TRUMP TALES

"Wait, so you are telling me, I start a war on drugs, I get to slap all these druggies in prison and make them work for 12 cents an hour?  You're kidding me... you guys in government make those stock market sharks look like fucking... pansy fish, you know.... or something...  no offense to you stock market people...  well, shit, get this war on drug users going."
"Uh, sir, we will only arrest the poor drug users, of course...."
"Was that not implied in what I said?    Everyone around the table is nodding that yes it was implied.  When the fuck I ever care about the poor?   My daddy taught me a few kkk things that still makes sense.. get that off the fucking record.  Thanks.  Sounds bad.  Some people you can't talk about nothing to.   Like the Bush Nazi's and shit, can't tell people, the poor.... hell, all they understand is a broom in the hall, if that... and they want a fucking union so they can talk to me, I'll fucking do the talking....  anyways,  I need to go golfing for a few weeks, you fucks are doing everything anyways... right?"

BLOOD FARM

      He'd read the reports about the blood farms in other parts of the country.   Seeing one first hand was his worst experience since the infantry.  They were saving almost three hundred kids from a filthy, garbage strewn shipping crates.  Equipped with huge garbage pails filled with piss and shit over in a corner.  The kids had the same smell.  He stayed too long in there he was going to take this smell into his car, his house.

He walks back out into the sun, off toward where a stack of police cars were sitting, everyone off opening every damn trailer in the port. There was no armed resistance, he was there for back up and wasn't needed and was trying like hell to avoid anyone giving him an order to do anything inside the warehouse where most the kids were stacked. Pulls out a smoke, flicks open his lighter, flames up.  The children were bone thin,  Cambodian.  Smuggled over on boats, where the blood harvest started.  Some had been there for three years, others, replacements for the ones who died, they were told, a little less.  

Two detectives have one of the guards cuffed to a pipe running up the wall of the warehouse.  When the first cops showed up, he threw out a gun and a cattle prod, came crawling out on his knees' fingers locked behind his head, knew the drill like an old con, and probably was.   Cambodian, too . . .  they tried to use him at first to translate for the kids, but when they brought in a Cambodian speaking teacher from across the county, they found out he was lying the entire time.  Saying they were well treated, let out to play.  One of the detectives kicked the guy in the balls when he found out.   Plenty of witnesses turned away laughing and made like they were doing something else.

All of them wanted a piece of the guy,  though he looked like a skinny wino, pretty much.  Smelled as bad as the kids.  spilled shit on his shoes emptying the pails and wasn't even washing that off,  that union breath of beer drinkers coming out ten feet to him as he passes them.       He hears the guy say 

 "I get money from a man in a ski mask.  I do not know who I work for.  I cannot tell you anything, that is the way they want this.  I did not come on the boat with them, just told what to do, come here.  They will kill me if I try to leave.  I would have."   The guy seems sincere.

 The kids are too weak to really know what is going on.  They all think they are going home now.  They also seem to think they are getting paid, and money is being sent home.  Cling to the story, like an anchor, like it made sense of what they had been through.   No body was touching that one yet.

Things did not make sense.  He was Catholic and thought they might make sense to God, but they sure as hell did not make sense to him.

The kids are all dressed the same, sweat suits...  they had no sheets, nothing.   There are six huge freezers in the back almost full of blood.  They would place the warehouse under surveillance and hope the masked man came by for a pick up, and to leave grocery money.  Try to work their way up the chain.

Kids from Cambodia in the forests of Central Illinois in a prefab warehouse feeding vampires.  That was how he thought of the people who were getting the treatment, which some insurance companies were even beginning to cover, because of the health benefits.  Unintended consequences of a scientific discovery.  Blood was now more profitable than organs,  all the wars in the middle east had sent a glut across Europe, through Israel, who were working with ISIS, even treating their wounded soldiers, as long as they could harvest the dead, and mortally wounded and enemies.

