Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom

by Heide Goody

  “No.”

  “I kissed a goat and it bit me,

  “The taste of her cud was delicious…”

  “Lord, it’s worse than the fig song,” Michael muttered. “Jeremy!”

  “What?”

  “I’m a bit limited in what I can do right now, Jeremy, which is why I need you to—”

  “Can’t stop and talk now, my angelic nemesis, I’ve got a pop star here who wants a piece of me.”

  Michael heard a distant, emphatic female voice: “She does not!”

  “Take care now y’all!” Clovenhoof hung up.

  Michael gazed in disbelief at the handset. He looked up at the police officer. “I don’t suppose I could—?”

  The officer shook his head and led him back to the cell.

  Michael was napping on his bunk when the police officer returned. This time he was accompanied by a man with a neat beard, wearing a beautifully cut suit. Michael immediately took a shine to him. You could always trust a man who took tailoring and manscaping seriously.

  “Good evening, Mr Michaels,” said the man, his English inflected by a playful Austrian accent. “I’m Stefan Grösswang, attorney at law. I need to get your signature on a couple of documents and we can soon have you out of here.”

  “Out of here.”

  “To be certain,” smiled Stefan.

  Michael scribbled his signature and, true to Stefan’s word, within an hour he was released. Michael’s shoes were returned to him and he sat on the bunk to put them on.

  “I hope you will not judge all of Austria based on this experience,” said Stefan.

  “All a misunderstanding. Many thanks, Herr Grösswang.” He offered the man a hearty handshake.

  “My pleasure,” said Stefan. He nodded a curt farewell but did not move. Michael tied his shoelaces.

  Stefan gave a small cough. “I understand from your acquaintances that you are creating a Eurovision act?”

  “That is true,” said Michael.

  “Very admirable.”

  “And it’s essential that I find them all as quickly as possible so we can continue on our mission.”

  “I wish you the best of luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stefan turned to leave but still did not go. “I myself have a small amount of talent as a rock guitarist,” he said casually.

  “Oh?”

  “I am in a local band, but they just play covers of classic rock songs.”

  Michael looked at the lawyer. He was like an eager puppy; a beautifully manscaped puppy. “Perhaps…?”

  “I’d love to join you if you have room for another?” said Stefan.

  Michael grinned and shook his hand again. “That would be my pleasure, Stefan. Do you have your own guitar?”

  Reno, Nevada

  “But what do you mean ‘declined’?” said Clovenhoof.

  The hotel receptionist held up the credit card. “This card,” she said, “is no good.”

  “What do you mean it’s no good. It’s plenty good. I’ve used it all over the place with no problem. It’s like money.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the receptionist. “But there’s no money left on it.”

  “What?” Clovenhoof snatched the card from her and inspected it closely. “What? Where did it go?”

  “I imagine you spent it all, sir.”

  “Can we put some more on it?” said Clovenhoof and twanged it against the reception counter. “Can’t we do that … contactless thing? You know, beep. Contactless. I’ve seen Michael do it. Can we?”

  The receptionist’s smile was wearing thin. “What you need to do is phone the credit card company or your bank, sir. And once you’ve gotten the funds, the Sierra Nevada Hotel and Casino will be happy to book you the room of your choice. But until then—”

  Clovenhoof looked at her. “Yes? Until then, what?”

  The receptionist made the politest of shooing motions. “You’ll have to go someplace else.”

  “Oh.”

  Clovenhoof sloped outside onto Virginia Street. At night, the hotels, casinos, shops, pawnbrokers and restaurants of Reno were festooned in an epileptic seizure of illuminations, as though the Almighty Himself had eaten a rainbow and vomited it up on a nowhere desert town. A light breeze worked itself around the night time pedestrians. Clovenhoof turned his collar up and dug through his pockets as he attempted to plan out his next steps.

