by Akim Reinhardt
What do we know about vampires?
- They are selfish to a degree that is sociopathic
- They are consumed by vanity
- They roar against anyone who contradicts them
- Their skin is oddly discolored
- They demand sycophantic followers
- All they care about is fucking, feeding, and being complimented
- They are capable of hypnotizing people into ignoring all their horrible vampiric misdeeds
At first glance then, it seems as if Donald Trump might actually be a vampire. But of course the thought is ridiculous. Just the hysterical ramblings of an unmoored Ukraine-supporter. The above is nothing more than a list of random, vague coincidences. Or so I thought. And then I found the following excerpt from Bram Stoker Steve Bannon’s journal.
3 May. Palm Beach.–Left NYC Trump Tower at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Washington, D.C. early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late because Amtrak is full of losers. DC seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and there were Democrats everywhere.
The impression I had was that we were leaving the North and entering the South; the most splendid of Confederate monuments over at the Capitol, which are here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Jim Crow rule.
We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Atlanta. Here I stopped for the night at the Waffle House. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a steak done up some way with blood red sauce, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for Melania.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called “steak well done with ketchup,” and that, as it was Trump’s favorite dish, I should be able to get it anywhere.
I found my smattering of Libtard insults very useful here, indeed, I don’t know how I should be able to get on without it.
Having had some time at my disposal when in Pensacola, I had visited the Love’s Truck Stop, and made search among the tourist guides and maps in the gift shop regarding Florida; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with the unofficial emperor of that country.
I find that Pensacola is in the extreme west of the state, just on the borders of three states, Florida, Alabama, and Louisiana, in the midst of the Redneck Riviera; one of the wildest and least known portions of the South.
I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Mar-a-Lago, as there are no truck stop maps of this country as yet to compare with our own GPS; but I found that Palm Beach, the post town named by Donald Trump, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Melania.
In the population of Florida there are four distinct nationalities: Native rednecks in the North, and mixed with them the Gulf Coast Snowbirds, who are the descendants of the Midwesterners; Jews in the East; Cubans in the South; and Blacks East and Central. I am going among the former, who claim to be descended from Confederates. This may be so, for when the Trumpers conquered the South in 2016 they found Confederate flags waving in it.
I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the peninsula of Florida, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool of election deniers, fans of his inflated wealth, anti-vaxxers, and admirers of his big hands; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must ask Trump all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my Michael Lindell MyPillow was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was an anti-abortionist howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the Big Macs, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous sound of gunfire and people holding their ground outside my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then.
I had for breakfast more chicken, and a sort of breading which they said was “down home”, and white gravy, a very excellent dish, which they call “chicken fried chicken”. (Mem., get recipe for this also.)
I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the Bojangle’s for more than an hour before we began to move.
It seems to me that the further south you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in Key West?
All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little strip malls filled with dollar stores and gas stations; sometimes we ran by highways and thoroughfares which seemed from the wide jersey barriers on each side of them to be subject to great floods of SUVs. It takes a lot of tow trucks, and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a road clear.
At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I saw coming through Ohio and Virginia, with flag jackets, and MAGA hats, and Trump yard signs that were made in China; but others were very picturesque.
The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy about the waist. They had all red shirts of some kind or other, and most of them had bleach blonde hair with a lot of Trump buttons pinned to their shirts and dresses, but of course there were bikini tops under them.
The strangest figures we saw were the male Trumpers, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy blue jeans, Trump jackets, and enormous American flags, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with thin blue lines and “Don’t Tread on Me” snakes. Some wore hemmed shorts, with their polo shirts tucked into them, and had long flaming tiki torches. They are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at once as some old band of racists. They are, however, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-awareness.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Palm Beach, which is a very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier–for the I-95 leads from it into Miami–it has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Years ago a series of great elections took place, which made terrible havoc of the presidency on five separate occasions. At the very beginning of the twenty-first century it underwent a siege of recounts that lasted three weeks and Democrats lost by 537 votes, the casualties of a Supreme Court war being assisted by GOP hacks.
Count Trump had directed me to go to the Mar-a-Lago Hotel, which I found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly nouveau riche, for of course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the Trumpers.
I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a cheery looking elderly woman in the usual Trumper dress–blonde pony under a MAGA hat, red Trump shirt fitting almost too tight for modesty. When I came close she bowed and said, “The Cloying Sycophant?”
“Yes,” I said, “Steve Bannon.”
She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in a caddy’s outfit, who had followed her to the door.
He went, but immediately returned with a letter:
“My friend.–Welcome to Florida. This hotel is the best. The best. When they stole the election from me, it was so terrible, but I said, you know what, I’m tired of the White House. What a dump. I fixed it up, you know I took down the blue drapes and put in gold drapes. No one else thinks to do that, just me. But really, the place is a dump, I’d rather be here. No one puts together a luxury golf course like I do. I build them all over the world and people are just lining up, they can’t get enough of them. That’s why I’m worth billions, so many billions who even knows anymore. But I’m gonna go back to the White House this year. That Joe Biden’s a real loser, let me tell you. Everyone says so. My rallies are going great and you’re gonna get those tiki torch guys to vote for me again. We’ll win Florida, we’ll win Ohio, and then we’ll go back to the White House, I don’t care what the rest of the votes are. Nobody cares about that anymore, we just go back, put the gold drapes up. Everyone thinks I’m the best. I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow night, we’re having well done steaks and ketchup. –Your friend, Donald Trump.”
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Akim Reinhardt’s website, which runs during daylight as well as nighttime hours, is ThePublicProfessor.com.