This month’s theme:
Planet Trump

We laugh at Donald Trump when he says and does stupid things, so consequently we spend a lot of time laughing. But the fact is that he really is no laughing matter. If that man were actually elected president, what dreadful things could he do to the country and the world? What if his outlandish policies came to pass? And what might his legacy be?

Once you’ve read these, here’s some suggested reading:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Narcissistic_personality_disorder

“Walls Trump Borders”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Antonio and Selena sped up the highway in their white Jeep Grand Cherokee. They were almost to the border.

“Do you have our papers ready?” Antonio asked, anxious and with a furrowed brow. His knuckles gripped the steering wheel as if his muscles were hydraulics.

“¡Ay, caramba!” Selena cried out, and she waved a sheaf of papers at him in frustration. “They are still right here. You’ve asked me that every ten miles.”

“Sorry,” Antonio grumbled. “I’m nervous. I just want to get across the border. More than anything.”

She reached out with her left hand and squeezed his leg, smiling. “I know, cariño,” she said. “Don’t worry. They’ll let us through. They have to.”

Antonio didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He was too afraid of what he might say—that they might not let them cross the border, and what then? Were they to turn back and stay on this side of the border?

Of course, it was as if Selena knew what he was thinking. “I can’t imagine being denied passage. It would destroy us.”

Antonio, fuming, slapped an angry hand on the wheel. “Ever since President Trump started with his wall-building, everything has changed.”

And just then, as the Jeep crested a hill, Antonio saw the wall. It loomed high, miles ahead of them to the north, towering as high as a fifty-story building, but stretching east to west across the land. Every time Antonio had seen the wall on television, he was stunned by its size. Seeing it in person was even more foreboding.

“It’s incredible,” Selena said, and it wasn’t a compliment.

Traffic slowed as the border crossing far ahead bottlenecked everything. Within minutes, they were creeping along, one car length at a time. It was going to take a while.

*   *   *

Their turn came many hours later. The border guard approached as Antonio rolled down the driver’s window. The guard wore American flags on each shoulder that seemed overly large for the uniform, like patches meant for a linebacker but sewn onto a uniform for a child.

“Engine off, sir,” the guard said. He had pins across his chest indicating the United States Army, the Border Patrol, the State National Guard, and the New Republican Party.

Antonio shut it down.

“Papers, sir,” the guard demanded.

Selena handed the stack of papers and their passports to Antonio, who relayed them to the guard. The guard flipped through them, reading over them. “Authorizations from the all the right politicians,” the guard finally said. “Vouchers for your character. Looks good so far. I’ll run you through the computers and, if there are no problems, you’ll go through.”

“Thank you, sir,” Antonio said with the first smile he’d had through the whole trip.

The guard went back to his booth and began keying on a computer.

“We’re going to make it!” Selena said. “You heard him. There is nothing wrong with our paperwork.”

“There can’t be anything for them to find in the computers,” Antonio said, but he felt nervous anyway. “Can there?”

After a few minutes, the guard left the booth and, with a stern look on his face, marched back to the Jeep. He handed the papers back through the window but held a new sheet of paper in his other hand.

“There’s a discrepancy,” he said. “We’ve found something that isn’t in the paperwork. We’re required to give you the opportunity to explain this, in case there’s something wrong on our end.”

Antonio felt his skin crawl. What could the man be talking about? Everything was in order! Nothing was wrong! Their entire lives were clean, without a single legal infraction, clean and consistent work histories, and plenty of volunteerism. Neither his no Selena’s character could be in question.

The guard looked at the paper in his other hand and said, “Tell me about the afternoon of this past June ninth.”

Antonio stared, feeling the blankness on his face. That was just three months ago.

“What is he talking about?” Selena asked, her voice quavering.

“Right in your home city,” the guard prompted. “Downtown, in front of city hall. Two forty-three in the afternoon.”

Antonio’s mind raced. What was it? He felt Selena grab his hand, felt her nails digging into his skin.

“It was this very vehicle,” the guard said, gesturing at the Jeep they were in. He was clearly getting annoyed.

“I… I don’t know,” Antonio said.

The guard slapped his hands on the edge of the door and leaned in, glaring at Antonio, almost nose to nose. “Don’t give me that. You got a parking ticket with this Jeep. To make matters worse, you never paid it.”

“But I didn’t!” Antonio cried. “I’ve never gotten a parking ticket in my entire life!”

“The computers say otherwise.”

City hall, last June? Now he remembered: He’d paid the excise tax on the Jeep. It was the only time he ever went to city hall. But he’d gotten no ticket. “Sir, please,” he said, “perhaps I got a ticket that blew off my windshield. I can promise you I did not ever see a ticket.”