  His pockets were mostly full of sweet wrappers. Apart from the unholy Toblerone bar in his rucksack, he had eaten all his Halloween booty. The effects on his insides had not yet been resolved and he’d considered phoning up the Guinness Book of Records to find out what the record was for the longest period spent on US soil without taking a dump.

  Clovenhoof threw away the rubbish from his pockets, letting the wind take it. In doing so he almost lost his last dollar bill. He caught it a split second before it was out of reach and unrolled it. Ten dollars.

  “In God We Trust,” he read and blew out his lips dismissively. “Learn a little self-reliance, America.”

  He had ten dollars and a little under twenty-four hours before he could make another attempt to derail Trump’s presidency. Ten dollars could buy a hot meal. It might not get him a hotel room, but it should find him somewhere he could have a shower, a shave and generally spruce himself up. If these were his last funds, he needed to spend them wisely.

  There was a casino across the street.

  5th November 2016

  Salzburg, Austria

  Stefan Grösswang, attorney at law and enthusiastic guitarist, reunited Michael with the others, who were all staying in a youth hostel on Paracelsusstraße. Michael gratefully flopped into a bed for the night. Now they were back on the road: Michael once again behind Heinz, who was driving the coach from the previous day.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Michael. “How do we still have this coach?”

  “It’s a short term loan,” said Heinz airily. “We just need it until we get to Geneva, yeah? Anyway, it means that I can drive while Aisling works on the song.”

  Michael moved seats, joining Aisling. She pored over a notepad. “So how’s it going with the song?”

  Aisling flipped through the notepad. “I’ve left the Danube well alone for now. Listen, it’s a tough call, coming up with something to unite the whole of Europe, but there’s one thing I think all Europeans have in common at the moment.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A fear Donald Trump might win the American election. Is there any way we can use that, do you think?”

  Michael thought hard for a few minutes. “On the face of it, it’s a negative sentiment, and I’m not sure that would sit right. On the other hand, you have a very good point about it being a common thread across Europe.”

  Encouraged, Aisling turned to another page and cleared her throat.

  “Run with me, don’t be late,

  “You don’t need a wall to make America great.”

  “That’s excellent, although you just need to change ‘running’ to ‘flying’. That should be fine then.”

  “Fine?” said Aisling. “And how will it be fine?”

  “It’s there in the Eurovision statistics,” said Michael. “Walking and running is something that losing songs have in them. Nine in recent years, would you believe? Flying’s different though. Six recent winners have used flying in their songs. Is there any more?”

  Aisling nodded and continued.

  “Stand with me, come and see,

  “The lesser of two evils is Hillary.”

  Michael nodded in appreciation. “It’s catchy. Extremely catchy and very topical. But I think that might be its downfall. In a week’s time, it’ll be out of date. The election will be over.”

  “I’ll tweak it, obviously,” said Aisling, somewhat defensively. “Ooh, Sweet Jesus, will you look at the drop there!”

  She was staring out of the window, to where the mountainside fell away into the depths of the valley below, shrouded
in mist. Michael made his way back up the bus and sat behind Heinz again.

  “Challenging roads,” he remarked. “I bet you never faced things like this when you took your PSV test.”

  “What’s a PSV test?” asked Heinz.

  “Maybe it’s called something different in Finland. It’s the special qualification to let you drive a big thing like this.”

  “There’s a qualification?” said Heinz. “Who knew.”

  Michael laughed. “Oh, you are funny, Heinz. I know you’re joking.”

  “To be honest, my friend, I just figured it all out yesterday when I stepped behind the wheel.”

  “But there’s no way the tour company would lend you a coach if you weren’t even qualified to drive it…”

  Michael sat back in his seat and considered his words as the coach swerved around a hairpin bend. “Heinz,” he whispered hoarsely. “You don’t have permission from the coach company do you?”

  “Hey, it’s fine,” Heinz said, waving a hand. “Those people on the tour had the time of their lives yesterday. The company will get their coach back when we’re done. It’s a victimless crime.”

