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Goodbye to the Cancer Moonshot

“Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses.”

~ Zack de la Rocha, “Killing in the Name”

 

Meanwhile, in Donald Trump’s White House…

 

“You have the target?”

“Have the target. Pussy hat. Sign with black background, rainbow-colored letters. Distance?”

“Two hundred twenty-one yards.”

“Wind?”

“Seven miles per hour, from the west.”

Two clicks are made to adjust the scope on the McMillan TAC-338 sniper rifle. “Got it.”

“Take the shot.”

The protester, wearing a pink “pussy hat” and holding a homemade sign that reads “SUPER-CALLOUS-FRAGILE-RACIST-SEXIST-NAZI-POTUS,” never heard the crack of the round being fired. She was dead on Constitution Avenue, the bullet entered her back and exited through her heart, before anyone around her knew the shot was even fired.

“Got her. She’s down. Mark it in the log.”

“One more and we hit the quota. Check the action in Lafayette Park, there could a good target there and we can call it a day.”

The two sniper towers on the South Lawn, one above the Rose Garden, the other above the tennis courts, have only been operational for five days, but already the amount of protesters picketing the White House has dropped by eighty percent.

As a dozen fellow protesters scream in horror, frantically dialing 911 on their smartphones, a team of Trump private security personnel emerges onto the scene. The four man squad grabs the dead protester and flops the corpse into a gold-plated wheelbarrow. One of the men pushes the golden wheelbarrow up a ramp into the back of a Carmor Navigator armored transport vehicle. The back door closes, the Navigator drops three tear gas containers onto the street, and the White House cleanup crew screeches away from the legal-for-the-White-House-crime-scene with a cloud of burnt tire smoke left behind mixing with the tear gas.

In the Oval Office, the First Family has been summoned to get ready for the photo op coinciding with a big announcement. A Secret Service agent is stationed outside the Oval. When Don Jr. and Eric walk past, the agent says into the microphone just inside his sleeve, “Tell Bird’s Nest that Sonny and Fredo are coming in.”

Three minutes later, Melania and Barron come down the hallway. Again, into the microphone in his sleeve, the Secret Service agent says, “Trophy and Joffrey are entering the Oval.”

Two minutes after that, Ivanka appears and passes the Secret Service agent. “Myrrha is entering.”

President Trump surveys the large group assembled. There’s photographers from the Associated Press, Reuters, and InfoWars in the room. A small television crew is setting up Klieg lights. Trump says, “Okay, is this everybody? Is Tanya coming?”

There’s confusion until Reince Preibus snaps his fingers in realization and asks “Do you mean Tiffany, Mr. President?”

“Right, that’s it. Tiffany. Great girl. Is she coming?”

“Tiffany is in Barbados, daddy,” Ivanka says.

Trump says loudly to anyone listening in the room, “You know, Tiffany, she’s a great girl, like I said, great girl, tremendous, but she just doesn’t have the tits to compete with Ivanka.”

An awkward and uncomfortable silence settles into the Oval Office.

“Okay,” Trump says, “should we do this? Let’s sign this fucker.”

The bill getting Trump’s cartoonish Sharpie signature this morning is the Trump Hair Restoration Act of 2017. All of the funding that was earmarked for Joe Biden’s Cancer Moonshot program is being reallocated to solve the “global crisis of male pattern baldness and the total bummer of thinning, formally-beautiful and powerful hair.”

Same as the Cancer Moonshot, the budget is not being disclosed for the Trump Hair Restoration Act, but it’s believed the number is roughly $755 million. About the same amount previously going to Biden’s lifetime achievement legislation. Hidden in the bill, with complicated language and subterfuge, was funding for extravagant gifts for the Trump children. For Don Jr., Eric, and Ivanka, three 24-carat gold coffins for their daily naps. At $53,000 bucks a pop, it is going to be a luxurious way to rest and recharge for the rest of the day. For Barron, his own private indoor waterpark on the North Lawn. And for Tiffany, a $125 dollar gift card to zappos.com.

The golden nap coffins are custom-made to act as a hyperbaric chamber to prolong youthfulness and longevity. Also included, built into the taffeta lining, are state of the art speakers to listen to lullabies as the Trump children have a kip. Ivanka likes to listen to the Kronos Quartet album Black Angels. While Don Jr. and Eric are partial to the vinyl recording of Jim Jones preaching and narrating the Jonestown mass suicide of nine hundred people.

Another minor clause of the Hair Restoration Act is that “codeword classified” status is given to the details of how Trump’s weird, sweeping, folding hairdo is cut and styled. This guarantees prevention of a leak to the “very dishonest media” about how elaborate Trump’s hair process is. At the time of this writing, I — your intrepid White House correspondent — was unable to confirm rumors that a repurposed cotton candy machine is involved in the first stage of shaping the President’s hair.

