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Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Trump V (Because it's the fifth one I've done)

This may be an exaggeration of Iceland.
The horses along Central Park South were  uneasy.

The Man passed each carriage, passed each horse, and imagined each animal's essence pass into him. The Man became each carriage.

As he approached the Plaza Hotel, heading East from Columbus Circle, he stopped next to a particularly virile beast strapped to a velour and dark oak carriage. The Man inhaled the horse, exhaled fire.

"Sir," a young woman in his company said to him. "We can't stop here."

The Man turned away from the horse to consider the tight group surrounding him, and addressed the young woman by scowling at her through his mask. It was a Guy Fawkes mask. His youngest son had suggested it to him.

"I'm sorry, sir," the young woman said. "It's just not safe."

"If I want to stop, I will stop. I can make magnificent stops. The best stops. When I stop, we all stop. Believe me." But The Man was wearing a mask, so what the young woman--and the company, and the horse--heard was this: "Mmmf Imf ffon ffop..." etc.

Another member of The Man's company, a tall man wearing a balaclava imprinted with the face of Bugs Bunny, leaned in close to The Man. "Sir. She's right. If this is to work, you must keep moving. We're not at the protest yet."

The Man reached out to touch the horse. His stubby fingers brushed the horse's forehead, and an electricity passed from the horse to himself. The Man recalled a recent past where he approached the horses without supervision.

Electricity traveled from the horses to The Man like lightning shooting from Eyjafjallajokull to the heavens. He needed to touch the horses. And now he was warned away, and could only mutter "Mmmfh mmust fying--" before his company surrounded him and urged him toward 5th Avenue, away from the horse. Away from the virility of the animals.

As The Man was trotted across Central Park South toward 5th Avenue, the young woman explained, "Sir, sorry, sir. But you can't stop unless we secure the area."

"MMfay," the man said. "MMfay."

"I need you to be more affirmative, sir."

"MMFAY!" The Man said through his Guy Fawkes mask.

The company and The Man jogged to the intersection.

The young woman noticed first, and said, "Okay, we need to stop for a moment."

After a rest, The Man regained consciousness. He looked at the world around him, and the past month felt like a dream. He felt like George Bailey, from 'It's a Wonderful Life', returning to Grover's Corners after a near-fatal plane-crash. Or like Blanche returning to Tara after a dreadful chifforobe incident.  Or Dorothy, returning to Nebraska.

Everything was normal again. He knew the corners--Central Park there, Plaza there, Apple Store, there, and beyond was Cartier, and over there was Tiffany, and just two blocks away, down 5th, was Trump Tower.

Regaining his breath, The Man ripped his mask from his face. While most of his company panicked, and formed a human shield around the President, Trump was delighted the young woman faced him.

"I can now speak clearly," Trump said. "So clearly. The mask is gone and I'm right here."

"Yes sir," the young woman responded. Then hiccuped. "Sorry." Then sneezed. "Jesus. Sorry, sir."

"I have felt the power of the universe."

"Sir. You wanted to go into the crowds. You wanted to understand their minds, and be a better leader," the young woman--

"No need. NO need. I have done what I said. I came down to this protest, and I've touched a horse. I will need that horse in Congress on my side."

The young woman, facing downtown at the chaos, muttered to herself.

Trump replied, "I am a gentleman of a company."

The young woman faced Trump. "A company, but you never say which one."

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