Donald Trump Visits His Mass Graves (A Fantasia)

The helicopter landing was a bit bumpy, not bad for such a large chopper coming down on flat earth and not a landing pad, but it was enough to send President Donald Trump into a sarcastic spiel at the poor Air Force pilot who had pulled the short straw. "You call that a landing?" Trump said. "Where the hell did you learn to fly? At Bozo the Clown's school of helicoptering?" He glanced over at the Flat Stanley of a man sitting next to him, Jared Kushner, who gave a wan smile, which, in the realm of Jared facial expressions, is equivalent to being doubled over with laughter.

They had come to Hart Island, just off the Bronx, near Long Island. Trump saw a report on CNN, which he never watches, about mass graves being dug there to accommodate all the victims of COVID-19 in New York City. The President demanded that he be brought there in secret, no media, no photographers, no one to come along but his son-in-law and several Secret Service agents. He didn't want anyone to know. At first, Chief of Staff Mark Meadows, tears in his eyes, stared in wonder at how moving a gesture it was and said so to Trump. Trump harumphed, "Stop being such a pussy. I wanna see those big, beautiful graves for myself. All the best leaders in history had mass graves. Your Hitlers and your Stalins and your Kims, and a few of your Chinamen, too. I've never seen one, and, lemme tell you, these look like the best mass graves anywhere."

Trump had wanted his daughter, Ivanka, to go with him, but she claimed exhaustion from her day spent making sure that her father knew what room he was in and what event he was attending, as well as dodging his pinching fingers, grabby hands, and overly-wet lips. She wanted to spend a little time watching the nanny play with her children because motherhood is so important to her. "I was too busy creating jobs," she said. Trump winked at her and said he understood. "Looks like you're up, Skinny Jared. I call him 'Skinny Jared' because he's so skinny, you know." Jared smiled wanly. Truly, it's his only expression beyond staring straight ahead wanly.

And they were off right after his daily press briefing. The whole journey, from the White House to Marine One to the smaller helicopter they took from LaGuardia Airport to Hart Island, Trump regaled Kushner and the Secret Service with a recap of the briefing. "Did you see how I called out that one bitch reporter? She thought she was so tough. I put her in her place, didn't I?" he asked more than once. "They keep saying these things are a bad thing. They aren't a bad thing. They're a good thing. Not a bad thing. Everyone tweets how much they love it when I make those Democrats crazy." It went on like that except when he asked Kushner to read him a complimentary tweet and then retweet it. "News cycle set. Reporters eating out of my hands," he said.

On the island, a golf cart pulled up to the helicopter because no one expected Trump to walk to several hundred yards to the area of the mass graves. "Should have brought some clubs," he said as they made their way across the short distance. "Could have gotten in a few drives. I'm getting rusty." Finally, they arrived at the site, a trench in the earth with wooden caskets stacked like buildings in a Queens housing project. Two rough-looking men in coveralls stood there, ready to help.

Trump stepped out of the golf cart and over to the top of the trench. "Look at that," he exclaimed. And then to the men, "Did you dig this?" They said they had helped. "Good job, fellas. Such strong, tough, tough men." He was already imagining using them in a story where they cried and called him "sir." God, he loved that. He turned back to the ditch of the dead. "Look at it. It's like a gash, a slit in the ground." The President looked at Kushner's wanly pensive face. "I'm saying it's like they made a pussy in the dirt and now they're putting bodies into it."

"It's like birth in reverse," Kushner said, striving for some kind of sense.

Trump rolled his eyes. "No, dummy. It looks like a pussy. That's pretty funny." He lumbered up and down the grave, walking with that Sasquatch gait that demonstrates that he's struggling to keep his upper body from collapsing. "I want a closer look."

The gravediggers found a ladder and they helped Trump work his way down until he was standing on top of the wooden boxes. "All of these. Because of me. Imagine," he said. And a casual viewer of this might have thought that Trump was having a moment of self-reflection. But what he was really thinking was how proud he was, how amazing it was to have that kind of control over life and death. "I act one way, people live," he said. "I act another, they die. I'm like God. Except a real one. Not that phony loser who let himself be crucified."