The government had to respond to the demand, the lobby crowd had them saying, and passed a law allowing Children to donate blood on a regular bases, a system that was quickly corrupted by the blood banks that showed up across the country with names like, Little Angels...  and Healers...   There was almost no keeping the kids away from it for spending money, and of course there were the parents who rounded up the brood for beer money and took them down once every three months for a nice check.   He busted one guy who had eight children, and was living in a decent house, driving a new car, all on their blood.  They got him for domestic abuse.  He asked the kids privately if they were forced to go and they all said they were, one being terrified of needles, she said she wet herself sometimes there.  They probably would have felt differently if the old man had spread the wealth around, like most parents did.

His kids were not of that age yet.  They were both looking forward to it, like an increase in their allowance, or their first job.  Eight hundred bucks a pint was a lot of money for an eight year old, even with the amount the government put in a mandatory account the children could use for college, or their first house.  Or trips around the world.   They rolled out the program like it would solve all the worlds problems, like they did everything these days, with tens of millions in tv adds and celebrity kids all being pictured giving blood and 'donating' their profits to a charity.

Took a lot of blood for the procedure.  Very expensive.  There was no denying the results.  Some private hospitals were starting to advertise that they only used kids blood.   He wanted to bring them down here and see this place.  For all he knew, with the obvious mob set up here, there might be politicians involved...  

A week later a Hertz moving van backed up to the loading dock.   The old man was wired, went outside and said he had all the blood, and needed his money.   The driver immediately turned and ran back into the truck, as cops came out of everywhere aiming at him...  he held up his hands and sat still.  A gun goes off on his left, seemingly far off...   a bullet shatters the back window of the cab, hits the driver on the crown of his head, which seems to explode as blood and brain cover the windshield.

There are easily fifteen cars there, called in from three counties, and the fed's.  The commander points at four squad cars at the back of the jam up and tells them to pursue the shooter, calls for a helicopter.  The feds' take off after the shooter as well.   A wild goose chase, he knew.  They were cautious enough to have their driver backed by a sniper, so he sure as hell had a good escape route, or smarter yet, someplace to hang out and hide without moving away from the crime scene.  Though there wasn't any wind to speak of, so a sniper rifle could have hit him from a mile away with the right fire power.

He is conscious of how much better it is to think of a man being murdered than children being slaves.  The guy was a criminal anyways.  As a cop his attitude was let the criminals kill as many of each other as they could, less work for him.  That was why big city cops only came in when the gang fights were over with, a buddy of his told him once.   He had seen a bit out where he was, though mostly they were dealing with drunks, speeders...  drugs.   Nothing like the hell in there.   He does not want to think too much about what they went thru, knew better than to go there as a cop.  Some went there too many times and ended up eating a barrel.   Or so, he had been told, late one night at a cop bar, when he was a rookie.   Toughen up.  Like in the army.  The commander finally notices he is doing nothing except smoking, tells him he might as well go back on patrol, everything was being taken care of.   He turns away and acts like he is coughing, one tear coming to his eyes quicker than he can wipe them away...  his emotions become flat inside, steel.

TRUMP'S LAST TWEET

TRUMP TWEET;   "I'm on the phone with Putin, three Chinese Billionaires and that one who is their leader, and Kim Jong whatever... taking the biggest bowel movement. Great bowel movement. Epic. Make America's Sewers Great again. lol. Sure wish these bastards could smell it in here. Nah, it never smells at a Trump hotel... Not on my watch. I hire all these guys to sniff the farts out of the air when I take a dump, everybody should do this. . . the secret service agents... tried to say this wasn't their job... YOU'RE FIRED. Yell that at enough people and the employees step up who want their jobs, or God, can you imagine, some even need them -- no way to live. Jobs are for the people who worked for dad, you know -- Shit, I think I just started world war three.. by using my funny Asian voice to the Chinese and asking Putin if he puts ice cubes on his nipples before taking those shirtless pictures... Ivanka did, so it seemed like a legitimate question... then we all started yelling we were going to nuke each other... yep, here they come yelling about whisking me into some damn bomb shelter."

