It has been suggest that this zinger from the Orange One (though probably not written by him) would make the perfect first line for a short story.
Over to you. I’m sure the hive mind can come up with something.
“When he was fired, he not only lost his job, he lost his mind” – D Trump of S Bannon
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This, at any rate, was what his wife thought when he failed to emerge from his shed on the fifth consecutive day.
“Steve Bannon” she cried out, “Five days in a shed, and hardly any new pages on Breitbart. What have you brought into this house this week? What have you been doing? Yes, that extremely rare David Bowie 1969 acetate was on ebay. But trying to buy that WILL NOT FEED OUR CHILDREN”
(link here https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/DAVID-BOWIE-MAN-OF-WORDS-MAN-OF-MUSIC-INSANELY-RARE-ORIG-69-ACETATE-BEAUTIFUL/142632839447?hash=item2135946917:g:qXAAAOSwYeRaPKfx)
He ignored her and hit refresh.
“This item is no longer available.”
Goddam it all to hell! Take your eye off the screen for a second…he hated that. Still, there were probably cheaper things to break over Jared Kushner’s head…
He paused, struck by a sudden thought. Children? We have children?
Despite all of this, the exercise regime was going well. He’d seen on a Fox News documentary that the “Bull-worker” will flatten his belly and give him the kind of muscles last seen on Popeye after a spinach OD. Damn, that guy was funny. POTUS particularly enjoyed Steve’s impressions of Popeye, particularly when used to undermine the FLOTUS.
The documentary said an hour a day for 14 days would deliver visible results. 14 days? FUCK 14 days. He called the 1-800 number and said exactly those words without even listening to other end of the line. Steve told his wife there and then – “I’m gonna shut myself in the goddamn shed and exercise for TWO hours a day”. This, he calculated, will shorten the success period by one half. Steve worked out that this was a manageable in 40 3 minute exercise/12 minute rest sessions each day.
Sure enough, Mrs Steve (as Steve called her) would hear grunting from the shed – and on each quarter-hour a shout of ” oh yeah!” as Steve had no-doubt passed another fitness milestone.
On Day 5, the UPS van arrived and Mrs Steve took delivery of the Bull-worker. What the…? If he isn’t using the Bullworker, then what IS he doing in there….?
Turns out, the Charles Atlas kick was a diversionary tactic. Bannon had snaffled a Yamaha DX7 synthesiser into the shed. He’d even got the Human League in to advise him on how to create authentic 1980s synth pop.
Oops seems like the natives are restless. I was only trying to do what was right for me – I had no idea those Trumps would be so sensitive. They must realise from working with me that everything I have done has all been phoney. Now look what mess I am in. Think I will retire to the shed to develop an implausible story that will paint me in a good light. Maybe along the lines of how Jared averted a nuclear face off with those pesky Koreans by sending a few boxes of Krispy Kremes to fatty.
Trump’s Thumb
“When he was fired, he not only lost his job, he lost his mind.”
Trump’s neither short nor chubby digit hovered above the Send button. Had he gone too far this time?
Donald was not given to introspection but somewhere between his Very Clever Brain and his absolutely normal-sized hand there was something – was it conscience? – that made him pause. Was this attack on his former friend, this blatant revisionism, this toddler-tantrum blast of spite – was it… presidential?
He glanced around the Oval office. The Resolute Desk. The Eagle Seal. Fox News flickering on three screens. He thought of those who had stood there before him. Big George, Li’l George, Ronnie, Hilary’s squeeze, that Osama guy. Some others, probably. The weight of history, the hopes of a great nation, settled briefly on his padded shoulders.
“Ah fuck it,” he said, and the thumb descended.
When he was fired, he not only lost his job, he lost his mind. Later, as he sat on his balcony eating the dog, Steve Bannon reflected on the unusual events that had taken place within the body politic during the previous eighteen months.
“Later, as he sat on the balcony eating the dog…” That’s the first line of a lost Ballard novel.
Bannon sat back down in his shed.
“Bastard” he said. “The bastard”.
The thing that irked him the most was that Trump had won. For the last 18 months, he and Trump had been engaged in a battle of wits and words. A competition only they knew about.
And Trump had won.
“Bastard”.
Trump had finally issued a tweet that contained a Martin Kemp lyric beating Bannon’s Martin Fry classic one about gravity getting him down.
Bannon let out a little sigh and muttered a few more “bastards”. This made him feel better. Good enough to boot up his laptop so he could surf those ‘exercise’ websites he had grown fond of. Mrs Steve had said that he had a hard on for them – how little she knew.
After 10 minutes of surfing, Bannon was growing agitated. Something was not right. The grizzled MILF he was concentrating on didn’t look right. Some bits did but some bits didn’t. Suddenly he realised – he was being tricked. The head and the body didn’t match – he was looking at a photoshopped woman.
“Bastards!” he exclaimed.
“Fake nudes!”.
We have a winner!
‘Lost his mind, huh?’ Marlowe poured out the remainder from the pint of whiskey into two tumblers. One for him, and one for the guy sitting on the other side of the desk. A big guy. And not enjoying the LA heat. His hair hung low over the back of his neck, and at the front it flopped over his forehead. He must have had it cut by a barber on a moving streetcar taking a bend.
The guy looked at the tumbler. ‘Got any coke instead?’
‘No’ said Marlowe. ‘See any children in here? No cola. Just the stuff that keeps me fizzy’
The guy opened his strange mouth, ‘Yeah. Bannon. We were buddies once. Close, y’know. Helped me out beautifully. Big, beautiful help. Shared a big round office with him. Told me what to say to on the phone to all those guys who have the same job as me, all over the world. Told me when to write my name on big beautiful pieces of paper when the camera guys came into the round office. All kinda things. We’d laugh. I’d make him laugh anyways. He’d be laughing when he came into the round office. He’d be laughing when he was in it. And he’d be laughing on his way out. I made him laugh a lot. He seemed to like it. Now… now, well not so much.’
Marlowe looked at the guy with the hair and the mouth. And the eyes.
‘OK’ Marlowe said. ‘I can help you’
The guy’s pig eyes didn’t change. Seemed as they never had ever, for anything’ ‘Really?’, he said.
‘Yeah’, said Marlowe, and punched the guy senseless.
Marlowe regarded the unconscious heap on the floor thoughtfully, then picked up the phone.
‘Bannon? Marlowe. Got a package for you here.’
It was a heavy day in L.A. and Bannon was a heavy guy. He threw himself down in the guest chair in a spray of sweat and downed Trump’s whiskey in one gulp. ‘So what do I owe you, Marlowe?’ he said, excavating a pustule on his cheek and inspecting his fingernail carefully.
‘Nothing,’ said Marlowe, reflecting on all the beautiful dames who had sat in that same seat without making him feel nauseous. ‘Think of it as a public service. But you’d better blow. Leave town. There’s going to be a lot of heat, and you don’t look like a guy who can take much heat. I hear Canada’s quiet this time of year.’
‘No dice,’ said Bannon, looking at the empty whiskey bottle sorrowfully. ‘I have things to do. I have a role to play. I’m needed.’
‘No you don’t. No you aren’t. You’re a nice guy…’ – Marlowe crossed and uncrossed his fingers – ‘but you keep terrible company. Be on your way, and take that pile of ordure with you. You got thirty minutes before I call downtown.’
Marlowe could hear Bannon’s panting progress all the way to the elevator. Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out a new bottle of whiskey and ripped off the foil. Take the rest of the day off, Marlowe, he said to himself. A grateful nation insists…