After the photo op signing Trump Hair Restoration Act of 2017 into law, White House senior staff is planning on the President making a statement from behind the Resolute desk to be carried live on all major television networks, all the news channels, and CMT. Press Secretary Sean Spicer uses duct tape to affix a new plaque on the President’s historic desk. The sign reads “The Trump White House, brought to you by PornHub and Aqua Net!” Trump was pleased to secure “such great and classy sponsorship.”

But before Trump can give the statement, Steve Bannon needs to finish writing it. “Is Steve here?” Trump asks. “Where is he? Is the statement ready?”

Steve Bannon sees and hears Trump ask the question on one of the huge flatscreen monitors in his basement office. Security cameras and listening devices are in every nook and cranny of the White House that Bannon monitors like a pit boss at the Caesar’s Palace. A control panel with various buttons, touch pads, and joysticks is manipulated with the precision of Eric Clapton playing a Stratocaster.

The Senior Advisor, who has been orchestrating every move of Trump’s White House down to the smallest minutia, is in the middle of his morning rituals as he prepares for the day ahead.

Each morning at 7:45, Bannon arrives at the White House. He lumbers past the West Wing offices of his coworkers, and descends a flight of stairs to the dank basement. Since Bannon moved into that office, White House janitorial staff has been hanging dozens of pine tree air fresheners along the hallway in an effort to mask the harsh, acrid smell of sulfur that has settled in. Once in his office, Bannon begins his daily routine. First the coffee machine is flipped on, then a fresh bottle of Rebel Yell bourbon is twisted open. Both the full pot of coffee and the entire bottle of Rebel Yell will be consumed before noon. The beverages are often mixed together.

From a box the size of a microwave oven, Bannon takes out a seven inch tall wooden crucifix that was made in China. That whole box is full of the crosses. Bannon dips the cross in his tumbler of Rebel Yell, stands it on a his desk, and lights the cross on fire with a vintage swastika-emblazoned Zippo. Blue flames dance off the crucifix as the bourbon burns off. Bannon takes a sip of coffee, a gulp of Rebel Yell, and inhales the vapors coming off the burning cross, exhaling the smoke like a Marlboro red.

On the ceiling of Bannon’s basement office, stalactites have begun forming, hanging like grey icicles, dirty water leaking from the White House plumbing dripping off the points, adding to the dampness of the room. The family of Mexican long-nosed bats that had moved in shortly after Inauguration Day continue to occupy the Northeast corner. The bats offer occasional biting commentary, heckling Bannon about how much Rebel Yell he has poured down his gullet. They like to offer roast-style jokes about Nazi officers of World War II. Hitler’s one testicle and micropenis are favorite topics.

Having finished the draft of the President’s remarks, Bannon gives them to one of the bats, who flaps his way through the White House to deliver them to the Oval Office.

Back in the Oval, Reince Preibus takes the rolled final draft of the Trump Hair Restoration Act announcement speech from the bat’s fanged mouth. Preibus says, “Steve sent up the final remarks. He says Alex Jones insisted on some language being added.”

“Great, let’s hear it, what did Alex add?” the President asks.

“The globalists seek to continue covertly sneaking in and implementing Aleister Crowley-inspired occult Satanism into our schools and government. We won’t allow it. We will not allow a police state. We will not allow George Soros, the demonic Bilderberg thugs, and the New World Order scum to continue the reprogramming of a patriotic republic. The wicked globalists poison our water with fluoride, they poison the vaccines, they poison the food, to turn us into mindless slugs to control us. This is revolution! This is 1776 all over again! We know what you’re doing, and we’re coming for you!”

“Tremendous language. That guy gets it. And so true. So true. Put it in the prompter.”

President Trump sits down at the Resolute desk. The red light on the television camera illuminates. “My fellow Americans, good evening from the Oval Office, brought to you by our new sponsors PornHub and Aqua Net hair spray. Tonight we are announcing very, very exciting new legislation, the Trump Hair Restoration Act. We all know cancer was never going to be cured, stupid to try it, but male pattern baldness is a battle we can win if we start to fight now. That is why we are canceling the weak and soft Joe Biden’s Cancer Moonshot program and putting that money towards finally curing baldness forever.”

In her West Wing office, Kellyanne Conway watches Trump’s entire fifteen minute announcement. The lights are all turned off. And she sobs as she eats an entire can of strawberry cake frosting, scooping it with her fingers.


Illustration by Mikey B. Martinez


Read Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

Written by Johnny Wright

Johnny Wright

Johnny Wright is a writer living in Portland, Oregon. He is a beef jerky enthusiast and wishes Bigfoot was real.

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