Chapter Thirty-Seven
In which our heroine hears a ghastly story on the way to the enclave of golf.
“Ahh, you know me so well. No, I have no idea what happened to Donald Trump Junior,” Lorinda admitted. “We don’t see much news in our Perfecton bubble.” She added, “Or only a certain kind of news.”
They were interrupted by another loud announcement through the truck’s sound system: “Many people say this is the Christian golf capital of the world!” And there was the billboard, showing a picture of Trump on a green lawn, wearing a biblical white robe and leaning jauntily on a golf club. The adjacent headline read:
LIVE THE CHRISTIAN LUXURY GOLF LIFESTYLE!
Before Stimpy could continue he was interrupted by another blaring announcement: “If you’re rich and Christian, this could be your gated community!” And there was the accompanying billboard showing a gigantic face of Donald Trump, perfectly bronzed and mischievously winking an eye, along with the proclamation:
MANY PEOPLE SAY
THIS IS THE CHRISTIAN GOLF CAPITAL OF THE WORLD!
“I mean,” Lorinda continued, shaking her head as if to slough off the creepiness of the billboards, “we learned that Donald Trump had some children. I remember, let’s see, Don Junior of course. Then there was … Edward?”
“Eric.”
“Eric.” And the girl. “Ivanka, right?”
“Right.”
“But they didn’t tell us what happened to them. I think there were some others too.”
“Yeah, I can’t remember them either. Maybe they changed their last name and disappeared. Anyway,” Stimpy said, “Eric died in prison. In Connecticut, I think.”
“Whoa. No one talks about that in Perfecton.”
“They never did figure out what killed him. Or who. Ivanka, she divorced that creepy real-estate dude and married some Saudi prince. And converted to Islam. And then there’s Donny Junior. You don’t know anything about his story?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. So he started out thinking he’d follow in his father’s footsteps and one day be president of the USA. The budgies and dwaynes in the red states had elected his father, right? He was thinking: Why not me? It’s my turn! Then came The Split. He figured he’d be a shoo-in as CEO of the brand new CCSA. Nope. He had a little bit of a following among some old dementos who still worshipped his father, but the billionaires thought he was an asshole and a fool and a drug fiend, so that was out. And his father’s so-called fortune, well, it turned out there was no Trump fortune. So he still needed a job —”
“Wait a minute. I thought Trump was a billionaire.”
“Well guess what. He wasn’t. So Donny Junior needed a job but he didn’t know how to do anything. He’d already cozied-up to the Nazi morons, and he thought maybe if he couldn’t be CEO of the country, he could at least be the Fuhrer of the Nazis. So he took five or six of the top Nazis out on one of his jerkoff safaris. He had this safari business in Louisiana — Trump Swamp Safaris or some shit. It was supposed to be a two-week vacation —”
“Hah!” Lorinda hooted. “Two weeks in a swamp is a vacation?”
“I guess it is if you’re shooting things, yeah. Now, remember, he had spent his whole life being supported by Daddy, but he was somehow under the illusion that he was this Born Leader of Men. He figured the savvy way to conduct himself — and the way to be just like Daddy — was to bullshit and bully everybody. Except for dictators. Anyway, seven or eight days after the start of the safari, the Nazis showed up at a police station in some godforsaken town in Louisiana to report that their tour leader had somehow died while they were out there in the swamp.”
“He died? On one of his own safaris?”
“Oh, it’s worse than that. When they finally found the body — the parts the alligators didn’t get to — and they had an autopsy? It turned out there were quite a few bullet holes and slugs in it.”
“Someone shot him?”
“Everyone shot him. All the Nazis. The bullets came from different guns. But they’d conveniently lost all their weapons in the swamp, or at least the ones that could be matched to the bullets, so there were no ballistics matches. No evidence to tie anybody to the shooting. They all claimed to be surprised that he’d been shot. They said he’d had a heart attack or a stroke or something. Aneurism, maybe.” Stimpy snickered. “Not that they knew that word.”
“Wait. So how did these Nazis explain the bullet holes?”
“Good point! So maybe some other group of hunters came upon poor Junior and filled him full of lead. You know, after he died. That was their best theory.”
She shook her head. The big world outside Perfecton kept revealing new forms of chaos, danger, and insanity. “Okay, so the Nazis shot him. But why?”
“They all claimed they didn’t know nothin’ about no shootin’. But remember, these people are stupider than anyone you’ve ever met. Of course they talked to all their Nazi pals, and soon the whole world knew that after a few days on the safari they just couldn’t take any more of Don Junior. Hated his guts. Forget about him becoming their Hitler, the leader of their sacred crusade. They didn’t want him leading them out of the swamp. They just wanted him gone, forever. Expunged. Wiped out.”
“That’s so weird!”
“It’s sort of a variation of what happened in the war in Vietnam. Soldiers sometimes hated their own officers. I mean really hated them. So they killed them. Fragging, they called it. This is the modern, super-ultra-fucked-up version of that.”
