by Robert Chan
A homeless drunk tottering along the cracked, garbage-strewn sidewalk, stops, unzips, and turns toward a dilapidated loft building. Deeming the place unworthy of his pee, he zips up and lurches down the street, almost bumping into me. I must’ve screwed up the directions to end up in this seediest, most crime-ridden of all Queens neighborhoods.
Just to be sure, I knock on a rusty, graffiti-covered door. It opens with a scrotum-tightening screech. A woman, wearing a MAGA hat, says, “Welcome to the Donald J. Trump Presidential Library. Would you like a tour?” She smiles, revealing teeth like an accident in a graveyard.
Words frozen in my throat, I nod and follow her inside, as she begins her spiel.
“The original plans called for a colossal monument to Mr. Trump’s exquisite taste—marble floors, gold electroplated walls, silver plated Corinthian columns, and frescoed ceilings showing God reaching out to touch a naked muscular Mr. Trump. But when Don Junior fled to an extradition-free locale with the contributed funds, Mary Trump, the president’s closest solvent relative domiciled within the jurisdiction, completed the project on a more modest scale.
“I’d love to show you all the wonderful objects here, but due to mold contamination, the EPA has limited visits to twenty minutes. So, I’ve picked out four highlights from our collection.”
She pauses at a Plexiglas display case redolent of vinegar and formaldehyde.
“America’s Mayor left instructions that his corpse be cryogenically frozen and displayed in the atrium beside the president’s body. Unfortunately, we lacked the funds, so we scaled down to just his head and had it pickled rather than frozen. See, his head looks like its melting, just like in life. Note the authentic black streaks from the liquifying mascara he used as hair dye and the background photograph of the Four Seasons Landscaping parking lot, the Fantasy Island adult store and the crematorium, where he delivered one of his finest speeches. Lindsey Graham had asked to be displayed next to Mr. Trump, but the cryogenic apparatus, designed only for humans, rejected him due to his invertebrate DNA and lack of discernable gonads. Admittedly the exhibit is incomplete without Mr. Trump’s body, which is interred in Moscow’s Kuntsevo cemetery alongside those of other Soviet and Russian heroes such as Kim Philby and Ramon Mercader the assassin of Leon Trotsky.”
I follow her, avoiding the pools of fetid green liquid that has dripped from the ceiling.
“Here we have the scorecard for Mr. Trump’s record-breaking round at the Augusta National Golf Club, demonstrating not only the president’s golfing brilliance but also his mathematical genius. No other golfer in the world could score a 61 after double-or-triple-bogeying every hole.
“Now we come to one of Mr. Trump’s extra-long red ties still bearing hamburger grease stains. Deep-staters have referred to him as a short-fingered vulgarian and hinted at his Lilliputian sexual endowment, but when you combine the lengths of his fingers, sex organ and ties and average them, the result is almost within the range of normal.
“Finally, we arrive at our pièce de résistance. This huge case contains Mr. Trump’s covid-19 control program; his better, cheaper health care plan; the statute creating his signature $550 billion infrastructure fund; extensive evidence of the Democrats’ voter fraud; and the $50 billion sight draft from Mexico paying for the wall.”
“It’s empty,” I said.
“Not to the Republicans who visit.”
Robert N. Chan is a semi-retired litigator (Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in) and author of 10 published novels–see www.robertnchan.com. This piece was written for the IRP Writers’ Workshop expertly coordinated by Charles Troob and Leslie Bedford.