Madam President Kamala

Everyone gathers near the center of the universe—the nucleus of the Donnie Orange Parade. Donnie Tramp approaches the colossal crowd of spectators and feels energized by the hero worship radiating from the hearts of men and women enamored by the political role he has expertly adopted, that of courageous outsider.

Tramp starts his speech, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are a brave lot to all be gathered here today. To be gathered here, even when our enemies would very much like to destroy us. They would like to portray us as white supremacist fascists and demons, but they’re wrong.

"We are the brave ones willing to try our best to repair this broken system, to fix America—this country which I love as much as I love free speech, freedom, and having honest conversations with women and men who are not brainwashed sheep and who dare to offer me the truth, not just some sugarcoated fantasy or progressive, elitist distortion of reality.

“The intellectually corrupt hate the virtuous nonviolent representatives of a group, be they capitalists or socialists, more than the physically violent or murderous representatives of that group. Democratic socialists, anarchists, leftists, totalitarian national socialists, and neoliberals don’t want to impose tariffs on Chinese products because they tacitly approve of China’s Communist dictatorship. Tariffs and sanctions are temporary and necessary evils against totalitarian regimes.

"The socialists want a dictatorship in order to destroy the meager remnants of free-market capitalism for generations . . . But by destroying capitalism, they’ll also be destroying freedom; and it’s only a capitalist society that can truly tolerate political dissidents and minorities, while a socialist or communist country seldom does . . .”

“So are you straight, bisexual or gay?” a Republican gay man in the audience asks.

“Asexual, so none of the above. I’m not a lion-man; I’m a god-demon. Your personal guardian demon, in fact. I can tell you the truth; just be warned, the truth might hurt your feelings.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll give you a tour of my personal art gallery of paintings that depict pasts and futures in grotesquely extravagant detail.” Donnie’s words conjure reality as the endless void of nothingness turns into a hellish, phantasmagoric art gallery. “Many of your ilk died all over this one nation under God and all over the world. You know what I mean by ‘your ilk’—autistic socially challenged cretins and 'spiteful mutants' like you. You will die because you’re superfluous and nonessential. You’re lazy, ignorant, passive, stupid, self-defeating, cowardly, weak, impulsive…”

“How will I die?”

Donnie doesn’t answer Marcus’s self-absorbed question and goes off on a tangent. “You see, the world was running out of resources. Many didn’t want to think about Peak Oil or other ‘conspiracy theories’ or ‘pre-fabricated truths.’

"But authentic liberals, leftists, and even some conservatives, were intelligent enough to comprehend the inherent risks of indulging such denial and secretly harbored loathing of life and freedom. They decided the only way to deal with such collective hysteria would be to gradually eliminate it through surveillance, vilification, intimidation, and violence.

“Governments wanted to stifle all dissent threatening to the world view promulgated by the rich elites who ran your nations and big businesses. The elites were people with high IQ’s who made the most of themselves, both because of and in spite of the governments they were ruled by. They made the most of their gifts in life and ascended to the upper echelons of civilized society.

"Most of them were progressive cosmopolitans. They refused to scorn science and did not fear truth. They refused to seek shelter in the opiates of denial. They stood up for the truth no matter how much they may have dreaded being mocked, derided, or, even worse, killed for expressing at least some truths about what was happening in the world and to the planet.

“Politics is theater perpetuated to distract many humans (especially ones living in first-world and second-world nations) from the terrifying realities looming in the distance. Fascists are souls that repeatedly failed to learn from their mistakes. Perhaps they had fewer lifetimes and opportunities to improve spiritually and morally.

“Parts of the Left (the so-called anarchists and communists) reacted violently to what they perceived as the encroaching of fascism, nationalism and populism in the world. They used violence in an attempt to systematically intimidate potential and current fascists in power by indiscriminately attacking and resisting supporters of fascism. The predominant liberal message was that the next Hitler must be stopped at all costs.

“Some fascists began as insidious traitors and invidious wolves in pseudo-liberal clothing. Some championed freedom and peace and delivered their opposites. Although, of course, as long as they didn’t have political power and a significant number of strong supporters, they were incapable of assuming total control over the majority.”

“Am I being punished for all the bad things I’ve done in my life?” Marcus asks. “Maybe in past lives too?”

The diabolical angel, Donnie, looks up to the colossal domed ceiling of the mysterious art gallery and says, “You are being punished, and you should examine your mistakes more thoroughly. There is no reason why you cannot make more of an effort to become better. You are selfish because you want to be the hero when you’re not meant to play that role in this lifetime.”

