Donald Trump’s Dream

5 AM.

Clouds part over north-west Syria. Lucidity in a fevereddream.

The fighting had been intense. Since the eight specialforces helicopters emerged from the darkness and landed in the small compoundin Idlib province, cracks of gunfire had echoed across the mountains. Nobodywould ever know the identity of these brave men and women sent on a mission bytheir even braver President. They lived their lives in the shadows. All, thatis, except one hero who was already seeing good numbers from his latestRasmussen polls…

The golden warrior stood six foot three, his lean 239 poundshoned by a lifetime of burgers, fries, and questionable medicals. CaptainDonald J. Trump of Seal Team 9 knew that nobody would believe him. The presswould accuse him of fetishizing military action when he later recounted thenight’s fighting in a rambling 40-minute press conference. His was a problem somemorably summed up by White House press secretary Stephanie Grisham. Cynics werejust “totally unequipped to handle the genius of our great President!”

He was in the process of composing this injustice into atweet when he saw a figure split away from the fighting.

“Baghdadi,” he hissed through perfect teeth that were stillall his own.

The name had obsessed him ever since the ISIS leader had outwittedGotham City’s batshit crimefighter, Rudy Giuliani, thanks to the Joker and CNN’sJim Acosta. This time there would be no escape. The bearded terrorist wouldn’tget far in the underground tunnel network. Baghdadi had the athleticism of RosieO’Donnell, though, frankly, was much better looking. The special forces captain,meanwhile, was a track star, who could have played baseball professionallydespite bone spurs that had plagued him until the 30th of April 1975.

“I’ve got you now, el-Baghdadi,” cried Trump. “They saidnobody would ever catch you, but I’ve got you cornered like Pencil-Necked AdamSchiff’s illegal committee during the looming government shutdown…”

Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi swore in a language Trump suspected wasMexican.

“Oh, you’re going to die like a dog, el-Baghdadi!” promisedTrump, his tiny hands gripping the handle of his 9-carat gold M4A1 assaultrifle with M&M launcher. “Then, when you’ve finished whimpering, crying andscreaming like the Democrat you most definitely are, I’m going after your boss.Barak Hussein Obama…”

The truth clearly hit home. With a forlorn cry, theterrorist leader exploded his vest, taking with him all the evidence that itwas the Hawaiians who rigged the 2016 election and that Jeff Bezos inheritedhis wealth from his rich Aunt Flo who you all know (but will never admit) wasPuerto Rican and therefore not really American.

As the smoke cleared, Trump wiped the dust, dirt, and DNAevidence from his face. Finally, al-Baghdadi was as dead as all the previoustimes they’d killed him to distract from bad domestic news. He reached for hisphone.

“Something very big has just happened!” he tweeted out to SeanHannity and 66 million losers. He would explain it all later but, first, he hadKurds to betray, Ukrainians to blackmail, and a luxury tower to build in Riyadh…All quid pro quo, of course…

Oops. He realised. Had he just tweeted that out too?

It didn’t matter. None of it ever mattered. Not since he’ddecided that the narrative would be any damn thing he imagined it to be.

A wind blows, clouds stir, and darkness falls. The nightmarecontinues.

@DavidWaywell

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