Updated: Jun 16, 2021
Many people would like to see Donald Trump assassinated. Reasons being, in part, are due to the suffering he’s caused, the pain he continues to sustain, the divisions he’s deepened, the lies he’s told, the pussies he’s grabbed, the Covid cures he’s suggested, the untold ramifications of his actions & the impact they’ll bring on future generations, and the presumed path of misery that he will undoubtedly continue to lay.
One could imagine how the involuntary ending of his life would not only stifle any impending damage he’d undoubtedly be about to inflict, but I’m sure for many it would satisfy the deep-seated, primal urge of violent retribution. The all encompassing relief of scratching an enraging and unrelenting itch.
Though I understand this impulse and feel sympathy for the motives driving them, what I feel I can offer to this space is an alternative vision. A story substitute for the prevailing-narrative-diabetic, if you will. A way of envisioning change motivated by a different instinct.
Trump steps out on stage to address the crowd at one of his many campaign rallies - Sorry! I mean public health national press briefings. He begins by spewing out a heated rant about Joe Biden before focusing his attention, bizarrely, on wholemeal flour and the Dutch.
He has developed into an adept public speaker in recent years - honing his unprecedented BIGGER-RUDER-MORER-LOUDER approach to political discourse - and knows when to hit the audience with the big guns. Morphing naturally into a role play scenario, where he becomes Xi Jinping - The Chinese President and leader of the Communist Party of China - he sprawls his back over the podium, holds up a water bottle (make believing it’s the World Health Organisation’s penis) and begins splashing the water all over his face, mimicking ejaculation, lapping up and licking the faux jizz. Journalists gasp, as big droplets of aqua cum run down Trump’s checks into his mouth.
After rising to his feet, drying his face and point blank denying that he had just done that (labelling it as fake news) he tries to field questions about his even more aggressive economic policies, or whims as some people call them.
It’s at this point, and this point only, that something unusual happens.
Donald feels a brief moment of faintness overcome him. Though he remains on his feet, the experience temporarily distracts him; a slight delirium and nauseousness still present. He notices a peculiar pressure and pulsating in his fingers. A quick examine reveals a small paper cut on the index finger of his very normal hands, dripping blood. Reporters continue to fire questions at him, but Trump remained focused on the cut, which was transforming before his eyes.
It was getting bigger and bigger by itself, each moment - from cut to slice, slice to gauge, gauge to hole - spraying ever-increasing intensities of blood. He tried to remark on the greatness of his blood but soon his hands were unrecognisable and had simply become hoses, erupting huge jets of movie gore, all over the disconcertingly quiet room of journalists. Two deep, dark maroon waterfalls gushed from his arms, beyond even the highest budgets and lowest inhibitions of any future Freddy vs. Jason franchise additions.
Panic began to take hold of Trump as he dropped to his knees. He watched the blood ejecting from his body with a biblical intensity and, even in this moment of surely inevitable death, he understood whose blood this was. Some deep part of him recognised this was the blood of the protesters and counter protesters of Charlottesville, of the children separated from their parents at the Mexican border, from officially recognising Jerusalem as Israel’s capitial, of the assassination of General Suleimani which destabilised peace negotiations in the middle east, of all the misogyny and racism he’s reignited, repeated & legitimised and of every consequence to every egotistical decision he had ever made, all in the palm of his hands.
He collapsed to the floor, lying on his back as the blood slowly filled up the room. Just as he began to float, a violent tug from his stomach pulled him underneath the surface, completely submerging him. Unable to swim, unable to see, unable to breathe. Feeling his now naked body, he simply curls up into the foetal position and acknowledges that, for the first time in what must be childhood, a new sensation was washing over him. It was unfamiliar, but not alien, just unexplored. A truth that felt as old as time, as if it were always there, buried, beating in the background of every decision he’d ever made. Donald embraced the weight of the moment and, as a final act of peace, closes his eyes.
Trump began to stir, rubbing his eyes in a blurry haze. They were even more narrow than usual, trying to adjust to the bright white. From an outside perspective, anyone would’ve assumed they were firmly closed. He felt a hand rest reassuringly on his shoulder. He looked up, knowing full well who that hand belonged to, his trusted and adoring partner. Mike Pence’s kind face looked down upon Donald’s horizontal body, as he perched on the edge of his bed. Trump’s mouth puckered to speak, but Pence calmly gestured for him to stop, pressing his finger to Trump’s lips.