“So what do I do with all the guilt I have?… The feeling that possesses me and tells me I should be burdened by guilt because of all of my flaws and mistakes.”

Donnie points to a Cubist painting of two vampires devouring each other’s throats, and clears his own throat to say, “Vampires are manifestations of our unresolved traumas and inhibitions."

Do you know about Nicolae—that dead Morantean vampire? He works here. Ceaușescu drives a bus that transports the souls of people who are technically still alive—they just happen to be visiting this realm as tourists.”

Marcus ceases to think about his mission and loses himself in this conversation with the demon Donnie. “So I’m just another tourist to you?”

“Yes, though you’d be rather remiss to believe you’re somehow better than the denizens of Hell. Sure, you’re here temporarily; yet we wouldn’t have invited you, if you didn’t earn it.”

Marcus remembers how he was the only one who walked towards the spaceship that had descended to earth in the form of a futuristic skyscraper. “They told me not to walk towards the building.”

Donnie says nothing and smiles. His face becomes solemn, and he beckons Marcus to follow him through the art gallery to look at some of the paintings on display.

As Marcus and Donnie continue walking through the vast art gallery, Marcus stops when he notices a painting that evokes a strange and familiar feeling—as if the infinite memories of untold numbers of years were drowned and forgotten in the ocean’s hidden depths, and only some vague reminder on the water’s surface could shed light on a mere fraction of one’s origins. The painting is of his mother and her sister when they were young.

Looking at the painting, Donnie assumes an exaggerated posture not entirely dissimilar to that of a caricatured fascist.

The demon, with pale decaying skin and animal hair beneath the angelic appearance that is no more than an illusion, seems incapable of resembling the romantic ideal of a fallen angel yearning for redemption.

Donnie comments on the painting, saying, “Considering neither your mother and aunt nor their parents were members of the Communist Party, the painting’s depiction of their communist uniforms—one seeming awkwardly loose and baggy, the other tight and suffocating—functions as an understated reminder of the stigma and persecution imposed by communism and collectivism.”

“Why are they dressed that way at the beach?” Marcus asks.

“They are at the Black Sea; communist bureaucrats punished them because their parents were never Communist Party members. Who cares—tell me about Donnie, the tiger, tell me about Maya, the spider. I need to learn about what has happened to them so far.”

“I think they’re doing fine, I hope—” Marcus clumsily rattles off one of his canned responses.

Donnie looks distracted as he momentarily glances at another painting and then proceeds to whisper in a language Marcus can neither recognize nor understand.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, this bizarre trance-like state is abruptly interrupted as Donnie starts to tell him about the demon Babau: “He always says he wants the next big cheese to be president—the star of the hour who follows the dictates of the Devil himself.”

“I hate politics,” Marcus says. “Why should I fight and risk my life when it’s not even a real war? I’d be willing to go to war if my government forced me to . . . yet look at what’s happening now. Chaos, civil war, increased tensions, violent attacks . . . I don’t want to fight. I don’t even know how to fight.”

Donnie laughs heartily, diabolically. “One of the reasons you are in Hell right now is because you have always been such a querulous coward. If you want to shield yourself from the cruelty and brutality of the world, then go ahead and try! If you want to protect yourself from politics (or not)… either way, you should try to improve your life, at least when you get back to Earth—your world…”

“It’s not my world at all. I don’t belong there!” Marcus cries.

“You can still make a difference: become the best that you can be, a lighthouse with the desire to sacrifice its life to improve the world, to create a true utopia.”

Marcus seems more anxious and agitated, so Donnie directs Marcus’s attention back to the painting of his mother and aunt when they were at the shore of the Black Sea in Morantea during the Communist era. “Close your eyes and take my hand,” Donnie commands.

Universes—of stars, galaxies, nebulae, worlds—encircle them at a dizzying pace. They emerge on the other side and find themselves on a beach just like the painting envisioned. Donnie and Marcus are at Neptun—a Morantean Black Sea resort. From the corner of his eye, Marcus catches a glimpse of his mother as a young girl, yet she runs away and he loses sight of her amongst the vast multitude.

He attempts to make sense of the random Morantean phrases he picks out from the electrifying chaos of voices. He overhears something about the month of August when a tidal wave flies above them forcing them to turn and watch it in awe as it soars in the distance. A man shouts, “Va veni spre noi.”

The tsunami begins to move backwards and quickly submerges everyone in its path. As Marcus drowns in the salt water of the Black Sea, he sees his mother.

....

“Well... Maybe this is not Hell, maybe this is the future. Rich and powerful elites will exploit certain advances in technology. They will exploit future scientific discoveries in genetics to grow their own army of eternally obedient servants and soldiers.”