  “It’s only a victimless crime as long as we don’t fall off the side of the mountain,” croaked Michael, his fingers gripping the edge of the seat in terror.

  Hours later, Michael was still rigid with fear, even though some part of his brain had registered the transition from terrifying mountain roads to major, blessedly flat thoroughfares. Todor waved a bag of tomatoes in his face.

  “Come on Michael, you had tough couple of days, but we are arrived now! Here at the headquarters of the European Broadcasting place, home of Eurovision!”

  Michael walked stiffly off the bus. Even though he would not be troubled by a tumble off a mountain, being responsible for the deaths of a coachload of mortals would be an intolerable burden. Yet, by some miracle, they had made it to Geneva and now it was up to him to convince the heads of Eurovision to bring the competition forward.

  The European Broadcasting Union’s headquarters were a pair of drab, late twentieth century office blocks. A glass walkway connecting the two buildings was plastered with huge letters, proudly declaring this to be the home of Eurovision.

  Like Moses at the shores of the Red Sea, like Noah atop Mount Ararat, Michael felt a swell of pride as he neared his goal. On legs quivering with excitement, he approached the receptionist and turned on the full wattage of his most charming smile. “Good day to you!”

  “Good morning, sir,” said the Swiss receptionist in smooth English.

  “I need to speak with the head of the Eurovision Song Contest, please. It’s a matter of urgency.”

  The receptionist gave him a blank look, fingers poised over a keypad. “What name is that?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The name of the person with whom you have an appointment?”

  “I don’t have an appointment, but I need to speak with the person who’s in charge of the Eurovision Song Contest.”

  “You need an appointment,” she said. “I can’t let you in without one.”

  “Right,” said Michael, still smiling. “Could I make an appointment?”

  “Sir, I’m unable to make appointments for executive members. You will need to speak with one of the private secretaries.”

  “No problem,” said Michael, his smile faltering a little. “Would you please put me through to one of the private secretaries?”

  “Sir, I don’t have a phone here that is cleared for members of the public to use.”

  “In that case, would you please give me the contact details for one of the private secretaries?”

  “What name?”

  “Well I don’t have a name. Perhaps you could tell me one?”

  “Sir, I’m afraid our information security policy does not permit me to give out personal information about our employees.”

  Michael took a deep breath and willed away the mounting frustration. “Right. But if I wanted to speak to someone about the Eurovision Song Contest…?”

  “You can speak to me, sir.”

  “Do you have responsibility for the running of the contest?”

  “No, sir.” She smiled. “That would be the executive members, or one of the private secretaries.”

  “Yes. So, could I speak to one?”

  “Which one?”

  “Whoever is running the show.”

  “That would be down to the host nation broadcasters. In Kiev. That’s in Ukraine.”

  “I do know who is hosting the next Eurovision Song Contest, madam,” said Michael indignantly. “What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  “What kind of fool would you like me to take you for?”

  “If I wrote a letter and addressed it to the head of the Eurovision Song Contest, would it be opened?” he asked.

  “Not until March, sir. Correspondence will not be looked at until three months before the contest, which isn’t until June. Will that be all sir?” she said, clearly dismissing him.

  Michael’s legs quivered some more, not with excitement this time but anger. He clenched his phone furiously. What was it Mark Twain had said? When angry, count to four. When very angry, swear. Michael counted to four. He then counted some more because it clearly wasn’t working.

  “Why are you counting, sir?” said the reception, mildly alarmed. She looked at his face and the phone in his hands. “Sir?”

  She reached for a phone. By her body language, Michael could tell it was going to be the kind of phone call that might result in another stay in police custody.

  He left the building and trudged back to the coach, a broken man.

  He climbed onto the coach and addressed the hopeful faces that were turned towards him. “Bit of a delay, everyone,” he said with the best fake grin he could muster, “but it’s no problem. We will use the time to get the song ready and hone our performance skills.” He dropped into his seat so he wouldn’t have to face them all, the lies surely obvious from his face. “Let’s go, Heinz.”