Neville

    The wooden counter's slight bumps of wood grain showed up on his drawing.  As always.  He would throw the doodling away at the end of his shift.  As always.  There were few customers anymore, bookshops fell to the kindle.  He knew it.  He had plenty of money from his parents insurance, enough to live a few lifetimes, so he did what he wanted, sat in the mostly empty bookstore, reading and doodling.  Something about the smell of books had always comforted him, and the used books certainly picked up scents over the years.  The shop had a website that did a lot more business than the storefront.  He hired an employee on the profits, and paid her well to just do her own thing without bothering him.  Stella loved the arrangement, after being micromanaged by bosses over the years, and at least having to report all the time on her progress, keep her hours...  she was finally simply trusted, and left to do her job when it did not interfere with her life, instead of the other way around.   She had explained as much to Neville one day.   He nodded, fully understanding what she meant, after brief stints in the corporate world that had left him preferring poverty.

Above the door is a sign reads -- WE ARE NOT RICH BY WHAT WE POSSESS, BUT BY WHAT WE CAN DO WITHOUT.   He has been drawing the sign for the only God knows time, irritated by the grain showing through though caring too little about the problem to solve it.   Watches the man as he enters the shop, looking straight into Neville's eyes and smiling as he ignores all the merchandise and makes his way back to the counter.  'A salesman,' Neville thinks, not caring one way or the other.  Just registering the thought.  He opened the shop partially to force himself to have interaction with people, all sorts of people...  at least that was on his list of reasons, and was certainly an under utilized skilled in his life before the money.  BM as he called it, though the obviousness of the reference to 'bowel movement' bothered him a bit.

   "Neville?"
    "Yes, how are you doing?"   There were stools set up in front of the counter, and coffee was sold on the rarest of occasions, and then often to go.  He waved at them and the man nodded a thanks, set a small folder of papers on the counter,  sat down.
    "Always best to lie and say great.   I am here because there has been an offer on your building, and though we have not met, I am the lawyer your parents hired to deal with this, before their accident.  I am sure you have another by now.  So, here is the offer, paperwork, and  I guess the last bill for services rendered."
    'Well, you can bill me again... by telling them not for sale."
    "This is a consortium of sorts, uh... dealt with them before and they have enough power to get the city to force you out.  They want to use four blocks around here for the biggest mall in a thousand miles, a town rebuilder kind of project.  You should sell while the price is high.  It goes lower and lower after this."
     "Well, I can move..,  I suppose.  I just bought the building...  "   He picks up the folder, ruffles through until he finds what he has been offered, and realizes he just made over three hundred thousand.

She hates the idea of the Mall and has been on various committees to stop the construction, was connected with all the residents who were holding out.  He had no idea there was any controversy...  though he could remember her angrily coming into the shop, rather out of nowhere and asking him if he was selling his building and he replied 'God, no, never...' simply because it seemed to mean so much to her and he had just bought the place.   She will not believe him at first when he tells her that he did not know anything about this, avoided the newspapers and the news altogether because it had been a depressing stream of information he did not need all his life.

"You are dense enough to have missed this."   She thinks again how she wished he was better looking.  Her own appearance attracted sometimes irresistibly handsome men, and she enjoyed them.  Loved a few.   She was single at the moment, to a degree that those she saw were just in it for the sex, a married man, a couple married women... all with no desire to destroy their lives for a lover.  Her preference between lovers.  Serial monogamist, like most of her generation, unless she was dating a swinger.  She did not care which way she lived.  Up to her partner.  Neville, with his egg shaped head, small eyes behind his black, thick eyeglasses, little colorless lips, purely ordinary nose, just a bit bulbous on the bottom;  no neck to speak of, flabby, hair seldom combed -- he told her once he had given up on having a relationship and as such gave a shit how he looked.

The two never dated.  She quit the day he signed the papers to move.  He gave her the three hundred dollars as severance pay.  Told her he was sorry, but the lawyers said they had already lost, and there was no point in hitting their heads up against a brick wall.  He knew she did not want to take the money, but could not resist.   She used it to move to another town and started a business that he looked up on the internet.

He never opened another bookstore.   Of course he had been in love with her.  He had wanted her to love him as he was...  not as the fake people are sometimes for their whole lives, especially around their spouses.   He could see her occasionally falling for his personality, and even hoped that one day she would approach him.  He could not bring himself to even think about asking her a date, out of fear of what would happen after she said no, which he was almost certain she would.   And yes, she would have...  though one day she let herself look at his crotch long enough to reassure herself there was no silver cloud waiting down there.

