Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom

by Heide Goody

  “Who’s Jezza?” asked Michael. Aisling tied a piece of string around the goat’s neck. “You have a goat called Jeremy?”

  “And what of it?” said Aisling.

  “Nothing,” said Michael. “Just I’ve got a friend called Jeremy. The resemblance is uncanny.”

  Miami, Florida

  A bronze afternoon sun shone into the Miami International airport terminal, even though Clovenhoof’s body clock told him it should be dark by now and well past Lambrini o’clock.

  “Can you step out of line please, sir,” said an immigration official in a smartly pressed, short sleeve shirt.

  “I can. I’ve done it before,” said Clovenhoof. He trotted over to the counter to the side of the long queue.

  The official clicked his fingers for Clovenhoof to hand his rucksack over. “What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?”

  “I’ve come to see Donald Trump.”

  The official paused in his ransacking of the rucksack. “See Donald Trump? Are you a Republican, sir?”

  “In every sense of the word.”

  The official took out one of Clovenhoof’s bars of Toblerone and sniffed the end. “Are you planning to commit any act of terrorism during your stay in the US?”

  If the official had asked if Clovenhoof planned to detonate any explosives or cause widespread alarm, he might have felt honest enough to reply that he was. But bombs and panic did not a terrorist make. Terrorism required beliefs and goals; an agenda. That sounded far too much like hard work to Clovenhoof.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been to the United States before?”

  “No— Oh, yes! Once. Illinois, I think. 1844. To collect one Joseph Smith. I rarely make house calls but he was a special case.”

  “Joseph Smith?”

  “A lying git. Said Eden was in Missouri and that the Almighty lives on a star called Kolob.”

  The immigration official looked steadily at Clovenhoof. “Are you attempting humour, sir?”

  “I’ve never had to try before.”

  “Sir, I need to be convinced that you are here for honest and legal reasons.”

  “You have very beautiful eyes.”

  “Sir, I have to be satisfied that you do not intend to stay here longer than is allowed and that you do not intend to make the United States your permanent residence.”

  “Oh, no fear of that. I’ve a half finished pack of crispy pancakes waiting for me at home. I’m not abandoning them.”

  “Crispy pancakes?” said the official.

  “Don’t you have crispy pancakes here?” said Clovenhoof, going ever so slightly weak at his goaty knees. “Thank Findus I brought some with me.”

  He grabbed his rucksack, rummaged through and produced a smoking jacket, a pair of pants (because one is all you need) and a slightly soggy box of defrosted crispy pancakes. He took one out to show the official. It sagged juicily in Clovenhoof’s hands. He was very tempted to scoff it cold.

  “Hell is that?” said the man, recoiling, his accent slipping out of a bureaucratic monotone and into something far more regional.

  “I think they roam free in the fields of Lincolnshire before they’re rounded up and rolled in crumb-crisp coating. Never actually seen one in the wild.”

  “Please put it away.”

  Clovenhoof tucked it back in the box and licked his fingers.

  “And what is this, sir?” The official held up a miniature bottle of Jim Beam containing a peanut with a horrified face etched on it.

  “That is Boris. He’s being subjected to extraordinary rendition and will later be put on trial for being a traitor of the highest order and a fatuous cock.”

  “Sir, this is a peanut,” said the official.

  “I did say it was extraordinary,” argued Clovenhoof.

  By the time Clovenhoof had extricated himself from the clutches of US Immigration and Customs and staggered out of to the taxi stand, the sun was setting, the autumn sky was a cloudy grey and it was still hotter than the hottest summer day he’d ever experienced in good old Blighty.

  He banged on the roof of the yellow BMW cab at the front of the line. “You free?” he asked.

  “No, I charge like everyone else,” said the jowly guy in the flat cap behind the wheel.

  “You’ll do,” said Clovenhoof and climbed in the front passenger seat.

  “Where to, bro?” said the taxi driver.

  “I’m here to see Donald Trump.”

  “Well, he ain’t here until tomorrow morning. Where do you want to go meantime, bro? South Beach? The mall? You need somewhere to stay?”

  “I do.”

  “My cousin runs a place off Biscayne Boulevard.”