  “Sure thing, Michael. Where to?”

  Michael sighed and spoke quietly. “I’m not sure, Heinz. Truth is, I didn’t even get to talk to anyone inside there.”

  “The Swiss can be such cocks,” said Heinz.

  “They wouldn’t even listen. Blocked me at every turn.”

  “Cock blockers.”

  I feel as if I’ve let everyone down. I’ve brought you all this far, but I don’t think we can get our song out to Europe in time. Now, I just don’t know what to do.”

  Heinz let the engine idle for a moment. He turned it off and came round to sit with Michael. “Listen to me. You have a crazy dream, right? My speciality is crazy dreams. Let me help you make this thing happen. It will be all right, I promise. In the meantime, I know you want to get some of the stinky local cheese, so let’s go and find ourselves a picnic!”

  Everyone walked around La Halle de Rive, an up-market foodie destination in central Geneva. At first, they looked a little intimidated (apart from Todor who immediately found some tomatoes to pass judgement upon). Michael put his hands in the air to get their attention.

  “We need picnic supplies for a day or two. Everyone grab what you’d like. I’m paying.”

  There was a sudden scramble. Baskets of shopping were brought forward in rapid succession. Michael sampled various wares, adding wheels of raclette, gruyere and a wonderfully pungent Vacherin Mont d’Or to his own basket. At least one of them should last until he got home and could share it with Andy. He sighed as he thought of Andy and rattled off a quick text.

  Failed to achieve our goals at EBN headquarters. Stockpiling supplies now – prepare for some noxious goodies later! Heinz and I will come up with a new plan, God willing. We will prevail! 

  Reno, Nevada

  Clovenhoof had been to casinos before. It was heartening to know that the casinos in Reno were like the casinos back in England: full of people who thought they were card sharps or smooth-as-fuck James Bond type
s, all trying to live out their personal fantasies in a place that had as much class and charm as a Blackpool amusement arcade.

  There were three things that Clovenhoof loved about casinos. One, he was the devil and it was pretty much a given that he would win any game of chance he chose to play. Two, as long as he kept playing, he could stay indoors. A stool at a blackjack table was hardly a bed but he had at least spent the night and the morning in the windowless, air-conditioned cocoon of the Ariana Casino Reno. And three, he was currently enjoying the delights of limitless prawn buffet. As long as he played, the wonderful Mitzy, who was working the Ariana’s graveyard shift, would keep the stuff coming. When he phoned up the Guinness Book of Records regarding his constipation challenge, Clovenhoof thought he should also ask about the world record for continuous prawn consumption.

  He picked up the prawn on his plate and invited it to look at his cards. “What do you reckon, Percival?”

  The headless prawn gazed at his cards. A jack and an eight.

  “I hear you,” said Clovenhoof. “Only a fool would take another card with a hand like that.”

  “Jeremy,” said the dealer. “What have we told you about talking to the shrimp?”

  “Sorry, Randy.” Clovenhoof popped the prawn in his mouth. “Hit me.”

  The dealer flipped him a card: a three. He caught the smile on Clovenhoof’s face and sighed.

  “Don’t worry,” said Clovenhoof. “You’re going to get the biggest tip when I’m done. Mitzy! More prawn!”

  The three men latched onto Clovenhoof the very moment he stepped out of the Ariana Casino. Maybe it was because Clovenhoof was an obvious out-of-towner. Maybe it was because he was whistling, laughing and skipping at the same time. Maybe it was because of the wads of cash that just didn’t want to stay in his bulging pockets.

  At the corner of the Ariana Casino building, one of them stuck something hard into the base of Clovenhoof’s spine and said, “Into the alley.”

  “Jeez. Haven’t you heard of Grindr? This is not how you meet guys these days.”