He gestured to the gravediggers. "You know who's in which one?"

They tentatively nodded. "There's a marker on the box."

Trump nodded. "Find me a woman. A young one. Not too young. But, you know, young." The men paused for a second at the oddness of the request. But this was the President of the United States. They figured he must have his reasons. They moved a couple of the boxes until they found one. With hammers, they pried it open. Trump looked at the corpse and recoiled. "No, no," he said. "Not some black girl. A white one. You know, pretty."

After opening three more caskets, they called Trump over. "How about her?" one of the men said through the bandana around his face. "She's 22." He stood next to the body of a young woman with long blonde hair. Trump thought that she was hot. He nodded.

"I need a moment," he said and waved them out of the grave. When he was alone, Trump unbuckled his oddly-fitting trousers and dropped them. He pulled down his still-dry diaper and tried to reach for his half-erect penis, but he could just graze it with his finger tips. Frustrated, he called out, "Jared, get your ass down here."

Kushner climbed down to see his father-in-law, grandfather to his children, and the Most Powerful Man on Earth with pants around his ankles, standing at the foot of a crappy casket with a dead woman in it. "I need some help," Trump said.

He hoped it wasn't what he thought it was. He hoped it was just that Trump had shit himself "Do you need changing? I can get--"

Trump interrupted, "Just come over here." Kushner walked over. "You know what to do."

Kushner paused, wanly, and offered, "Right...here?"

Trump, eyes on the corpse, said, "Look at her. Prime of her life. Tits to die for. And she's dead because of me." Kushner saw that Trump was attaining something close to a full erection. "It was hard to get it aroused, and it is hard to get it aroused," Trump leered, "but we got it aroused. Now do it. While I've got a chubby."

Kusher sighed, got down on one knee, and started to jerk off Trump. He knew the routine. Start gently, get rougher, then rougher, then, maybe, with any luck, he'll cum quickly. Kushner just didn't want to vomit at the smell of death around him. He was proud of what he had done with the coronavirus, but he had no need to see the results in person. Or smell them. He worked Trump's little dick, holding in his gagging.

As he was getting masturbated, Trump thought about how much power he has, he thought about how fucking hot that bitch in the coffin was, he thought about how Roy Cohn made Trump finger his prostate when the old bastard was dying, he thought about loyalty and how he learned that you prize loyalty above all else while never being loyal to anyone. "Faster," he said. "Don't get tired now." He thought about Ivanka, oh, Ivanka, and then he saw her in the coffin and that made him think about how a dead daughter would make his approval ratings soar from sympathy, yes, how could it not but then he decided that if he's going to have a dead daughter, he'd rather it be Tina or Tammy or whatever the other one was named. "Harder. Squeeze harder. You're as weak as a dog." Then he looked back at the coffin and thought about how the woman must have suffered, how she must have gasped for breath at the end, how she may have cursed his name, and, oh, god, yes, how she hated him, just like MSNBC and CNN and the New York Times and...and just... like... those... traitor... Democrats!

Trump gasped as the orgasm sputtered through his little penis and he dribbled out a tiny bit of semen. "Oh, thank you. That's a good boy, Jared. That's a good boy. Help me get dressed," he huffed and puffed, pulling an American flag from his jacket and handing it to Jared to wipe his dick off.

Making his way out of the grave, Trump saw that the gravediggers were on their knees with their hands behind their heads. "Thank you for your service to our country," he said and then nodded at the Secret Service, who shot them to death and tossed them into an open box. "Time to go home, men. We've all had a long day. And a new one tomorrow. Just think about all we can do for the American people and this beautiful nation that we love." Jared nodded wanly. The agents betrayed no emotion at all. This really wasn't the worst they had seen on this particular detail.

Then they got into the golf cart to start the journey back. There were tweets to compose and so much news coverage to catch up on and only so many hours in a day. He gleefully hummed the theme to The Apprentice as they rode away from the piles of bodies.