  “Will I like it?”

  “It has a pool and free Wi-Fi.”

  “And beds?”

  “Sure, bro.”

  “I’m sold.”

  “Bueno,” said the taxi driver and pulled out.

  On the elevated expressway into Miami, passing junkyards and shabby bungalows and more palm trees than Clovenhoof had seen since Creation, the driver said, “So, you’re a Brit, right?”

  “Me? No,” said Clovenhoof. “I’m from all over.”

  “You got the accent, bro.”

  “All the best villains have a British accent.”

  “You sound like one of those super-smart guys. Like that Frasier guy.”

  “I am one of those super-smart guys,” Clovenhoof informed him.

  The taxi driver gave him a sideways glance. “Bro, you’re coming to see Trump. You’re not like one of those political commentator guys? Like a professor of elections or something?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  The taxi driver thrust a hand at him, swerving only slightly and drawing angry beeps from other road users. “Mason Miller.”

  Clovenhoof shook. “Jeremy.”

  “Bro, my cousin – my other cousin – he’s like a producer over at WVLN. It’s a two-bit TV station. They’ve got this evening news spot. I know he’d be super-pleased to get, like, an academic on the show.”

  “Television?” said Clovenhoof thoughtfully. “I’d need to check my schedule.”

  He produced his aeroplane napkin and consulted the other side on which he written his Miami plans:

  Re-enact series 1 – 3 of Miami vice

  Buy a mankini

  Strut my funky stuff on the beach

  Wrestle an alligator

  Trump!

  “I could fit it in,” he said.

  “Super-cool.” Mason pulled out a phone and started dialling.

  WVLN TV studios occupied a dull, warehouse-like building among many other dull, warehouse-like buildings on an artificial island in the middle of Biscayne Bay. The air-con in reception was cranked up to arctic levels. Clovenhoof shivered while Mason gabbled leisurely with the receptionist before handing Clovenhoof over to a perky young thing with an ID card, a clipboard and a Bluetooth headset.

  “How do you do?” said the perky young thing with such emphasis that it sounded like a genuine question. “I’m Sandee – two Es – and I’m so glad you could fit us into your busy schedule. This way please. We’re all big fans of you here. Now, it’s Dr Jeremy—?”

  “Baboon,” said Clovenhoof.

  Sandee with two Es blinked.

  “Jeremy Baboon,” elaborated Clovenhoof.

  “Of course, Dr Baboon.”

  “Professor.”

  “Professor Baboon.”

  “Sir.”

  “Sir?”

  Clovenhoof whipped on a pair of intelligent-looking spectacles he had brought along. “Sir Professor Jeremy Baboon of the London College of Arms,” he said, popping a large briar pipe he had also brought along between his lips. Clovenhoof always carried a pipe with him: in case he found something interesting to smoke, or needed it to gesticulate in an authoritative and intellectual manner. It was surprising how effective it was.

  “Your … your majesty?” said Sandee, bewildered. She mana
ged a little curtsey, despite the confines of the elevator they were in.

  “No need for that,” he said. “On meeting a knight of the realm, one only needs to bow one’s head. Facilius fellatio, my dear.” He smiled magnanimously.

  Sandee bowed.

  Clovenhoof was rushed through to make-up where an unfortunate fellow tried to match Clovenhoof’s red skin tones to his palette of foundations and blushers. The fellow gave up and just gave Clovenhoof’s hair a touch of gel. He stabbed himself on one of Clovenhoof’s horns and couldn’t figure for the life of him why his hand was bleeding.

  In the studio (which Clovenhoof decided was not half as big as a TV studio ought to be even though he’d never been in one before), he was miked up and left to sit quietly while the anchorwoman, Summer Hanrahan, did a piece to camera.

  “…and asked if he regretted the tattoo, the Boward resident said ‘Ted Cruz is a personal and national hero and seeing his face every day gives me the will and strength to go on with life.’” Summer Hanrahan turned to another camera for no discernible reason. “Republican presidential candidate, Donald Trump, is in Miami tomorrow to meet supporters at Bayfront Park. With exactly a week to go before the nation decides, the latest ABC polls show Trump one point ahead of Hillary Clinton. To discuss the impact of this poll, and how the two presidential hopefuls are perceived on the international stage, we are joined by Sir Professor Jeremy Baboon of the London College of Arms.” She turned to Clovenhoof with a little bow of her head. “Sir Jeremy.”

