NOTE: Readers may want to read or reread “Noodles the Supercat Vs. Trump and Pence” (Part 1), which is in comic-strip format, before reading this sequel in illustrated-story format. Hope you enjoy this new format.
As it turned out, when Noodles had attacked Trump and Pence’s pterodactyls, Pence had parachuted first and landed near the old Caruthersville water tower just ahead of his boss. The reunion of these two scoundrels was soon followed by the gathering of a small, adoring crowd. “There must be 10,000 supporters here,” Trump told the group. “A new record.” His supporters heartily agreed, then shouted “Lock her up!” three times in unison. For this reason, they didn’t hear Trump whisper to Pence, “What a s’hole town. Let’s get out of here.”
A few days later Noodles received a screenshot and message from Havana Bell, a notorious C’ville con man who had met Trump and Pence as he walked by the old water tower.
The message read:
“I sold them two old jackasses to ride out to those windmills. Man, those were huge asses. The donkeys were large too.”
Meanwhile, Trump and Pence rode their agonizingly slow mounts south along the top of the forty-foot levee toward Cottonwood Point, just north of the new bank of windmills Trump had come to investigate. Their conversation naturally turned to “the good ol’ days”. “When men were men, and women were women; when black was black, and white was white,” Trump mused aloud. “And never the twain should meet,” Pence offered. “My wife is always trying to straighten out those LGBT people.” “LGBTQ,” Trump corrected. Pence sighed. “It gets more complicated every day.” But Trump voiced new thoughts: “When we get back to Washington, I’m issuing an executive order to have those Socialist windmills dynamited. How could I ever make any money on those cockblockers? You know, I think these are Missouri mules, not donkeys.” Pence, as always, agreed. “Stubbornest animals on earth. Just like your supporters.” “Amen to that,” Trump said.
Soon Pence grew chafed from the rough bareback ride and started to complain. “I’ve never felt this sore between my legs.” He threw one leg over his donkey in order to ride sidesaddle, and Trump responded, “I doubt you’ve ever felt anything there at all. You look like a short-haired old lady in a suit.” Pence grew quiet, as was his custom when either his wife or his boss got this way.
When the bank of imposing four-propeller windmills came into view, about two miles downriver in this flat soybean country, Trump dismounted, removed his mini-binoculars from his inside coat pocket, and stood beside his burro looking through them into the distance. “They might be giants,” he said, “and threats like these must be eliminated. More of that global-warming nonsense. Have you seen any dead birds yet?” Morose and smarting from the pain and insults, Pence didn’t answer at first. Then, “I guess not, Boss. We’re just not close enough yet.”
About a quarter mile from the first windmill, Trump kicked his donkey’s sides repeatedly as hard as he could, spurring the beast to bolt into a mad run that made him hold onto its neck for dear life. When they reached the windmill, the animal stopped abruptly and dropped to its fore knees, throwing Trump into a somersault, like Charlie Brown at the hands of Lucy.
But Trump landed not on his feet but his back. A great whoosh escaped his mouth, and a great, long, resonating fart escaped his buttocks. He slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, turned over onto his knees, then stood up, reeling, and dusted his suit off. He groaned and swore, and issued another vow: “I’m going to shoot that damned Democrat mule as soon as I can buy an illegal gun.” The donkey (or Missouri mule) glared at him, then closed its eyes and brayed several times in reply, as if laughing.
Trump was not deterred. Some movement from the windmill’s propeller attracted his attention and he hobbled toward it, grabbing the lowermost blade with both hands and hanging there, thinking to stop its turning with his prodigious weight. But a sudden gust of wind picked him up and sent him skyward, and soon Trump found himself at the top of a four-spoked ferris wheel without the rim, again hanging on for dear life. “Goober, get me down from here!” he screamed. “This is beneath the dignity of my office.” Pence stood on the ground below staring upward like a small child, as if he had seen “the light”. “I will, Boss,” he answered, “but it will take some time.”
In fewer than five minutes, another gathering of Missouri supporters appeared. Immediately, without prompting, they chanted “Lock her up!” three times, then grew quiet as they took in the spectacle before them. Trump, unhappy, waved sheepishly and tried to regain his composure.
[Look for the thrilling conclusion in Part Three…soon.]
Sam J Duckworth
duckworthsam 