Clovenhoof & the Trump of Doom

by Heide Goody

  “It is,” said Aisling. “What of it?”

  “Well it’s not right is it?” said Michael. “How can you have a word rhyming with itself? It’s like … cheating.”

  The entire group looked as if he’d suggested the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel might be better with a few glow in the dark stars applied to it.

  “Michael, that’s not the primary concern,” said Aisling. “The heart and soul of the song is what matters. Nobody cares whether it will go down in history as a piece of poetry. Let it go.”

  Michael tried to put it from his mind, but he found himself considering other words that rhymed with dream, just to see whether there was an alternative. A river might reasonably be expected to have bream in it, but he couldn’t imagine a fish themed diversion would go down well, so he kept that quiet.

  A voice came over the intercom speaker. “We have the goods that you requested.”

  “Hey, our stuff has arrived!” shouted Heinz. “Come on, let’s take a look.”

  They formed a human chain to bring boxes in from the foyer, and Heinz supervised the ones that they should open first. Michael watched Heinz extract lighting rigs and a dry ice machine. A series of large boxes yielded twelve flat screen televisions.

  “How are you going to watch twelve televisions?” Michael asked.

  Heinz tapped the side of his nose. “Michael, just you wait and see! Few extra bits of equipment to fix up these bad boys and then I will demonstrate.”

  Heinz spent a couple of hours fiddling with the electronics and finally announced he was ready to test his creation.

  “So the first thing to do is for us all to get naked,” he said.

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Heinz, this has got to stop. I know you love the naked form but would you please focus? We need to get our Eurovision act sorted, maybe then you can talk to people about some naked street art.”

  “This is for the act!” said Heinz. “You wanted high tech wearables, yes?”

  “That would have been nice,” said Michael, “although I’m assuming it hasn’t been possible?”

  “On the contrary my friend,” grinned Heinz. “Let me demonstrate.”

  Stefan had shed his clothes the moment Heinz mentioned getting naked. As a lawyer, he had demonstrated a certain Teutonic efficiency, but his attitude to personal nudity was nothing short of Scandinavian (and Michael couldn’t help but notice Stefan’s precise manscaping was confined to the neck up).

  “Good man, Stefan,” said Heinz. He lifted a large framework onto Stefan’s shoulders. It had a flat screen television on the front and the back to protect Stefan’s modesty, and he wore it like a sandwich board. At least he wore it briefly like a sandwich board: his knees buckled under the weight and he fell to the floor.

  “Ah, slight problem there. Good job we have some smaller televisions. I’ll rig you up with some thirty two inch ones. Todor! I think these might be better suited to you.”

  Todor and Ibolya had both disrobed and stood before Heinz, ready to have the bizarre television apparatus strapped onto them. Heinz helped Stefan to his feet and lifted the televisions off his shoulders. He put them on Todor and stood back to admire the effect. One television lay on top of Todor’s vast belly, facing the ceiling.

  “I might have to adjust the straps for you, I think.”

  He hung a set of televisions on Ibolya. He surveyed the effect and reached out to arrange her gargantuan chest. She slapped him.

  “You want to arrange my body, you tell me what needs doing, and I will do it!” she said firmly.

  Once Heinz was satisfied with his first three sets of wearable televisions he looked at Aisling.

  “What?” said Aisling. “I’m not in the act.”

  “We’re all in the act,” said Heinz. “It’s a question of solidarity. Clothes off, Aisling.”

  “You’re feckin’ kiddin’ me,” she grumbled, but stripped down to her knickers and bra nonetheless. “And these aren’t coming off until I’m covered. Jesus, Father Fitzgibbon wasn’t wrong when he told us rock ‘n’ roll would lead to nudity and debauchery.”

  “You too, Michael,” said Heinz. “Get ’em off.”

  Finally, they all stood with televisions hanging fore and aft.

  “Can I be the first to say that I think we all look like a bunch of eejits?” said Aisling. “I’m not seeing the point of this Heinz.”