He moved into a largish house on a huge farm, and began saving animals that were going to sent to slaughter, or being used for milk;   pigs, cats and dogs, whatever was about to die that he had room for, he brought them in.  Donations poured in and his employees grew to eighteen thousand, and he paid them twice what anyone else would, gave them incredible benefits.   He had enough money to live on without the place, so he kept the money pouring back in, mostly to the employees.   He bought their affection, and some thought he only kept the plant to have people around him who liked him.   He could not tell a joke, or even much of an anecdote, though he laughed easily, and was generous to a fault with all of them, on almost any manner.

He had no idea that his generosity would cause any stir, until the night three men in suits, drove up to his  house in cars with the plates removed, and told him he was paying his employees too much, forcing other companies in the area to compete with his wages. ..  and making the other unions look bad.   They threw in a threating tone that amused him.  Nothing really made him fearful, at least among the things that would a 'normalish' person.

'A union, none the less,' he thought to himself after they left.  He liked unions.  Supported all the strikers, despite their union, all he could, which turned out to be quite a bit of food.  His employees were in the union, though it had little to do at his planet, where  he basically gave them nearly twice what others on their union was being offered.

The  next day,  called in the head of the Union to his office.

"I had a visit from some people who claimed they were with the, maybe, national union.  They implied if I do not cut your wages...   I don't know, what these people imply.  Fuck them, by the way.  You know anything I should know about this?"
"Neville, I heard there was some bitching, people wanting what you gave us.  I don't know... the side of union that came here.   You know I got...  I don't even attend the meetings, unless it is for a strike vote somewhere.  And some have, you know..."
"They want to strike, we will provide them with food, money, whatever the hell."
"You know, coulda' been the owners, sending someone in... trying to make it look union."

"I run a rescue operation, that has grown into the largest in the world...  people try to give me plaques, not threaten me."


Neville's car's computer was hacked three days later, as he was doing sixty around a curve, sending him straight into a line of trees.  The impact did not quite kill him.   A man who had followed him from the plant saw he was alive, grabbed his head and twisted until vertebrae snapped, then left the scene.

Neville's plant was left to his employee's, each getting an equal share.  Many chose to quit working and live on their profits, some sold their stake to others.   The union officially voted the plant out, for a few years, then began to miss the dues.  The endowment he placed his other millions in would keep the rescue farm open for another fifty years, even without turning a profit.

Up until the day he died he doodled every day, and tossed them away...   the woman who cleaned his office the last time, pulled his last crumpled drawing out of the garbage and was the first to see one of his drawings since the bookstore.  A horse, badly drawn, running in one of the fields of the farm...  she held the paper to her face and cried, thinking of the kind man who had never forgotten her birthday.  And like so many woman in the past, she wished he had been good looking enough to turn her on, because, as many of them there did, they thought he would be a catch if he had different packaging.

Purily for your Amusement, edification, and to express my views in fiction.

For those who are unfamiliar with me, I invite you to check out my other blogs, or my facebook.  There I have written what I can of my intelligence experiences, and how they changed me.  Taking me from a stoner living by the beach in a hipster neighborhood in Chicago, Roger's Park, the most integrated neighborhood in the most segregated city in the USA,  writing comedy and books after finally finishing a rather epically long, absurdly long, okay... university addiction,  to working in intelligence in various capacities;  primarily as the Christ in a program entitled Operation Bluebeam.  My grandfather, I was told, was the architect of the plan, and since we have Royal Scottish Blood, evidently a lot of people went along with him...  too many people were involved for me to begin to explain and expect all but readers who are involved or extraordinarily free of cognitive dissonance to believe.  I did not want to believe the things  I was told.

I do not wish to dwell on these events in this blog, except in a fictional manner..  I am something of a broken man who can still rise to the occasion roaring and dangerous.  I still have my place in that world though it is quite different than how it started.  By the end of my heaviest involvement in the wars being fought in the USA between various factions and the government, which was on it's knees twice recently... with a sword hanging over it.  Like I said, you would not believe what I know, or the cold hard facts that will inform these stories.   I certainly do not claim to know everything, by far I came away with more questions than answers.... NO ONE would have agreed to do what they made me do, so they tricked me, etc.