Mike quietly explained to him that he was in the hospital. He’d collapsed during a press conference, but he told Trump not to worry as they were claiming that this was a Democrat, North Korean conspiracy. He said the doctors suspected there was an intruder that laced his water with LSD but, for once in his life, Trump didn’t care. Something inside him had been awakened. Something he instinctively felt he had been running from his whole life, even though this was the first time he’d ever framed it in that way.
Interrupting Mike mid-sentence, Trump rose to his feet, explaining frantically that he had to get out of there. Mike looked frightened and confused, yelling for the doctors, but it was Trump’s finger that this time pushed up against Mike’s lips. The two locked eyes and Mike knew that Donald had to go. So, with a playful pinch of the cheek, Trump bid his friend farewell as he went on a journey of self discovery.
He first sort counsel with, well, a counsellor, describing all his experiences and symptoms. The counsellor cautiously explained to him that what he had felt was, in fact, an emotion called shame. He was shocked at Trump’s openness to this diagnosis, prompting him to go into detail about how the ego protects us from difficult feelings, how parents use shame as a tool for discipline, how it’s deeply imbedded and secretly pervasive in our culture, and so on. Trump thanked the expert and went on his way. He knew what he had to do.
His first stop was Peru, where he intended to take part in an ayahuasca ceremony. He struggled to acclimatise to the first two ceremonies, but by the third, he had found a way to truly let go.
During this session, he was confronted by all the people he’d hurt. Millions and millions of people, all staring, all angry. He could see the pain in their eyes. This tension started to overcome his body, he could feel the physical weight of responsibility. He whispered “I’m sorry”, but they didn’t react. He apologised again, face wincing under the heavy burden he was trying to shoulder, but they all simultaneously turn their back on him. He started screaming at the top of his lungs, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”, the dense pressure collapsing his body. They begin to walk away.
He tries to chase after them but the strain on his body means he can only crawl. They drift away, vanishing into the distance. He sobs uncontrollably, reaching his hand out to grab them. Off balance, he falls onto his back and now recognises that he is a baby, defenceless and scared. He cries, stretching out both hands, pulling at his father’s trousers, but he pays Donald no attention, chatting and laughing, spilling whiskey droplets on his head.
Trump journeys deeper and deeper into the unexplored recesses of his mind, fully experiencing the wide breadth of hurt and the wisdom behind each of these internal teachings.
One month after he left, he arrives back in America and calls a press conference on the White House lawn. He stands tall and begins by apologising for his brief spell of absence, before going on to continuously apologies to everyone - to his political opposition, to his country (both his critics and his supporters) to the press, to other world leaders, in fact to all those who he’s met (no matter how fleetingly), to the world, to his ex-wives and partners, to his family, to Mike and finally, to himself. He acknowledges that simple sorries will never fix the torment he’s inflicted, but by fully committing himself to this newfound spiritual quest for redemption, he pledges to always be in the service of that impulse. And so, with a heavy heart, he officially resigns as president of the United States of America and walks away from the podium.
With this newfound freedom, Trump starts experimenting with all kinds of hallucinogens - acid, psilocybin, toad venom. He gives his material possessions away and distributes his wealth among developing nations and women's shelters. He leaves himself vulnerable to open up his wounds & feels the full brunt of the pain.
He joins a commune on the border of Lebanon and Israel, where he is accepted with open arms. His hair has grown long and messy, but Trump makes no effort to cover up any bald patches, finally recognising the damage hairspray can do to the environment, even when used indoors. He starts to find the concept of clothes very restricting and, with permission from the group, disposes of these unnecessary garments. He sews the fields and picks the crops, beginning to trust his fellow people, even eating the food they prepare, no longer having to rely on McDonald's and Oreo milkshakes for fear of being poisoned.
Then one day, after decades of continual searching, unrelenting hurt, self-reflection and personal torment, he stops raking and pauses to watch a sunset over the mountainous range. The shame he’s carried every moment of this journey is ever so slightly lifted, temporarily, just for one moment. All the tension drops from his face and he’s left feeling present and peaceful. Not fixated on the past. Not worrying about the future. Just peace.
He smiles, eternally grateful, and begins raking once again.
The Savage Balance Podcast is a weekly podcast offering a new story, essay, interview, thought or leftover scribble from the back of a napkin.