“How do you know these things?”
“I’m just a font of wisdom, and —"
“You are about to enter the enclave for people just like yourself,” the announcer interjected as the final billboard in the series came into view:
WELCOME TO THE GOLFCENTRIC GATED CHRISTIAN LIFE
DONALD J. TRUMP MEMORIAL CHRISTIAN GOLF COURSE
AND BEAUTIFUL RESIDENCES!
THE ENCLAVE FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOU!
Ethereal “heavenly” music filled the cabin of the truck. Stimpy slowed down and took a long look at Lorinda.
“What?” she said.
“I’m just checking your makeup. You still look sort of okay.”
“You mean old?” she said.
“Yeah. But I don’t think it’ll make it through the night. How do I look?”
“Old, but getting younger all the time.”
“The makeup’s falling off?”
“Yeah. And the hair,” she said. “Is it good news or bad news that you’re not permanently old?”
“Whatever it is, we’ll have to figure something out.” He drove slowly toward an ornate golden gate in the middle of a tall brick wall topped by gleaming golden spikes. Over the gate, a sign blinked:
PRES. DONALD J. TRUMP
MEMORIAL CHRISTIAN GOLF RESORT AND BEAUTIFUL RESIDENCES
On the other side of the gate they caught a glimpse of enormous golden crucifixes on both sides of the roadway. It looked like a line of glittery cartoon telephone poles, without the wires. Each featured, teed up atop its vertical member, an oversized, dimpled white golf ball, with the initials DJT in black Gothic script.
They stopped at the gate and fumbled around for their Citizen Cards as the uniformed guard in the gatehouse looked on.
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NEXT: Chapter Thirty-Eight. In which our heroine begins a crash course in the plutocratic lifestyle.
PREVIOUSLY in THE SPLIT!
Chapter One. In which we meet our heroine and her dainty little gun.
Chapter Two. In which Lorinda demonstrates her bartending virtuosity.
Chapter Three. In which our heroine receives a promotion and prepares to celebrate.
Chapter Four. In which our heroine proves herself an immoral citizen of the CCSA.
Chapter Five. In which our heroine goes to church.
Chapter Six. In which Lorinda contemplates her future, ignores Pastor Doug, and gets something unexpected from Emmie.
Chapter Seven. In which Lorinda learns something that threatens her big dream.
Chapter Eight. In which our heroine freaks out.
Chapter Nine. In which our heroine says the forbidden word as an unwelcome visitor arrives.
Chapter Ten. In which two unpleasant men perturb our heroine.
Chapter Eleven. In which our heroine seems to have found a solution to her problem.
Chapter Twelve. In which that black truck follows our heroine all the way to Austin.
Chapter Thirteen. In which Lorinda lashes out.
Chapter Fourteen. In which our heroine gets a taste of life in the big city.
Chapter Fifteen. In which our heroine meets a fellow bartender and has a drink.
Chapter Sixteen. In which Lorinda once again takes a swing with her little pink gun.
Chapter Seventeen. In which our heroine prepares to escape.
Chapter Eighteen. In which our heroine gets in a truck with a couple of slightly scary strangers.
Chapter Nineteen. In which our heroine learns that she’s got a long way to go.
Chapter Twenty. In which our heroine spends a night in a gas station.
Chapter Twenty-One. In which our heroine learns about the enclaves of the CCSA.
Chapter Twenty-Two. In which our heroine learns way too much about the enclaves of the CCSA.
Chapter Twenty-Three. In which our heroine experiences liberty run amok.
Chapter Twenty-Four. In which our heroine’s escape is disastrously derailed.
Chapter Twenty-Five. In which our heroine finds herself back at the gas station.
Chapter Twenty-Six. In which Stimpy, on the road to Revelation, reveals Ren’s real name.
Chapter Twenty-Seven. In which our heroine manages not to crash the car as she learns more about CCSA enclaves.
Chapter Twenty-Eight. In which Lorinda and Stimpy enter Revelation.
Chapter Twenty-Nine. In which our heroine has pizza for the first time and readies herself to be an old fogie.
Chapter Thirty. In which our heroine finally gets to experience the Rapture Ride.
Chapter Thirty-One. In which our heroine’s long-awaited Rapture Ride experience is interrupted by some unwelcome visitors.
Chapter Thirty-Two. In which our heroine triggers the Rapture…or something.
Chapter Thirty-Three. In which Lorinda and Stimpy slip out of Revelation under cover of pandemonium.
Chapter Thirty-Four. In which our heroine trades arms for freedom.
Chapter Thirty-Five. In which our heroine does a bit of tactical shooting.
Chapter Thirty-Six. In which our heroine heads for the greens in a chartreuse truck.
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Finally! I've waited too long to read the cliffhanger on the Junior story—but I have to say, it WAS worth the wait.
As authors, it must be fun to imagine the futures of the Trump Klan—and I hope Barron will be as forgettable as Tiffany.
Is Junior too dumb not to go into the woods with Nazis? All signs point to yes.