It’s hot here in the RNC press pit.
Getting here wasn’t easy, sweetums — not since Trump pulled the credentials of most lamestream media. Luckily for me, I’d snagged Thousand-Year-Rick.com during a domain name buying spree a few years ago and declared myself its roving correspondent. Now I’m wedged between that alt.right blondie who used to be an anarchist and Alex Jones’s profusely sweating left jowl. I lick the jowl. It tastes of vodka. Thank god.
Reince Priebus, moist and pink from a recent molt, introduces the presumptive nominee. His grilles short the microphones, which shoot blue arcs of electricity to match his nipples. “Party unity!” he screams.
His throat sac explodes.
Stepping over the charred remains, Donald J. Trump ascends to the stage wearing a codpiece fashioned from the severed head of Ronald Reagan, the eyes replaced by diamonds and the skin spray-tanned to match Trump’s own. His robe is gilt, lined with more gilt. Marco Rubio holds the train in his teeth.
“Isn’t he fabulous?” Trump laughs, patting the codpiece with one petite hand. At his touch, the diamonds turn into snakes. “You’ll all have one of these, once I make America great again.”
Sean Hannity rearranges his tentacles beneath his shirt. Wayne LaPierre drops an egg sack from the rafters.
Drones titter in the air above us, scanning our past social media for critical comments. Without warning, they squirt streams of battery acid at the guy from Fox who made the small-hands crack a few months ago. At the time I’d cut and pasted it for the retweets, but now, as he writhes on the floor, I avoid eye contact. A doughy redhead famous for doxxing rape victims kicks the sizzling corpse.
Caligula, the British former gaming blogger, massages his pompadour. “I’m happy he’s dead. He looked tan. Almost…Mexican.” The master is pleased. “Lyin’ media!” Trump shouts. There is no G in wall.
Handlers lead Ted Cruz onstage by his harness, naked and on all fours. The trusty steed’s belly swings like a pendulum. Trump hops on. Golden bats fly screaming from his hair. “America First,” says Trump. Bill O’Reilly looks up from his meal of Megyn Kelly. He offers Trump a bite. “The best,” he says proudly.
In the pit, we grin nervously. If we don’t, we won’t get our accreditation next time. It grows hotter. Something’s banging on the convention center walls. A few stroke their rhino-pelt press passes, for luck.
Trump dismounts Cruz and climbs to the top of an Abu Ghraib–style human pyramid anchored asymmetrically by Chris Christie and Paul Ryan. “Waterboard super hard,” Trump says, giving a thumbs-up. The thumb falls off. “Terrrrorrrrists. Big, big, big, big, man.” Christie cries blood-tears.
“You can’t build a wall! It’s physically impossible!” a reporter mutters.
Not a good move, baby. Doesn’t look objective at all. Besides, no one cares: Trump is domming reality.
The drones swarm the reporter in a mass of whirring blades. I wipe a spot of entrail from my cheek.
Trump barks more words. “MY DAUGHTER. IS. SO. HOTTTTTTT.” Those in the crowd respond as if he is speaking directly to them, their neglected souls, their shunned wisdom and grandeur. They love him, and so they dance arrhythmically in their geometric shapes, raising their right hands skyward.
“She-is-so-hot-she-is-so-hot,” they chant, then orgasm as one. LaPierre’s spent body falls to the ground.
“Daddy big,” he says, pointing at his chest. “Daddy strong man. Soon you grow up to be big strong man like Daddy. Daddy love you so much.”
Then the smile leaves his face. For the first time, he looks at the press pit. No — he looks at me.
He jabs at us, his eyes burning as neon as his skin, his mouth a mint-condition anus.
“But these ones are bad! Crooked media! Lyin’ media! They use Daddy for hits! Then they mock Daddy!”
The crowd stirs; the daisy chain of writhing Iowa delegates unwinds. They trudge toward us with their foam fingers and cowboy hats and desires to which we’d never before bothered to listen. The drones part to let them enter.
I see what’s in their eyes. Daddy promised he’d bring the jobs back. This is one job they are going to do themselves.
The delegates fall upon us, punching and biting. They tear Caligula apart by his femurs. They toast, clinking the Trump caps they’ve used to gather our blood. I watch, now armless, and feel a great relief in watching, because for once I am no longer part of a depraved, coastal elite, cut off from the people, the Volk, the single, real, enduring America. America is here, in all its gore-gorged glory. I am part of it. We are one.
Elsewhere, dawn breaks over a mountaintop, slowly illuminating a blood-drenched Hillary Clinton, alone in an arena of pure-white stone. She wipes the gristle of what was once her husband from her lips. She shakes her head sadly, remembering the dreams she and Bill once had, when they were just two kids, baking in the Arkansas sun. The motor beneath her sternum aches slightly.
“I’m finally rid of you,” she spits at the wet spot at her feet. “You old fool.”
She slips into her own codpiece. Her time has come at last.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on July 13, 2016