Lost in the Trumpiverse: Chapter 1
Six weeks downtime, the most ever, and I started to enjoy it. Sleeping in the same bed, not having to relearn the language every three days, hanging on my couch in jeans and a flannel shirt with a bottle of Bosco chocolate beer.
Then the call. A disturbance in the multiverse. “Trump popped up again,” dispatch said.
I dropped my bottle into my lap. “That little prick?” I tried to wipe my pants with my shirt.
“He calls it ‘big hands.’”
I shed my pants. No time for neatness. Besides travel through the bubble ruined clothing.
“It’s worse,” dispatch said. “He’s World President.”
Bad information, it turns out. Merely President of a larger country. Don’t blame dispatch, they’re little more voices in our heads working for minimum wage. Blame the bubbleverse. Information scrambles between planes.
Blame the bubbleverse. Information scrambles between planes.
My bubbleporter glowed pink when I entered the room. Dispatch primed it before they even called. I folded the rest of my clothes and left them on my desk. Then I held my nose and leaped.
No one understands how the bubbleverse operates. One universe pops out of existence, two more replace it. Six disappear without a trace or tremor during the noon news. The director calls the bubbleverse God’s cruel joke, except God doesn’t exist in two thirds of the universes.
The biggest mystery? Trumpmatter. Discovered in the back alley of a real estate venture gone belly up, it spreads like cancer. That first lump of bright orange cells sprouted a toupee and babbled something that sounded like “bigly.” One week later the Consortium was forced to scrub a dozen universes and sanitize three more to prevent the spread of infection.
Discovered in the back alley of a real estate venture gone belly up, Trumpmatter spreads like cancer.
The operation bankrupted verse cluster 976T.
Last month it returned, a more virulent form, with a large vocabulary including “fake news,” “bad honchos,” and “make america great again,” none of which have any meaning to our best linguists.
It’s up to me to chase down Trump in a backwater universe where they still burn fossil fuels and communicate by “wireless.” Can you spell, “Make My Day?”