  “Summer,” he grinned.

  “First, I have to say the people of the United States are full of admiration for the British people and your recent Brexit: freeing yourself from European control. The future’s looking bright, would you say?”

  “Well, Summer, the fight for Brexit was a long and arduous one. As you know, Nigel Farage, personal friend of Mr Trump and official leader of Her Majesty’s opposition, had an uphill battle. Like the Spartan heroes of old, he and his small, plucky band stood at the gates of Dover; the liberal élite cowering behind him, the amassed foreign hordes in front of him. There they stood, bare-chested, nipples proud, and with a yell of ‘This! Is! Sparta!’ took back control of the country from the sausage and garlic munching eurocrats of Brussels. It truly was a blow to the establishment.”

  “And do you think that Donald Trump – a man who has never held public office – can deliver a similar knockout blow to the political establishment in Washington?”

  Clovenhoof gesticulated with his pipe in an authoritative and intellectual manner. “Donald Trump has, like Nigel Farage, set himself up as an outsider and champion of the underdog. The people need a champion: one who thinks how they think, feels what they feel; one who knows the hardships of small town, Middle America and knows what it is like to be downtrodden by Big Government.”

  “That they do,” nodded Summer.

  “And who could be a better champion than New York billionaire, Democrat donor and TV host, Donald Trump: a man who built a financial empire with nothing but his two hands and the hundreds of millions of dollars he inherited from his father.”

  “Do you think we can trust the polls?” asked Summer.

  “Oh, you hear some horror stories but most of them are lovely people,” said Clovenhoof. “I had one come do my bathroom this year. Piotr worked all hours of the day, never took a break and made a superb job of the grouting, including that tricky bit behind the power shower.”

  “I’m not sure I understand…”

  “And I think Donald Trump’s decision to focus on immigration in his campaign is a brave decision.”

  “Do you feel that he is simply voicing what many Americans feel?”

  “I do. And it’s very brave. Here is a man willing to say exactly what people want to hear. The American people want to find an external cause for all their problems. They want someone to say: it’s not your fault, none of it’s your fault. It’s the fault of the Mexicans and the Muslims and the blacks.”

  “African-Americans, professor.”

  “Of course. I was just quoting the great man himself. The Americans want a Führer who will tell them none of it is their fault, that all their problems are caused by others and who will lull the electorate to sleep with his hollow promises. And Donald Trump is absolutely that man, and he’s willing to say those things even though he is a Muslim woman from Mexico.”

  Summer Hanrahan froze for a split second. She looked at camera one, camera two, her notes and then back to Clovenhoof. “He is a what, professor?”

  “A Muslim woman from Mexico.”

  “Donald Trump…?”

  Clovenhoof gave an extra-special authoritative and intellectual wave of his pipe. “As part of our work at the London College of Arms, we’ve researched the family trees of every US president and, presumptuous perhaps—” he chuckled, “—we took a cursory peek at that of Donald Trump. Or, I should say, Dina al Trompeta.”

  “Dina…”

  “… al Trompeta,” nodded Clovenhoof. “Lovely name. Literally translates as ‘Love the trumpet’ which is beautiful in and of itself. I think it’s a shame that a young Mexican woman of the Islamic faith, knowing she will face prejudice and suspicion all her life, has to make the hardest of decisions to transform herself into a privileged white man in order to make any headway in life. It’s a shame, Summer.”

  Summer laughed. She laughed to give herself a moment to think. She laughed because Clovenhoof’s assertion was patently ridiculous. She laughed because the alternative was to cry.

  “Forgive me, professor, but I find it hard to believe that Donald J Trump is actually – was ever – a Mexican. Or a Muslim. Or a woman?”

  “You think such a thing is beyond the abilities of Trump – I mean Trompeta?” said Clovenhoof. “You think that it is impossible for a woman to become whatever she wants to be? Do you think Rosa Park sat on that bus all those years ago just so you could tell another woman what she can or cannot do?”

