A Wasteland President, Part 9

Trump was getting choked so hard he couldn’t see straight. Nothing made sense except the pulsating green fist assailing his air passages. Trump flailed and spat, but to no avail. The only thing that saved him was the sound of one of the cow-faced cats scurrying in a corner near the entrance.

“Huh?” the thing said, looking completely terrified. It dropped Donald on his bum, fleeing into the shadows with preternatural speed.

“Damn. That thing sure was ugly. At least it’s gone now.”

So, the Bannon orcs were terrified of this new breed of cat. Interesting.

Donald approached the counter, and a disheveled man stood up from behind it.

“Yea. Can I take your order?” he asked. He rubbed his eyes hoping to rub the fatigue away.

Donald returned to the motel around sunrise with an armful of chicken tacos. “Bet Barack will like these. Michelle too…me too.”

As he opened the door and set the tacos down noisily, both the Obamas stirred. Donald hated to admit it, but he was starting to feel some affection for them.

“Wake up! I have tacos!”

There wasn’t a respond for approximately thirty seconds.

“Dammit, Donald! It’s 5 in the morning!”

“Yea, I know. You’re gonna need your protein!”

The trio quickly ate and piled into the car. Barack filled the tank with gas from a dirt-encrusted canister, and hopped into the passenger seat.

Michelle turned the key in the ignition, and pealed out of the parking lot.

“Where we headin’?”

“To the FBI headquarters in DC. Remember?” Michelle said. “Maybe we should write it down for you or something.” There was no snark in her voice. Just a thought.


“Just sit back, Donald. Enjoy the ride. We’re gonna make some stops along the way. You might want to pay attention.”

There was definitely snark in Barack’s voice. He’d file that info away for later.

A Wasteland President, Part 8

A Wasteland President, Part 10




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