my neck.

“Go,” it threatened. What choice did I have but to see this through and follow our forty-fourth President?

The door led to a metal grilled gangway overlooking bubbling, iridescent green vats. This strange concoction filled the rows upon rows of four foot tall glass pods stacked eight high that seemed to fill a football field, two. Whitecoats whizzed by on motorized elevator carts. Twisted Moreaus stalked the alleys between while long-armed drones flitted past them, performing their routine diagnostics. A grievous stench filled the room. I gagged and placed a hand over my mouth. Not paying me any mind, the President was breathing deeply of the filth and grinning. He waved me forward. I peered over the edge. No matter what horrors I’d witnessed thus far, nothing could have prepared me for what lurked below. A legion of toupeed, three-piece suit wearing pig people gathered at a troth of beige sludge, engaged each other in full-hog relations, or milled about the putrid piles of defecation in aimless stupor. The creatures caught sight of me and began squealing up a ruckus.

“Sad!” they screamed.

“Fake!” they proclaimed.

“Believe me!” they insisted.

Shuddering, I stepped back. “Sus Domesticus. Do you know what I love about pigs, GT?” Trump asked. I did not have an answer but turned swiftly when I heard the unmistakable cock of a pistol from behind me.

“Wait-” I said, holding my hands up, but he ignored me.

“They’re smart. Very, very smart, like my buddy, Putin. Have you met him? What a great guy, a great leader. He supports my executive pig army order one hundred percent. He told me! And they’re omnivorous, too. These bastards’ll eat anything.” He began laughing then, a true, belly-pit laugh from the dark umbrages from which his Dark Passenger hails. “And believe me, they are delicious.” At the last second, he turned the gun from me and fired into the throng below. The woeful thing fell and was quickly seized upon by his fellows in a terrible gnashing of tooth and hoof. Its screeches ended quickly. The President’s manic howling came to an end soon thereafter and the weapon was retrained on me.

“Every single one of my genetically perfect TrumPig clones chronologically accelerated to age eighteen,” he said, predicting my questions. “An American citizen and a card carrying member of the Trumpublican party. In 2020, I’ll bus ’em to every blue state in the nation. WE’LL SEE WHO WINS THE POPULAR VOTE THEN, WON’T WEEEEE!” The damage to his ego stoked a fury in his master pig army below. They alternately assaulted and copulated each other in a frenzied orgy of pork and blood.

“Now it’s your turn, Gentleman Toker.” Panicked, I looked around wildly for some means to defend myself, when I heard the crash from above. Giant chunks of the ceiling had fractured and fallen. Trump and his abomination sought to shelter themselves from the sudden onslaught of masonry but were besieged and buried beneath the rubble. The gangway was giving under the load and I reached out for a metal bar-

“OY! GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY JUNK, GT!”

 

It was a miracle. “FRITZ!” I exclaimed.

“HANDS!!!”

“Right,” I said, taking his arm. I looked up into the friendly face of my faithful motorized companion. “You saved me, buddy! You heard my psychic distress call!”

“Huh? No, listen, you’re not psychic, GT. We’ve been over this.”

“Then how?”

“Silly Bees said, and I quote, ‘We don’t deliver to robots,'” Fritz fumed. “So I tracked your phone here. Easy. They don’t seem all that worried about cyber-security, huh?”

“Aww, man. So you couldn’t get any oil delivered?” I whined, getting right to the heart of the matter. “What about the Super Sour Cookies nug-run shatter I wanted? The sweet sativa blast that tastes like candy?”

“Nada, but no worries. We can meet up with them at Hash District HQ or Cloudy Fridays.

“Bet. Get me outta here, good buddy.”

A hand shot out of the rubble. “NOW!” I yelled, and Fritz engaged thrusters. We rocketed forward along the mangled bridge.

“SEIZE THEM!” screamed Trump as Manafort clawed their way out of the debris. Rushing towards us, we were set upon by Trump’s Dirty Dozen. The Dark Cabinet stood between us and the exit. Attorney General Jeff Sessions swung his laser scythe lazily in my direction, sparks flying.

“Hold,” he said quietly, his cybernetic eye gathering combat data for analysis. Mnuchin chortled, juggling tiny, glittering blades and backflipping in place in his eagerness to join the fray. Mattis spun his morningstar-tail menacingly.

“Why?” I asked the frightful cadre. “What has he offered you?”

“He’s made us Great!” shrieked Kellyanne Conway, showing off her supple, leathery bat wings. “He’s going to make America Great again!” The nightmares tittered in agreement.

“You’re too heavy to fly like this, you donut-munching lardass,” Fritz whispered to me.

“He’ll make you Great, too, GT!”

“There’s only one thing we can do then,” I said resolutely, setting my jaw. “WE’RE ALREADY PRETTY GREAT, I GUESS!” we yelled in unison, high-fiving as an electric guitar blared in triumph over a series of electronic whirrs and clicks. Stock images of us played out the ultimate interface of man and machine-

“I’m gonna drink the blood right from his heart!” cawed DeVos as she lunged at us. Sessions’ scythe held her back.

“It is customary to wait until the Montage is complete,” the Attorney General told her reproachfully.

“Dammit, Betsy, you’re a total embarrassment. Don’t you know anything?” chided the Dino-Spicer, whose massive, deadly incisors compensated for his stubby, useless arms.

“Sorry, I don’t have any experience.”

“None of us do! That’s not an excuse!”

“Ahem,” we said, and a light flashed in our eye. “I have to cut y’all short.” In one sweep, our Chronic Blade cut through the remaining supports holding the gangway up. As the misbegotten creatures that sold their souls to Trump fell, claiming the inevitable end of their Faustian Bargains, Robo-GT flew skyward, dodging random pieces of the collapsing facility like Asteroids as we made our Escape from Mar-A-Lago!

Hey, GT.

Yeah, buddy?

What’s the Law say about writing a story where like, say, debris crushes a sitting President?

Don’t be paranoid, buddy. It’s not like the President reads everything that everyone writes about him…Ok, look. First, I can’t be arsed to look it up. Second, if people don’t understand that a story full of robot dicks and vat grown pig people, playing with existing tropes, should be taken lightly then this country is in a helluva lot more trouble than I thought. Also, it was all a dream.

Oh, OK. Thanks, GT.

You’re welcome, Fritz.

Wake me up when we get to Silly Bees, alright?

You got it, buddy.

Godfather OG


A squad of TrumPigs shouted “Fake news! Fake news!” as the gallant robot knight flew away. Kellyanne Conway extended her batwings. “They’re getting away, Mr. President!” she Star-screamed.

“Leave them. Protect our Children,” Trump instructed. “We have what we wanted.” A tiny pig person waddled out from behind the President. It had a mess of wavy brown hair and wore thin, wire-framed glasses.

“EGADS, BABY!”

Duh duh duhhhhhhhh! To be continued?