DONALD TRUMP AMERICA JONES, Part 1
Kevin Shamel was kind enough to send over a piece of fiction about the dystopian Conservative-vs-Liberal hellscape that will soon wash over America with Donald Trump at the helm. We here at Bizarro Central liked the story so much that we’re presenting it all this week in four installments! We hope that Kevin Shamel’s weird fiction helps us get through yet another of the President’s “Worst Week Ever”s.
DONALD TRUMP AMERICA JONES, by Kevin Shamel
“Wow. Another one of those random pentagram contrail groupings today.” I pointed to the brightening sky.
“Shut up, Shacklemate.”
“Okay, but it’s just weird how that happens.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Jeff shoved scrambled eggs into his mouth. He didn’t really chew them. He never did. I noticed this the first day I ate with him. He just piled them in and swallowed. It creeped me out.
I watched the contrails spread, on their way to becoming clouds. I have to admit, I marveled at how smart people were to make clouds. But more so that several times a month, multiple planes had to be flying the same patterns to make those pentagrams. And the circles. That was the part that made me wonder the most. Why was a plane flying in a circle, right at the perfect time and place to surround the star? My eggs were cold. I hate eggs, anyway. I slid them to Jeff.
He ate them without thanks. As usual. I pulled a few nuts from my pocket. Anna had given them to me. Anna…
“WORK TIME, HAPPY FARMERS! WASN’T THAT THE BEST BREAKFAST? WE HAVE THIS GUY, AND HE MAKES THE BEST BREAKFAST. I MEAN, REALLY. IT’S THE BEST. I KNOW YOU LIKED IT. IT WAS THE BEST FUEL FOR YOUR WORK DAY. TIME TO MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN SOME MORE! LIKE, REALLY, EVERY DAY AMERICA SHOULD BE BETTER THAN IT WAS THE DAY BEFORE. THAT’S YOUR JOB. SO GET TO WORK.”
We all stood and shuffled away from the picnic tables.
I saw that most people were smiling. I smiled, too. Because Trump’s voice in the morning was a good, happy thing. It was a motivating thing. Even if it was just recordings blasted through mega-speakers placed every few feet around the farm. It was still Trump’s actual voice. And it made us smile. Except Jeff. Him and a few of the other older workers. They sneered and looked conspiratorially at each other. There were only a few of them, but they really hated Trump. And that’s why they were on the farm.
I loved Trump. I wasn’t at the farm for any big deal, really. Only a two-year sentence. I’d just been caught with objectionable fiction. Really tame stuff, anyway. Not so subversive. It was just an old bizarro fiction novella that had been floating around my dorm. My RA found it when I stupidly left it hidden only between my mattress and box spring. Like an idiot.
Jeff and I passed by Anna’s place on the way to our rows.
She wasn’t there, but I thought I could smell her lingering essence oils. She made all sorts of things out of plants that grew at the edge of the farm. And grew things like peanuts and potatoes and stuff. Plus, she was really beautiful and nice. She was the only person on the farm to call me by my real name. I was sort of in love with her. But she was older. And she hated Trump. I never talked to her about it. It was weird, because she wasn’t all bitter like Jeff. But it was obvious she didn’t like Trump one bit. That was the only uncool thing about her.
We were nearly at our rows when Darik, the Grower, stopped us. Well, stopped Jeff.
He nodded to me. “Shacklemate.”
I raised my hand in a slight wave.
Darik pronounced his name, (Dah-Rick), because his parents were foreign. But not the bad kind of foreign. He wasn’t at the farm for being an immigrant. He’d been caught having sex with one. And a Middle Eastern one, at that. A suspected Jihadist named Ahkmed, of course. He was in for life. But good behavior, and likely lewd behavior that would get the guards put in as farmers, had allowed him to rise from regular worker to the position of Grower. This was his second year. No one liked Darik. But we all had to pretend like we did, or we ended up being hounded by him like Jeff.
