Kiddie-creeping is the third rail for MAGA candidates. Trump has been operating like a Vampire lording over mesmerized servants. This is the part in his Mexican Horror Movie where Santo looks up from the 600 year old codex, stares at the camera, and says "Ahí tenemos el Rey de los Robaniños-ES EL TROMP." Next up panning montage of Trump servants, guards, hoodlum layabouts just *snap out of it* and snatch up the local equivalent of a pitchfork. Joined by some skinny hippies with reedy voices and a gospel choir of joyous Sistahs, they surround El TROMP who hisses and darts from window to window at Mar-A-Lago.
Just as the freed former minions crash through the barriers, we hear a muffled roar from inside the boat house, and with the bull-like burst of twin 4,000 hp Nachomama hydro-jets, Trump and any of his non-stoned sons ESCAPE into the drear Atlantic.
Anguished voices arise, but just at their loudest they seem to fade. Instead of noise there is silence. The low sun behind them leaves an explosion of color, just the same as the ancient blind priest saw as a child over his home in Hiroshima. No one notices the old man, who kneels, placing one palm flat on the sand. His sightlessly scans the Eastern skies, finds something, and whispers. His voice, instead of fading, is picked up by small gusts who hand it off to steady breeze who expand it to huge brutal Nor'Easters in their aerial ice palaces when ZWACK some of the braver ones salute and dive straight down.
El Tromp notices the water spout forming aggressively off the port bow. "Look at that dumb water tornado. SAD, pain in the ass. C'mon. go around, point the other way. 'Starboard?' I dunno, I speak American. Right, yeah right, go riiiight."
EL TROMP grabs the railing as the 4,000 hp Twin Nano-Tuned Vyper-Detailed Twin Nachomama hydo-jets spin the ship in a starbord bank that would have thrown a lesser man into the deep, had El Tromp not smashed his bone spurs into the Vintage Mongolian Cherry-wood parquet and thereby gained two more anchors that gave him the grip of a giant, dripping, Numidian Cliff Spider.
Yes the Numidians love him. The Waterspout lags far behind them. Very fine people, the Numidians. There is squabbling, the boys. They're boys, they squabble. Numidians, fine people, strong people-- wtf feels like the wind is coming straight down-- a Numidian walked up to me, crying from his eyes, he said WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON-- I SEE GIANT FUCkIN JAWS and we we w are Inside them
CHOMP
An ancient beast the size of an office-block rises from the depths from which he had been called. The creature seeks out his old friend among the milling humans on the coast. The old priest whispers, miraculously reaches the sea monster, the gorilla-whale, and share a smile.
Then the creature rips a colossal shart, and debris mixed with orange streaks swirl out into the Gulf Stream.
FIN
FotografÍa: Raul Martínez Solares Productor Ejecutivo: Mario A. Zacarías