by William C. Burns, Jr.
In the kingdom of Trump there lives a king who is never wrong.
Perhaps some clarification of terms would be best here at the start. To say that the king lives is one of those facts that are true, but only barely. Oh, the king was a brave young hero in his day. He ascended from the fields of Sport and gathered the Kingdom of Trump like a meteor in reverse, a rock hurled from the bosom of the Earth by titanic forces, a challenge flung at the Moon. It is a matter of record that when he spoke his eyes blazed with some mysterious animal magnetism and people were transfixed. They say it was the breath of Spring incarnate to hear him. That you would look into his face and know that he had traveled from far distant places just to speak to you personally.
However that was long ago, a very long time ago. Oh, the man still stands, still moves about the grounds, still speaks. But there is not one who believes that the man’s soul is still contained within the ambulatory husk. Perhaps you think me too severe and perhaps you are correct. I offer only that which I have personally observed and surmised. I have always sought Truth above all else and if speaking the Truth as I know it brands me as the curmudgeon of this place, then so label me and let’s move on.
It is more accurate to say that the man, while not alive, is simply undead. There is considerable reckoning about the deals that he must have struck to attain so much in so short a time, but these deals are always negotiated far from public view, so there can be no record of them. I wasn’t there, so it is hard for me to speculate what is fiction and what is fact.
Further clarification of terms, to say the king is never wrong, is not to say that he is often right. Over the course of time he exiled and destroyed any who might not enthusiastically agree with his every whim. Which on the surface of it would seem to lead to a world that is more sane and secure, but as is often the case in this Universe the obvious is often not the case.
All through Trump there runs a deep disquieting fear of mistake. There is no adventure, there is no progress, only one source of new ideas was allowed and any sprout or burgeon that tries to poke though the concrete floor of the world is immediately sequestered or cut away in its tender stage.
Perhaps the funniest thing was the way everyone in the world tries to pretend that it is a democratic and enlightened place, not unlike moles trying to convince each other that they were in fact flying mammals living interesting and challenging lives in a sky wide with promise and untroubled by clouds.
Anyone who ventures a discouraging utterance is reprimanded in haste, lest the trees and stones hear. Continued discourse always brings heated demands for repentance, lest the offender be branded (quite literally branded with a hot iron) ‘not a team player’.
This does not mean that there exists no protocol for curmudgeonsious exchanges, there is. One simply has to follow the unwritten rules for such things. Any complaints about any thing are only mentioned quietly, in a hermetically sealed room, at the stroke if midnight, in the middle of February.