“Hey, Jeff. I wanted to ask you about that Hi-Nite fertilizer spill last week. I mean, how exactly did that container—opened container—get balanced so precariously on the edge of that tractor tire and why didn’t you pay any attention to what may be on the tractor before you decided to move that tractor? And who said you could move it, anyway? Why were the keys in it? What were you up, to, Jeff? And who do you think is going to pay for all that spilled product? Me? I can tell you right now, Jeff, not me.”
Jeff just glared at Darik.
“Well, it’ll be you one way or another, Jeff. Mark my words. You’ll pay. For everything, Jeff. Because dirt is dirt. It’s like, it can’t be all the stuff that makes it all fractally and nano-multi-mega-quarked, right? Because, well, it’s like my great-great grandma from the Old World used to say, ‘Dirt isn’t soup.’ And she was alive when dirt was soup. And when Hitler was alive. Who was bad. Really, really bad. Right? Know what I’m sayin’, Jeff?”
Darik said, “Look, it’s all because of chaos theory. Look it up.” He slapped Jeff on the back and walked away.
I said, “I’m gonna look that up.”
“Shut the fuck up, Shacklemate,” Jeff said.
It only took me ten minutes to get a pretty bad sticker in my finger. My gloves weren’t more than duct-taped tatters of fabric, and even the tape was wearing thin. I pulled out the burr and tossed it in the bucket. Even those were useful.
Jeff pretended not to notice.
I sat and looked at the sky for a moment. The clouds were mostly spread out, but I could still see the pattern.
“Maybe it’s the same pilot.”
Jeff didn’t answer.
“I mean, it’s gotta be. It can’t be every pilot who gets confused right there and flies in a circle.” I stood up and got back to pruning.
Jeff stopped working and looked at me. “Are you for fuckin’ real?”
“Come the fuck on, Dude. Those are fucking chemtrails. They’re laid out like that for both magickal and meteorological reasons. The winds blow east from there, and the pentagram is definitely by design. You fucking moron.” He went back to work.
I stood staring at him for a while. First, he always used the term, “dude”. Like all those old people did. Not, “supporter” or even, “cov”. Dude. Like an old snowflake. Secondly, he still called contrails, “chemtrails”, though everyone knew that it was a weird old Liberal idea that the government was somehow doing something with a natural phenomenon for nefarious reasons.
Planes made contrails. Contrails made clouds.
We worked on a farm! How could the natural cycle of rain not make a single difference in the ridiculous chemtrail argument? And magic wasn’t even real. Again, for the ninety-nine billionth time, I wished I was chained to someone else.
“IT’S TIME TO EAT LUNCH, FARMERS! COME GET YOUR VITTLES AND GRITS. IT’S GOOD FOR YOU. I’LL TELL YOU, IT’S REALLY GOOD FOR YOU. SO GOOD FOR YOU. THE BEST. IT’S THE BEST LUNCH. SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE SAID THAT. WE HAVE THIS GUY, AND HE MAKES THE BEST LUNCH. REALLY. IT’S THE BEST LUNCH. LUNCHTIME!”
Darik stopped us as we plodded toward the command center for our lunch.
“Shacklemate,” he nodded.
Darik walked around Jeff, smirking. He looked him up and down. “Guess who drew compost duty, Jeff?”
“Yep, you did. Again. Weird how that always works out. Well, no lunch for you. Get to it.” Darik looked to me. “Sorry, Shacklemate.” He wasn’t.
“I don’t mind,” I said. I did.
Darik started to walk off, but he stopped and looked at us. “This is for America, you two. You work for America. And America is like a fistful…wait, wait. A shovelful of pine needles in your underwear.” He held up his hand and said, “Wait a second, wait. Uh… at least they might stab your crabs, right? And that’s natural. And a good thing, right?” He nodded sagely. “Think about it.”
Darik walked toward the command center.
“Fucking fascist,” Jeff said.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
“Shut the fuck up, Shacklemate.” Jeff trudged off toward the compost heap.
I had to. Our ankles were shackled together with woven Kevlar and carbon nano-tube chain. They were unbreakable. We were shacklemates. And that’s all Jeff had called me since I arrived. Six feet of heavy cord bound our lives together. I was not at all looking forward to the next year and four months. Especially the next few hours, while I shoveled rotting food into wheelbarrows and carted it to the other side of the farm. Especially listening to Jeff’s tirades the whole time. Because there would be tirades.