“We hear that a lot,” the guard said. “But it won’t do you any good. You’re a criminal, and as far as we’re concerned, you might well do something worse—robbery, rape, murder. We have no way of knowing. As such, you are hereby barred from entry into the state of Maryland. Pay the ticket, then wait six months and try again.”

And with that, the guard turned and pointed, directing them to a turnaround to head back.

“What do we do?” Selena said, crying now that they were alone, as Antonio whirled the Jeep around and headed back the way they had come. As if mocking them, a big road sign said WELCOME TO VIRGINIA.

“We pay this alleged ticket,” Antonio said through gritted teeth. “But we don’t wait six months to try to get into Maryland again.”

“We can’t stay in Virginia!” Selena cried. “I can’t take another day here.”

“I know—e’ll try the border wall at West Virginia,” Antonio said with resolve. “I hear that state is more lenient. Then maybe we can get through the border wall into Pennsylvania. If we can just get through a wall into a liberal state… life will be better.”

“Why?” Selena screamed. “Why did they have to build the walls?”

“It started with President Tump’s Mexico wall,” Antonio said. “And then when Canada wouldn’t make the deal he wanted, he put one up there. Then the conservative states began walling their borders to keep… undesirables… out, and then it grew from there. Don’t you know how it happened?”

“I know,” she said, pouting, tears streaming down her face. “I just can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it.”

They headed south in silence, Antonio looking for the first ramp to head west.

“Government Trumps Religion”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Matthew Armstrong opened his door and was not surprised to see an immigration officer standing there. Behind the woman were two armed guards.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, as innocently as he could manage. He was ready for this. He’d taken care of the problem.

“I’m Agent Ruth Graham,” the woman said. She was a tiny thing, but she was decked out in what looked like her Sunday best, with a knee-length skirt and a blouse that covered her from neck to wrists. She held something small and black in her hand. “We received a tip to investigate you, Mr. Armstrong.”

“For what?”

“Let us in, Mr. Armstrong. Don’t make this difficult.”

Her stern voice actually frightened him, and probably would have even if the two guards hadn’t moved their hands to their sidearms.

“Of course,” Matthew said, opening the door wide. “Please come in.”

He led them past the big print of The Last Supper in the foyer and into the living room, where a doll-sized Jesus on a crucifix was displayed prominently on one wall. He offered them seats; she sat on the couch with Matthew, but the guards stood on opposite sides of the room. At least they weren’t still gripping the butts of their guns.

Agent Graham set her tablet on the coffee table, next to Matthew’s Holy Bible. She picked it up and briefly leafed through it. Bobby waited in patient silence as she did, trying to ascertain just what the black thing was in her other hand. It looked roundish and small. No idea.

Graham finally she set the book down. “Your Bible was nicely placed,” she said.

“I was reading it when you arrived,” he said.

“Of course you were. Remove your shirt, Mr. Armstrong.”

He’d expected this, but he feigned surprise. “Why on God’s green Earth would you ask me to do that?”

She sighed. “Mr. Armstrong, these guards are authorized to use lethal force if you fail to comply with this immigration investigation.”

Their hands were back on their weapons. Matthew nodded and stood, peeling his shirt up over his head. It left him bare and exposed, and he continued to look surprised and confused as Graham stood and moved to him, squinting as she studied his chest.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Our tipster said that there is proof on your chest that you are not a Christian, Mr. Armstrong.”

“That is incorrect,” he said. “I can answer anything about our Christian faith, Agent Graham. Ask me anything.”

“Secret Muslims pose as Christians all the time, Mr. Armstrong. They can quote the Bible better than most Christians.”

It was all Matthew could do to not blurt out that that wasn’t surprising, since most non-Christians seemed to know the Bible better than most Christians. But he didn’t want to be shot dead in his living room. The investigation was almost over; he just had to ride it out.

“I am not a Muslim,” he finally said. “I am very much a Christian, as is required by law. I don’t know how else to prove it to you. You can talk to my minister if you’d like.”

“We already have. Now, you are quite right, Mr. Armstrong: The law does require that all citizens be Christian. Those who aren’t are stripped of citizenship and deported.”

“Good thing I’m a Christian, then,” Matthew said. “I still don’t understand why you wanted my shirt off.” He knew, of course, but he had to keep up his confused demeanor.

“Our tipster said that you had a tattoo,” she said, studying his chest again. “This tattoo indicated that you weren’t Christian. Apparently you got a bit drunk several weeks ago and then bragged about it and showed it off. This alarmed citizen reported you.”

“That alarmed citizen had the wrong guy,” Matthew said with a warm smile. It was all over; just coasting through the final minute or so of this interview, and then they’d be out of his house and he’d be free again.

