In which I, Walt, attempt to breach Trump Tower

The last time I was accosted by Mr. Hercules was, well, the last time. I hadn’t seen him since March, when he somehow found me hiding in Poland and confiscated my phone on the order of his employer, Donald Trump.

Mr. Hercules always finds me.

Not today, though. Today, I’m finding him.

In New York City, I emerge from the subway on The Street. No, not this street:

This street:

It’s not easy-going. Lots of rubberneckers, and men with guns. A helicopter circles overhead. It’s like a circus. Actually, it is a circus. A reality show. Which is why my poor tummy was all twisted up in knots. Such a fall from grace, for us, for the country, this.

He is never hard to find, though. All one need do is develop a keen eye for the shirtless torso. The black and white one. The one attached to the tight pants from which the bare feet protrude. Here’s what the top half looks like:

Spying him standing there, guarding the entrance like a night club bouncer, I shouted, “You! Dick!”

Quite a few more heads turned than I expected. I just wanted the one, that belonging to Mr. Hercules.

His fat, bald head swiveled, and for a moment he looked a bit like the insane Marlon Brando at the end of Apocalypse Now. Seeing me, he broke into a grin. But he swallowed it and went all frowny-faced again. Went stoic and crossed his arms. He didn’t have paint on his head like Captain Kurtz, but it would have suited him.

“Waltypants,” he said. And not jovially, as per his custom. He said it with menace. Like I was his nemesis.

“Tis I,” I said. “I must needs speak with you.”

“Not that way, you don’t,” he said, shaking his sweaty dome. “That’s girly.”

“Dick, it’s me.”

“I know who you are.”

“Don’t be antagonistic.”

“Have you published even one of my poems?”

“No, but–”

He cocked his head to the side so quickly his neck cracked. He flashed his palm, as if to say, oh no you dih int.

“Dick, please. We’ve more important matters to rail against.”

He twisted his face back towards me, cracked one eye open. The eyebrow above it arched up towards the curious.

I said, “Like the future of the nation?”

“Yeah, we’re gonna make it great again,” he squeaked. His voice was high-pitched and nasally. He sounded like Costello, of the Abbot & Costellos.

“I think it might be very doomed, what with all of this.” And here I gestured in a way that kind of took it all in. The police, the guns, the chopper, the Tower, the gawkers. The spectacle. The show. The farce. The Trumpocalypse.

“Don’t call it a Trumpocalypse,” said Dick.

“I didn’t,” I said.

“You we’re thinking it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“Dick, I can stand here and say I wasn’t, and you can stand here and say I was, and only one of us would be right, because there is such thing as fact.”

“Then admit you were thinking it.”

My shoulders fell.  I sighed. “I was.”

“See?”

“See what?”

“You lied.”

I thought about it.

“Yes. I lied.”

“See?”

“See what?”

“You can’t be trusted. You’re Lyin’ Walt Waltypants.”

“Dick, let me in.”

“No way.”

“I wish to enter the Tower.”

“This Tower?” he said, jerking a thumb towards it.

“Yes, that one.”

“Trump Tower?”

“The same.”

Dick furrowed his brow. Bit his lip. Seemed to consider this. Bugged an eyeball at me. Then he shook his head and said, “No way.”

“Dick?! After all I’ve done for you!”

“You ain’t done nothing for me, Crooked Waltypanties.”

I rubbed my face in my hands, scratched my scalp, and sighed. “Dick. I promise. Let me in, and I will publish you.”

He eyeballed me up and down. Really pummeled me with them. It was like someone inside his head was squeezing those eyeballs from inside, making them protrude like stretched balloons.”

“Whatcha wanna do in there, McLiarpouts?”

I thought about this for a minute. Thought about offering up some sort of excuse. But he seemed to be on to me.

“I want to find him tweeting on his golden toilet and punch him in the face.”

“Now Walt,” said Dick, “What are the chances? Seriously.”

“Quite good, I’d say. I think that’s all he does, is sit on his golden potty and tweet nasty things. While nasty things come out of his bottom.”

“Walt,” said Dick, suddenly concerned. “I’m afraid you might be off your rocker.”

“No, I’m on my rocker. You’re off your rocker. This whole cockadoodie country is off its rocker!”

Dick snorted, whipped out his phone and snapped my picture.

A couple of seconds later, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and saw I had a notification on Twitter.