CSI: American Carnage (Sunday, February 16, 2020)
WASHINGTON – Donald leans back and cogitates in the Executive Lounge, trying to remember what he had thought of earlier in the morning, right after the Lou Dobbs replay. He grabs a Chicken McGriddle that’s fallen on the floor and bounced beneath the recliner with a splat. He takes a bite. Part of the McGriddle dribbles onto his wrapper. Shit! Donald says, wiping furiously with a used Dude Wipe left behind by Jordan. The remote falls on the floor. Donald reaches down under the recliner, patting around. His hand gets stuck in something sticky and then something bites his finger. Fuck! Donald yanks it out and looks. No blood; nothing to see. There is a scurrying sound receding into the back room, toward the waste pile. Someone knocks at the door. Donald cinches his wrapper. Come, he says. The door opens and Mike wiggles in on his belly. Sire, Mike says. I bring you greetings from all the subjects in the western territories. The NATO vassal Stoltenberg sends high praise and your collections team bears his tribute outside on a hand truck. Shall they bring it in? Donald says, No. Tell them to drop it with Joey’s people. Mike shouts over his shoulder, Sub-basement C. He turns back to Donald and wiggles toward the slippered toe for the cleansing ritual. Donald offers his foot and Mike takes the pus-covered large toe in his mouth in an orgy of sucking. Donald says, Swallow and rise. Mike scrambles to his feet. Oh, Magnificence, he says, it is always an honor to swallow your juices in their complete purity! The rich odor fills the air and sanctifies all those privileged to smell it! I bring you their congratulations and their unfettered desire to bask continuously in your aura and in your odor. The Fake News™ and the vastly nasty scum who perpetrate the Fake News™, have at last recognized the divinity of your presence, much like POTUS Shield with their laying on of hands, their recognition of your divine light made manifest so many times. Donald smiles. Continue, he says. You please us. Mike says, Oh your Blessed Highness, it is the filthy and failing New York Times seeking to resurrect its fortunes. Donald says, Continue. Mike says, The Times says that Emerson believes you are immortal, they cannot defeat you. They say, When you strike at a king you must kill him. But you cannot be killed. You cannot be defeated, as Emerson wrote. Donald smiles again. He says, You’re not talking about Emerson the vacuum-cleaner guy. He’s a suck up. But nice. I always liked him and I think he likes me, I’m pretty sure he likes me, even though he’s dead. It’s the vacuum-cleaner guy, right? Mike says, I don’t think so, Sire. This is Emerson the teevee futurist guy and writer from Concord, New Hampshire, where he is world famous and shot around the world. Donald says, Yeah, I thought so. He is doing very well, having a great success because he recognizes the phony nature of the scum. The Times is weak and failing and are trying to ride on my coattails which we always knew they would have to do. They are realists. Mike says, Yes, Highness, as real as your Royal Presence. – Sunday, February 16, 2020