Lost in the Trumpiverse: Chapter 3

The destination is worse than the Trip

back to chapter 2

Story so far: Our hero traveled through the bubble to the planet Earth hoping to stop the spread of the Trump virus. He finds huge lines of tourists and immigrants waiting to complete a process called “extreme vetting.”

Realizing I was still naked, I looked for a place to change.

“Is there a human waste disposal chamber?” I asked.

Four-wheels-t-shirt, the “stoner,” giggled. A small cloud of smoke popped from his mouth. “You mean a crapper?”

Hexadecipus. the sixteen tentacled tourist from U#975442 said, “Yes, he does.” He rolled a tentacle down the hallway and around the corner. “Follow my lead.”

I followed the tentacle trail passing row after row of portraits depicting an overweight blob with Trump hair. I wondered why the humans would post so many icons of their object of worship? Had the Trump virus infected their brains?

The tentacle led me to a room with the sign “Restroom.” Added to my wonder list? Why humans would call the act of waste disposal rest.

An elderly couple sat at a bench across the hall eating hot dogs. I’ve always wondered where our sewage disappeared to. Now I know. Earth people eat it with mustard and relish.

“We used to be members of a nudist colony,” the old man said, his mouth filled with bread and body waste. “But her tits sagged and my dick shrunk. Weren’t no fun after that.”

“We used to be members of a nudist colony,” the old man said, his mouth filled with bread and body waste. “But her tits sagged and my dick shrunk. Weren’t no fun after that.”

Tourists packed The “restroom,” standing and urinating into gigantic porcelain tea cups mounted on the walls. Why they would evacuate their bladders into cups more valuable than any on my world escaped me. Nor had I imagined any dimension in which the act of waste disposal would be so popular.

I saw a wall filled with office cubicles, each with a door. At least this zone gave workers privacy, but, again, why call on office a place to rest?

The good thing about transit zones is that no one noticed my nudity. More than half the sentient species in the diversiverse display their bodies in their natural splendor.

In this zone, apparently, they also connect with their portaphones even when disposing of waste.

“He’s Tweeting about Kim Jong-in,” a lactomorph said. Lactomorphs can take any shape that can be created using lactose, which limits them pretty much to frozen, thawed and evaporated milk. I was surprised to see her here since they prefer to relax in glass cylinders, which frequently means earthlings drink them by mistake. Many lactomorphs were accidentally massacred during a “Got Milk?” advertising campaign.

“Goodbye earth,” replied a brown spider. Brown spiders are what earthlings see as ordinary brown spiders. Earth’s atmosphere compresses their bodies by a magnitude of 1000.

“What do you think would happen if a nuclear war on Earth released The Trump into the diversiverse?” a faithlicant asked. Faithlicants can’t resist religious belief, frequently converting to local beliefs and ultimately being absorbed into that species.

“What do you think would happen if a nuclear war on Earth released The Trump into the diversiverse?”

A flushing sound echoed through the restroom. A cubicle door opened and a human emerged. I stepped inside to find, not a grunttable and workstation, but another giant porcelain tea cup — this one bolted to the floor. I even saw cleaning tissue next to it.

I couldn’t imagine anything more horrible. This facility wasn’t a “rest” room. Workers were expected to produce and eliminate waste simultaneously.
I asked myself, has the Trump infection spread or is earth a safety zone for insanity?

I twisted my torso and reached into my anal cavity to remove my supply pack. To my surprise, it displayed the logo of a different distributor.

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A new logo was engraved on my supply pack.

While I pondered the mystery, someone banged on the door. “Hurry up. Some of us got emergencies and shit.”

I quickly donned my human suit, created from our best information provided by Earth observers and historians. They supplied me with copper skin, curly black hair, a hajj arub abaya, and a hijab for my head. My ID named me as Akbar Mohammed.

I tucked my ID into the folds of my robe and opened the door. Four wheels t-shirt stoner knocked me over in his rush to get to work.

I didn’t mind the stares as I returned to my place in line. I figured it would take me a couple of hours to adjust to the human suit, but by the time I reached the surface, my suit and I would be in synch.

Fortunately, by the time I returned to the line, it had advanced to the check-in stations. These were the first transdimensional checkpoints I’d ever seen manned entirely by the same species, much less a subspecies. But every official processing tourists and immigrants was human, pink-skinned and wore the words ICE on their uniforms. The sight took me aback. Our Earth profile suggested most humans were dark-skinned.

Was this pink color part of The Trumping?

I offered my trans-dimensional passport and identity papers. “Oh my God,” he said. “We got us a Tranny Camel Jockey.” He pushed my papers into my chest.

“That’s a Triple T there,” said the official who processed the next line.
My reviewer doubled over and laughed at the same time. Then he leaned into the next line and asked his companion, “What’s a Triple T?”

The other official answered. “A multi-ethnic Tranny, you idiot. That’s three strikes against him.”

A voice floated toward us from somewhere further down one of the lines.

“That’s not what Triple T means, you asshole.”

Two guards appeared and pulled a man with a wig and make-up from the line. They carted him away screaming something about “closeted bastards.”
I wondered why my official didn’t stamp my papers and send me through.

“May I go ahead?” I asked.

He patted my chest with a big, meaty hand. “Sorry, hadji. You’ve been profiled.”

The same two guards appeared by my side and grabbed me by the arm. They lifted me off my feet and carted me toward a transdimensional portal.

The official called behind me. “Back home to hadjiland for you.”

They pushed me into the portal. “Aren’t you going to program it?” I protested. Before I could finish the question, I popped from the bubble into a swamp planet filled with Trumps. Green trumps with orange noses and bird’s nests of hair who leaped from lily pad to lily pad, croaking, “Trump, trump…trump, trump.”

Next installment: You’re not fired up. You’re fired.

Phillip T. Stephens is author of Cigarettes, Guns & Beer and Raising Hell.

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Living metaphor. Follow me @stephens_pt.

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