“…And if there wasn’t a camera every ten fuckin’ feet, I would definitely show him pine needles in his crotch.”
I just shoveled. It was no good to argue with him when he was going off about Darik. I basically agreed with everything he said about him, anyway.
“He’s just another dickhead I wish was in L.A. when North Korea got one off.”
I stopped shoveling.
Here’s where I had to speak. “Jeff. L.A. was destroyed when those five nuclear reactors had simultaneous meltdowns after that big earthquake that made all of Southern California uninhabitable. There was no bomb.”
Jeff stuck his shovel in the black gunk, splattering what looked like pickle pieces on my leg. “Look, Shacklemate. I’ve had enough idiocy for the day. I don’t want to hear any of your doublespeak and alternate history today. There damned sure was a Second Korean War. It lasted about half an hour, but it happened. And that’s why there’s no North Korea. I’m tired of Darik’s nonsense. I’m tired of this fucking farm. But mostly I’m tired of you blabbering idiocy at me.”
“Idiocy?! Really? You know, I saw a man arrested once who was saying exactly the same sort of bullshit that you’re always spouting. And he looked good. Especially for an older person. New suit, hair correct, great teeth, perfect tan… but standing in the street screaming about North Korea until the cops came and took him away. I’d never heard such lunacy. It was shocking. Then I ended up here. And got stuck to you. And all I hear from you and all the workers your age is the same old fucked-up conspiracy theories. North Korea hasn’t existed since the Korean War. In the freakin’ 1950’s, Jeff. You’re the idiot!”
Jeff reached down, grabbed our cord, and pulled me off my feet.
I landed in the compost muck. Some got in my mouth.
Jeff was suddenly on top of me, pinning me down, squishing me through stinking layers of rotted food and feces. “I’ve had enough of this shit from you.” He shoved me deeper. I felt the compost seeping into my shorts and under my t-shirt.
He snarled in my face like some sort of freakin’ animal. “You’re so fucking stupid. So brain-dead. You’re a robot, man. A drone of the enemy. I don’t know what totally stupid fucking thing you did to arrive here, and I don’t care. But you’re a stinking Trump Doll, and I don’t like you. So, shut. The fuck. UP.” He got off me.
I sat up, wiping the sticky goop off my face and neck. “I don’t know how you can be so uptight, working on a pot farm,” I said.
Jeff threw his hands in the air. “This isn’t a fucking pot farm!”
I dug some gross stuff out of my ear. “Well, it certainly is. I don’t know where you think you’ve been for the past three years, but you’re a pot farmer, Jeff. You live the life. Growing marijuana in the sun all day, pruning the burrs, and injecting the stalks. And we get free weed, Jeff! Every single day. You live a good life, for being an Anti-Fa Terrorist. But you have to rant and rave about Darik, and Trump, and all your insane conspiracy theories, eat eggs without chewing, and fart all night. You’re just an angry old man.”
Jeff came close again, with his hands in fists. I cringed.
“We don’t grow weed, you fucking tool!” He gestured to the fields. “That’s not marijuana. I used to smoke weed. I used to grow weed. Real weed. Actual marijuana. This isn’t it. The fact that you even think those pills they dole out is pot is one of the very reasons that I cannot stand being here. It’s one of the very things that makes America that shovelful of pine needles. We’re not growing weed, you stupid little kid.”
I just sat there. I couldn’t believe it. He was literally insane. “Wow, Jeff. Maybe you should ask for more weed tonight. You’ve gone completely Hillary.”
“Shacklemate! Marijuana does not have burrs! You don’t inject its stalks. It doesn’t grow pods filled with sap. The shit we grow is some GMO amphetamine/ketamine/whatever the fuck cocktail. They dry that sap into a powder and make it into pills to drug the whole country into a herd of zombie supporter maniacs. Like you. After the Marijuana Anti-Rebellion failed, real weed was replaced with this mind-control worker-bee bullshit. So fuck off, you dumb little twat. And seriously, shut the fuck up.”