The Flying Bronco, #Election2020
It’s beautiful outside. Mostly blue skies, but enough tufts of white to add shape and texture to the skyscape. Not a bird insight — other than the sharply curved nose of a fighter jet, as it pokes through the clouds, moving more slowly than one might expect. As the USAF insignia comes into view, the voice of a female newscaster is heard:
“President Trump is piloting the aircraft…his son, Donald Jr., is believed to be on board, although it is unclear whether he was aware his father intended to fly the plane. There’s no indication that President Trump knows how to operate this aircraft, and the Air Force has put follow planes in the air at a distance as they try to figure out…”
The nose dips sharply, before turning left. The plane nosedives for a moment, then climbs. One can picture Don Jr. rolling around inside the craft (seatbelts are for pussies!), confused, wondering if this is really happening, barely expelling weak half-utterances…”Dad?” “Dad, come on.”
Over fleeting pre-flight footage of President Trump striding toward the tarmac with a small entourage, the report continues: “Pressure has been mounting on the President to concede…”
Indeed, in the wake of his failed bid for reelection, this pathetic lummox has exhausted all efforts to claim he was robbed instead of ousted. Today’s “flight of fancy” presents a clear sign that the man has taken leave of his senses in a manner that leaves no room for spin from even that most shameless of ghouls, Press Secretary Kayleigh McEnany. If this commentary lacks objectivity, that’s because it’s coming directly from me instead of the reporter.
This is also the part of the story where I explain that I’m not watching this scene on TV; I’m witnessing it with my own eyes.
In the widest view, looking out, I can see the vast blue sky, the fighter jet darting in between the clouds. I’m hoping it will just crash, and “end this national nightmare,” but there’s nothing except wide open skies for miles. The jet ducks behind the white tufts. Nothing. And then…
An object falls into view, looking like a child on a slide, until a parachute opens. President Trump sails gracefully downward toward an enormous body of water.
Land is now in sight, covered in snow, and an airport? No, a military base.
The female anchor continues her play-by-play, commenting on the president’s strange impromptu flight and his ejection, as he crumples into the water, which must be very cold. Military crew appear on a snow swept deck at sea level, speaking a foreign language and preparing to help President Trump to safety.
Upon hoisting him onto the deck, they realize Trump is naked, save for the entanglements of his parachute.
I am on site, not far from where he is deposited, greeted by the sight of the fallen leader from behind. It’s preferable to the front view, but it’s no honor. He’s wide and squat, somewhat shorter than I’d imagined. And he has a strange t-shaped scar on the small of his back; it’s messy, perhaps from a botched operation years ago. His hair remains attached to his head, though it’s wet, thin and flat.
Trump is resolute, if a bit dazed, as he walks past me, still naked. He’s led down a hallway to a dim, dank area, all steel shelves and tables. He is left to wait. Trump and I are the only ones in the room. He doesn’t ask for a towel, and I don’t offer one. But he does mumble a few things, seeming vaguely disgruntled.
The news anchor shares a sound byte from McEnany: “We’re buoyed by the good news that President Trump completed his emergency mission to the Soviet Union, and once again he’s shown that he is willing to do what his competitors and naysayers are unable to do, such as fly a jet fighter to pick up the Trump Vaccine from our counterparts at Operation Warp Speed at Pfizer in Russia. We’re just waiting for former Vice President Biden to stop claiming victory in this fraudulent election, and then we’ll be able to distribute the vaccine and put an end to the Covid hoax.”
My heart sinks a bit. Well, a lot. I look at Trump, who considers me briefly. “I had nothing to do with the Holocaust, you know,” he says a bit defiantly. Despite the fact that he was born a year after the conclusion of WWII, I don’t believe him. He examines a dusty vending machine. He turns to me, gesturing to his nakedness, and his lack of currency. I show him that I have some, and walk to the vending machine to get myself a 100 Grand Bar.
McEnany’s voice drones on: “Once President Trump is given a clean bill of health, he will be returned safely to Washington, where he can resume his rallies in North Dakota, Wisconsin and Alaska, where his landslide victory in the state was…” Her voice drones on, dissipating into a thin wave of tinnitus.
I open my eyes. My first thought is, “What about Don Jr. and the fighter jet? Did it go down? Did he escape?” My second thought is, “It doesn’t really matter, because…well, it’s Don Jr.”
It takes another moment for me to realize this has been a dream. None of this has actually happened. Nor could it ever, ever happen, because…well, because I’m not in Russia. I’m in Iowa.