The worst of what happened came to others.  I recently saw a drawing someone had done of me, showing a Christ with his arms chopped off at the elbow -- which the CIA evidently did to a lot of people thinking they were part of some nefarious army, then people I worked with took a line about pirate if you have to, about computer programs, to mean raise money for the revolution by pirating, which makes sense... so they had the Christ with a pirate patch.   I drew myself once on a river of blood, making my Christ image look heroic.   Heads were floating by the grotesque river, and the expression on the Christ's face was...  almost non committal.    I DECONSTRUCT this image as  I go along to tell you how my image has been used by the CIA and the elite.   I turned against them when they told me they had a huge genocide ready to go...  I never wanted such a thing, and would have no part of it... so they tried to frame me for mass murder -- remember all those protests and that occupy thing and anonymous all staring around 07... a lot of those peaceful folk were done away with.  Intelligence does not let leaders rise up in areas that are not sanctioned democrat or republican, or that threaten the military industrial complex, whom they consider part of themselves.

I gained a lot of fame with a radio show, comedy, and my blogs were world wide hits, as were my books, though since I came out of operation bluebeam with the voice of  Jesus in my head, a very different one than in the bible, but a surprise to me at the time...  I WAS CLASSICALLY BRAINWASHED FOR THREE DAYS... when this happens, oddly enough, you do not think you are someone else, you just know that you were not the person you thought you were, and begin to try to figure out who you are... which is then reinforced by others, and mine was Jesus.   A lot of people believe this, and many more did before the OTHER people with their own agendas took over... making people do all sorts of things I would never have asked them to do.

The details here are top secret for reason, people would get hurt if I wrote too much, and I am no longer naïve enough to think exposing the government will cause the press to rush in, and blow the story and everyone lives happily ever after...

My short stories were taken various ways by people who believed I was a deity.  Taking my old short stories, and a novel I started in college, were a blueprint for revolution.   They were not consciously meant to be acted out.  A lot of blood was shed because of this.  There is no easy or tactful way to approach this.  The sacrifice of others gave strength to the people they left behind, were incredible testaments to a belief in God rewarded with the joyous after life, and relief from this world of suffering.  This thought is difficult for most who are grieving to understand, their own loss is too great.  I cannot easily relate to what you went thru.  I was stunned I existed and all this weird stuff happened.   Others were stunned to hear of a Christ, some went mad, and when I did not understand why I was being treated so poorly and lashed out angrily all over the place, my actions were taken wrong.   I thought a few spies and media people were watching me  I did not think that people who looked to me for leadership were watching.

I thought I was in some kind of hell.  People who thought I wanted to be filmed and made all this money and was trying to trick them all the time -- most of the time I was not, but I saw no reason no to lie to people who treated me so poorly.   I was loved by this crowd in 07 and was not about to believe they would not be fickle and turn against me again and they did.   I was too dismissive of all of your efforts.

I feel a gratitude that would overwhelm me into tears if I allowed such things anymore.  I know someone else was behind this, used you as they did me, I feel terrible to think I was set up above everyone else, supposed to be an emperor and this and that... and hey, there were times I would have chosen anything other than being a broken man living in Chicago in this strange relationship with his tv that sounded too crazy to talk about, and felt like madness...  I felt danger.  WHAT I DID NOT FEEL WAS THAT ANYONE HAD THE RIGHT TO JUST FILM ME IN MY HOUSE.


Regardless, my actions and the propaganda of others has resulted in my NAME BEING RAPED.  I wish to show that my name is innocent of the crimes they perpetuated, and to help change the world by redistributing the wealth, which pretty much makes me the enemy of oligarchies all over the world, though it is china who has placed me under their blanket of protection.   Spies know who each other are, etc..  and people know more about what I did than I do since they told me only in the vaguest of hints everything.    I was being filmed, so what they said to me, they said to our enemies too.  Weird life that like I say has settled down or I would be able to think of nothing else.\\








I have a short story I am designing and will write when I am alone, until then...