Marcus suddenly observes a chimeric creature resembling a pterodactyl with the wings of a seraphim and the body of a monstrous rat. Marcus points to the demonic creature flying above them and asks, “What is that?”

“My demonic pet, Pazuzu. Pazuzu is the first demon that influenced Vlad.”

“The one who ruined my life.”

“Don’t blame him, “ Donnie says.“It’s your life to ruin or redeem . . . You can do better. The mermaids and sirens want to eradicate the bridge dwellers, the dropouts, the losers, the rebels. Watch out,” warns Donnie.

“Do you think they will attack me because I have a Pussean name?”

“Let’s just say that if they perceive you as being sympathetic to those they deem fascists, you’re in trouble.”

....

Dionissios and his brotherhood of progressive militants are walking into the vicinity of the incipient, putative Donnie Orange Parade. Protesters and counter-protesters are shouting competing slogans at each other.

“Vlad’s a socialist!”

“Fuck Pussea!”

“Anal is rape!”

“Donnie is a plump counterrevolutionary cretin!”

“Donnie is more respectful of women than Billy Klingon, the abuser, ever was!”

“Donnie is sexist, homophobic, and misogynist!”

Some snot-nosed practical joke artist hard at work. He’s shaking, shouting: “I hate the Pusseans—those slimy assholes! Don’t trust anyone with any Pussean ancestry.”

“I wish Marcus were here now; he might have something interesting and relevant to say,” Dionissios tells his fellow comrade Edgar.

Edgar smiles blankly.

“Nobody should get married,” an orange-haired activist shouts. “Throuples should be normalized. Love your sister, love your brother!”

“I want Marcus to join our martial commune,” Dionissios tells Edgar.

“I don’t; he’s weak and untrustworthy.”

“He has a lot of potential,” Dionissios says. “He could be even stronger than a lot of our guys if he really wanted to.”

“You’ve gotta be—”

Before Edgar can finish his sentence, an earth-shattering crash and explosion discomposes everyone with electroshocks of gut-wrenching fear and panic.

The fear is palpable like turpentine sap. Marcus is hurtled back into earthly reality and immediately feels the sharp sting of sea water through his nose and coughs out water onto the sidewalk. A crowd of people are still standing outside the “alien building.” He’s informed that there have been more explosions and bombardments.

Marcus stumbles upon a small, grassy oasis in the midst of the concrete food desert. He walks to a colorful mural. ‘Socialism is the theory; fascism is the praxis’ is graffitied on the boarded up Fish & Chips or whatever’s left of it.

Dionissios joins his racially and ethnically diverse group of revolutionaries (although, truth be told, more than half of them are white), while Marcus departs with Marie and Jordanna who are carrying the cosmic canvas of the Milky Way galaxy.

“I feel like we have a mission,” Marie says. “A higher calling.”

“I’ve forgotten mine,” Marcus says thoughtlessly.

“Stop dreaming of how you can achieve some stupid, narcissistic fantasy and try to actually help humanity,” Marie admonishes.

They reach the bus stop and sit down on the bench for twenty-four seconds. Marcus reflects for a moment, stands up, and says, “It’s like I’ve always failed to understand my fellow human beings. Maybe I should be afraid of all the temptations and dangers that I may encounter. If I love the wrong man, could that ruin my life even more? Or what if I’ll always be completely alone?”

“I think you feel too unhealthy and impaired to interact with the world. When we were sleeping on the bus, I saw you . . . It was like a dream, yet I was completely aware. Like an intensely elevated form of awareness . . . I was catapulted into a higher state of being. . . . Try to listen more to others. The world is in disarray, yet you don’t have to choose the path of least resistance.”

He glances at the painting. He starts to quietly contemplate the galaxy, the universe, the multiverse (if that even exists) . . . This mortal coil—am I necessary or de trop, prolix or blunt? Are we punished for our ugly, naughty transgressions?

“I must stop being maudlin and self-absorbed,” he reluctantly admits.

“Yes, and stop being so fucking racist!” Marie commands. “This world can feel like hell at times.” There’s a loud explosion in the distance. “Do you think that might’ve been a bomb?”

“I hope not.” Marcus notices their bus approaching from the distance.

“I’d like to be the one to tell Marcus about the mission we’ve been assigned,” Jordanna tells Marie.

“What mission?” Marcus asks eagerly.

“Our comrades told us to complete a task that will help create a better world,” Jordanna explains. “We have to find a place in this city that can function as a bridge to the future.”