  “I don’t think…” said Summer faltering.

  “Clearly,” said Clovenhoof. “We should celebrate, not decry our Republican candidate for being a proud Muslim Mexican woman. Proud? Yes. We know how much he loves tacos on Cinco de Mayo. And he’s told us so many times that he has many Muslim friends. Of course he does. He is one. So we can’t call him a racist because now we know that when we hear talk of a great wall along our southern borders, or a blanket ban on Muslims entering the country, Trompeta is talking about his own people.”

  Summer had a finger to her ear, apparently listening to a voice from the production box. “Professor, what proof do you have of this?” she asked.

  “Proof?” said Clovenhoof.

  “You discovered that Trump is a … is something other than he appears to be.”

  “I don’t know, but a lot of people are saying it.”

  “A lot of people are saying it?”

  Clovenhoof nodded enthusiastically. “A lot of people are saying that Trump is nothing more than a Latino Muslim honey in disguise. A lot of people.”

  “But you said you had found out that Trump was a Mexican.”

  “That’s what I’m hearing, Summer. And I think it’s up to Trump to prove to us that he’s not. Have you seen his birth certificate?”

  “Er, no.”

  Clovenhoof threw his arms wide in surprise. “Why is that? I’ve not seen it; you’ve not seen it. What’s he got to hide? It’s very suspicious. And we’re hearing that he founded ISIS, which is starting to make sense now, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” said Summer. “I thought we were talking about his birth certificate?”

  A frantic looking man behind the camera was making equally frantic ‘wind it up’ gestures to Summer.

  “It’s all a web of lies,” said Clovenhoof. “The lack of a birth certificate. His lesbian marriage. His involvement with 7-Eleven.”

  “You mean 9/11?”

  “He was involved in 9/11? I’m glad you can confirm that because I’ve been heari
ng a lot about that. True fact: on 9/11, Trump called up a television station to tell them that when the twin towers fell, his own building was now the tallest in Manhattan! What more proof do you need?”

  “Proof of what?”

  “Summer!” he screamed. “Wake up and smell the jihad! We don’t even have proof he was ever born!”

  And then the red lights went out on the cameras and a door was flung open from the production box and all manner of shouting and swearing broke loose. As Clovenhoof was hurried out of the WVLN studio, there was more swearing; even an inexpertly thrown milkshake from a band of irate and fleet-footed members of the public. Clovenhoof was bundled into the back of Mason Miller’s yellow cab.

  Mason whooped as his tyres spun and he accelerated out of the studio parking lot. “That was amazing! I watched it all in reception.”

  “Everyone seemed surprisingly angry,” Clovenhoof observed, licking strawberry milkshake off his professorial glasses.

  “I don’t know why, bro,” said Mason. “That station’s audience amounts to two seniors and their pet Chihuahua, but you roused up a lynch mob. They might be pissed today, but they’ll be smiling at their ratings tomorrow. And that look on Summer’s face, bro. Super-cool.”

  “Thanks,” said Clovenhoof.

  “So, is it true?” asked Mason.

  “What?”

  “What you said in there? About Trump?”

  Clovenhoof shrugged. “What is truth, Mason? Hmmm? What is truth?”

  “That’s deep, bro,” said Mason and drove on into the evening.

  2nd November 2016

  Tuna Apartments, Mason’s other cousin’s place off Biscayne Boulevard, was a faded and peeling hotel with, as promised, a pool, free Wi-Fi and beds. Clovenhoof had paid for the room, tipped Mason heavily, and told him to come back at eight sharp the following morning.

  Clovenhoof woke in the night. At least it was night in Miami but Clovenhoof’s infernal internal clock insisted it was daytime and he should be about his wicked work. He lay on top of his sheets, trying to will himself back to sleep. He tried counting damned souls in his head. He tried to remember the names of all the angels who had stood with him against the Almighty. He tried whacking himself on the head with the bedside lamp and, when that failed, holding his breath until he passed out. However, jetlag, the southern heat and the broiling contents of his stomach (four crispy pancakes and two leaden pounds of Halloween candy) kept him awake.