  “Ah, the point will become clear momentarily,” said Heinz. “You see each television has a wireless feed from this laptop, and we will play a cool video to complement our act. Watch this.”

  Heinz tapped a laptop key and started the video. He nodded to a monitor which he’d installed above their heads, showing the feed from a static camera. “This is how we are looking right now.”

  Michael saw the televisions had all lit up with images. Heinz had selected a video featuring a spectacular lightshow with fireworks and lasers. It made quite an impact. Heinz moved amongst them arranging people in height order and adjusting their straps so that the televisions appeared in a neatly staggered arrangement. Ibolya wriggled with discomfort, grabbing the edge of her television. Her display changed to show a newsreader.

  “—details have emerged about the neo-Nazi terrorist group calling itself All the Countries of the World.”

  “Oh, what lies have they come up with now?” sighed Michael.

  “Interpol has confirmed that their leader, Michael Michaels, was behind a cyber-attack on British intelligence at GCHQ and the French DGSI earlier this month.”

  “Well, hardly an attack,” said Michael. “I left things as tidy as I found them. Tidier even.”

  “In a text communication with a British contact, Michaels referred to their failure to achieve their goals at the EBN headquarters, and spoke of their stockpiled resources including ‘Some noxious goodies’, a possible reference to chemical weapons. The text was signed off with an exhortation to God and a promise that they would prevail.”

  “Yes, well, they’ve clearly misconstrued that message,” said Michael.

  “And within the past hour,” continued the newsreader, “intelligence agencies have intercepted a phone conversation between Michaels and an as-yet unidentified American contact in which they spoke of dynamite, secret weapons and a plan to bring a Jumbo down.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake!”

  The newsreader put a finger to her ear. “We can go live to the security camera feed at CERN. It appears that, this evening, Michaels and his cell have been taking part in some sort of naked ritual. There is concern that they could be preparing for a Jonestown-style murder suicide.”

  The image flicked to live images of the barely dressed Euro-popsters, watching themselves on Ibolya’s chest screen.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” yelled Aisling, “They made it look like a feckin’ orgy!”

  Heinz grimaced and went to change the channel on Ibolya’s television back. He got himself another slap before managing to find the correct button.

  Sarasota, Florida

  Mason Miller wasn’t sure what ultimately compelled him to drive the two hundred-odd miles to Sarasota on the Gulf Coast. It wasn’t like he felt a special attachment to that foreign guy, Clovenhoof. It certainly wasn’t like he was a pledged signee to Clovenhoof’s weird anti-Trump agenda (he would have to understand Clovenhoof’s plans to be a supporter). Perhaps, he reflected, it was selfishness compelling him; particularly his fears of what would happen to his good self if Clovenhoof successfully gatecrashed Trump’s rally, and the investigating forces discovered Mason had known about it in advance.

  It would have been easier to phone the cops, or the Feds, and tell them that a former fare of his had told him he intended to kill Trump at the Sarasota rally. It would have been easier, but not in Mason’s nature. He couldn’t remember if Clovenhoof was a person of colour – he genuinely couldn’t say what colour Clovenhoof’s skin was – but the Florida police had a poor track record when it came to not shooting black men. Only a few months back, the
Broward County guys had shot that man in his own back garden, one who’d been armed with nothing more offensive than a chicken wing and some fries. And Mason wasn’t going to call the Feds: the FBI was part of Big Government, and they took too much interest in people’s lives already.

  So, Mason drove to Sarasota: two hundred miles without a fare. Not ideal for a Monday morning.

  The Robarts Arena on Ringling Boulevard was part of the Sarasota Fairgrounds and fronted onto a massive parking lot. When the county fair was in, the place would be abuzz with rides and stalls and visitors from all across the Gulf Coast. Today, it was abuzz with Trump supporters, local law enforcement officers and purveyors of flags and fast food for the patriotic and hungry folks.

  Mason got out of his taxi and stood on the inside edge of the door to give him an extra foot of height to scour the surrounding area for signs of Clovenhoof. He didn’t have to look for long. There was something about a charging Asian elephant that really drew the eye.