She smirked at him and, without a word, held up the small black item in her hand. It was about the size and shape of a small apple, and when she flipped a switch on the side a luminescent glow emitted from a dark window on one side of it. She held it up to his chest and began to scan his body with the glow—and when he looked down, he saw it.

It was the atheist symbol—the broken model of an atom with the capital “A” within. He’d had it tattooed, just as she’d said, but after sobering up and realizing that that nosy bastard in the bar had heard him bragging, he’d had it removed. Or so he’d thought.

“Tattoo removal always leaves residue,” Graham sneered. “You can’t see it with the naked eye, but we can with one of these. Guards!”

They were on him in a flash, grabbing his arms. Matthew knew there was nothing he could do.

“I was drunk!” he cried. “I didn’t know what I was doing! I fixed it as soon as I was sober!”

“Lying atheist,” Graham spat at him. “Worse even than those disgusting Muslims. At least they believe in God, however twisted their view is.”

The jig was up, and Matthew knew his life was changing forever. “We have no choice, Agent. We’re supposed to have the freedom to our religious views, but since President Trump was elected, he changed everything.”

“Yes, he did, thank the Lord,” she said. “The only way to keep this country Christian was to change the Constitution. The amendment that defined the term ‘religion’ as used in the First Amendment made all the difference—just as defining the terms ‘speech’ and ‘press’ allowed the state to silence troublemakers and control the liberal media. We are all free to observe whatever Christian denomination we choose, Mr. Armstrong. Islam is not a Christian denomination. Neither is Judaism. We got rid of those undesirables. And you atheists—there are always a few of you skulking about, hiding in the shadows like vermin. Well, we’ll be rid of one more of you rats today.”

She stepped back with a sadistic grin and barked, “Deport this atheist!”

The guards hauled him out. He wanted to scream and fight, but it was all over, and he knew it.

“Deals Trump Freedom”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“Good thing our new Constitution has straightened this country out,” Joe said.

“And thanks to our new friends that President Trump made so many great deals with, he’s getting inaugurated for his second term,” said his friend, Bob.

They were drinking together at a bar, celebrating the coming inauguration.

“Did you get your pocket copy of the new Constitution?” Joe asked.

“Sure did. Last week.” Bob reached into his jacket and pulled it out. It was a deep red with yellow writing.

“It’s a beautiful thing.”

“Yeah, it is, thanks to our new friends. How cool is it that Trump made those deals with them? He said he’d make great deals, and he did. He made America great again by making deals with the right people.”

“Shoulda had him in here long ago.”

Bob flipped open his copy of the Constitution. “It’s in both languages. Maybe I’ll learn a little of the new one. If we’re going to be one nation with our friends, I suppose it won’t hurt.”

“Da,” said Joe, and the two laughed, raised their glasses in a toast, and tossed back the vodka.

Bob’s red book lay on the bar as they drank. Hanging on the wall above them was the new flag.

“Flag’ll take some getting used to, though,” Joe said.

There were thirteen stripes of alternating blue and white. In the top left was a red field, within which was a yellow hammer and sickle. The book on the bar, in English and Russian, read SOVIET STATES OF AMERICA.

“Megalomania + Power Trumps Everything”
Dystopian
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“You’re gonna love this, I can tell you,” President Trump said to the military aide that he’d summoned to the Oval office. “It’s gonna be huge.”

Trump sat behind the big desk. The aide stood before the desk, holding the black bag, silent. A small antenna protruded from the bag.

“So you know I’ve replaced the Joint Chiefs,” Trump said. “I mean, I love the Joint Chiefs, I really do. But I had to replace them. They were saying things, you know, about not being willing to follow my orders. I don’t have patience for that, believe me. I said, you don’t wanna do what I tell you? Well, you’re fired!”

The aide stood, silent, waiting.

“I replaced the Secretary of Defense, too, believe me,” Trump said, gleeful, in all his hair glory. “Traitorous Tom Bergman! That’s his new nickname. Traitorous Tom!”

The aide nodded. He looked nervous.

“And your four buddies from the other branches, replaced them too,” Trump said. “Believe me, they’re ready to serve me without question. So you’re the last one. And here you are. Football in hand, and you know I have the biscuit. So my question to you is whether you’re ready to follow my orders. You’ve got Yankee White clearance, so… you want to keep it?”

“Yes, sir,” the aide said. “I serve at your pleasure. Mr. President.”

“All right!” Trump said, clapping his hands. “Then bring that football over here. Let’s launch some nuclear weapons. We haven’t done this since we blew up the Japs, back when this country was great. So let’s make America great again.”

The aide stepped forward and set the bag down on the desk. “Since this will be a historic event, Mr. President, might I ask why exactly you’re launching nuclear weapons?”

“Because I can,” Trump said with a chuckle. “I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve always wanted to do this. The world will take me seriously now, believe me.”

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.