  It blundered across the parking lot from the general direction of the nearby zoo. Its head and trunk swung from side to side as it passed between the parked vehicles, sending new arrivals fleeing. On its side, someone had daubed the words TRUMP – Make American Great Again in white paint. On its back sat a familiar, wild-eyed individual.

  “Delores!” yelled Clovenhoof. “Engage stealth mode!”

  The elephant was, more by accident than design Mason assumed, charging straight for the front doors of the Robarts Arena. Mason could see clear as day what was going to happen. Either the cops and any armed Floridian in the area were going to take pot shots to stop the poor elephant’s charge, or Clovenhoof would reach his target, burst through and cause untold deaths. For all that it was worth, Mason ran towards Clovenhoof, yelling for him to stop.

  Clovenhoof couldn’t hear him above the screams of those running away or the elephant’s occasional trunky trumpetings. Up ahead, one of the cops by the arena building spotted the approaching animal and reached for his holster.

  Mason screamed: both a warning and a yell of despair. It was all going to end very, very badly.

  Thank God for the gift of donuts.

  Clovenhoof woke with a brilliant headache and pains all along his side.

  “Nnh!” he said in response to this intolerable situation and attempted to sit up.

  “Easy, bro,” said Mason from across the room.

  Clovenhoof was laid out on a sofa. He was in a living room he did not recognise. A television in the corner had the sound turned down. The blinds were partially drawn and narrow stripes of bright sunlight speared into the room. Behind a breakfast bar partition was a kitchenette where Mason was cooking something hot and delicious on the stove.

  “What happened?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Lucky for you, Delores likes herself a donut, bro. Eggs?”

  “Please,” said Clovenhoof, creaking as he gradually sat up.

  Mason scraped eggs onto two plates and brought them through to the living room. “They were gonna shoot you,” he said. “I watched them. But then your elephant swerved and made a bee-line for a donut concession. She stopped. You didn’t.”

  Clovenhoof tried the eggs. They were rubbery and watery at the same time, and utterly delicious. “I was trying to kill Trump.”

  “The only thing you killed was a donut seller’s business. And that’s a sin against God, bro. In all the confusion, I was able to get you out of there and back to mi casa.”

  Clovenhoof consulted his phone. There was a big crack across the screen where either he or possibly an elephant had landed on it. It was already afternoon on the last day before the election.

  “Trump’s left Florida,” he said.

  “Which is probably the best for both of you,” said Mason.

  “I’ve got to catch up with him somehow.”

  “You can’t,” said Mason bluntly.

  “There’s always a way.”

  Mason threw his fork down on his plate. “You know, bro. You know what you’ve never asked me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never asked me who I’m going to vote for.”

  Clovenhoof gave Mason a look. Mason gave him a look back.

  “Trump?” said Clovenhoof. “Really? But he’s—”

  “Yeah. He is,” said Mason. “He is all of those things you’re gonna say, bro, and if he lived round here I’d cross the street to avoid him.”

  “Then why?”

  Mason beckoned with a finger. Clovenhoof followed him to the patio door where Mason pulled the blinds aside.

  “See that, bro?”

  Clovenhoof looked. “The swimming pool?”

  “Damn right. I dug that. I built that. With my cash and my labour, I built that.”

  “It’s a nice pool,” said Clovenhoof. “I mean it’s got no water in it but—”

  “You know why it’s got no water?”

  “You can’t swim?” Clovenhoof hazarded.

  “Because the Department of Regulatory and Economic Resources says I can’t until I’ve fitted a safety barrier. I built it, it’s in my back yard which has a fence all round it, but I can’t use it because the government says it’s unsafe.”

  “And Donald Trump will … let you use your pool?” said Clovenhoof, confused.

  “It’s not that,” said Mason. “I look at Hillary Clinton and I think ‘What has she ever built?’ and then I look at Trump Tower in New York where Trump lives and I think ‘he built that.’”

  “I think he might have had some help.”

  “Point is, bro, the man gets things done. He’s a builder, like me. He’s a businessman, like me. He wants America to win.”

  “But he’s a git.”

  “You think nice guys are winners? You think Steve Jobs was a nice guy. You think Winston Churchill was a nice guy. Donald Trump may rot in hell one day—”

  “I’d imagine so,” said Clovenhoof, speaking from a position of expertise.

  “—but until that day, he’s going to help America win, because America’s best interests are his best interests. He doesn’t want his own stock market portfolio to fall in value, bro. He’s an honest crook but he’s our honest crook.”

  Clovenhoof shook his head. “You’d elect him despite all you know about him?”

  “Better the devil you know, bro,” said Mason.

  Clovenhoof thought about something Mason said and consulted his phone again. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Time for me to go home, huh?”

  Mason gave him a genial shrug. “Do the right thing, bro.”

  “Can I have a lift to the train station?”

  “Train station?” said Mason.

  CERN, Switzerland

  When the televisions were all stacked at the edges of the room and everyone had their clothes back on, Heinz pointed to a large unopened box in the corner. “Right, we need to check this out,” he said. “This box contains our doves.”

  “Lovely!” said Todor. “Let’s take a look at the beauties. I can hear them making gorgeous little clucking noises! ”

  They pulled the cardboard away and peered inside.

  “I’m no ornithologist now,” said Aisling, tilting her head critically. “But aren’t those chickens?”

  Stefan pulled a sheet of paper from the document wallet stuck on the crate’s side. “It says ‘We were unable to find two dozen white doves as requested, but you will be pleased to hear that under the terms of European Commission Regulation (EC) No. 2257/94, the enclosed domestic fowl are technically the same thing.’”

  “What nonsense!” cried Todor. “They are chickens! What’s more they are ugly chickens. They are not even white!”

  “It seems they have addressed that,” said Heinz, holding up a tin of white paint.

  Michael had the feeling things were slipping out of control again. “Perhaps we can do without doves.” The group faced him and he added hastily: “I mean, we need to get the act together and show it to Europe as soon as we can, or we run th
e risk of becoming quite disruptive.”

  “It will be a simple matter to paint these chickens if we share out the work,” said Heinz. “Once that is done, we should get some sleep before we get things together for the final performance. Four chickens each, come on team, let’s get painting!”

  They air was filled with distressed clucking as they tried working out the best way to paint the brown chickens. Ibolya was the first to complete one. She fashioned an apron out of plastic packaging and clamped a chicken firmly to her bosom. She spread each wing and gave it a thorough coating. Todor poured some paint onto a paper plate and dipped his chickens into it, one side at a time. Aisling was slightly afraid to touch the chickens, choosing to dab a paintbrush at whichever part of the birds came near her. They ended up with a mixture of brown, white and variously piebald chickens. The only thing they had in common was looking very, very unhappy.

  “Hey chickens!” said Todor. “You like yodelling? Maybe we cheer you up?”

  “Chickens do not like yodelling,” said Aisling emphatically. “Definite fact. It’s well known, back in Ireland anyway, that chickens respond well to lullabies.”

  The rest of the evening was a bizarre blur of chicken-themed crooning, assisted by more of the mysterious herbal liqueur, which Michael began to suspect had psychotropic qualities. They started with Rock a Bye Chicken on the Tree Top, followed by a hearty chorus of Shush Little Chicken while Todor produced another bagful of tomatoes to munch on. There were several hampers of food which had been delivered along with the equipment, but Heinz voiced suspicions about whether it might have been tampered with, so they decided to leave it.

  8th November 2016

  The accidental terrorists awoke next morning full of enthusiasm for the task ahead, and hungry. Nobody aside from Todor wanted more tomatoes for breakfast. They examined the hampers again.

  “It does look grand,” said Aisling. “Fresh too.”

  “No one drink the Kool-Aid,” said Heinz firmly. “We can’t know if it’s been messed with. Let’s keep busy and put hunger out of our minds. We need to get a really great dress rehearsal done, and then I have arranged a live performance slot on all the television channels later on today. We can be ready for that, yeah?”