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Once upon a time, there was a man who had three or so sons. He had once had seven or eight, but because of his habit of ranking all of his children in order of preference, and allotting them symbols and numbers, like the Periodic Table, most of them had run away. At the time of this story, three boys remained; and none of them were girls.
His favourite of these three was X, so called because as soon as the day came that went bald like his father, no one would need to read or write anymore, and a simple mark would suffice instead of a name. And X was the best mark. He had recently brought it into his own new name: K-holeBokX, for when this story begins, that is what he went by. He named his least favourite son, x2√en because of the high gas prices on the day he was born.
That poor boy did not just inherit the family trait for premature baldness; his father had also bestowed on him his unique brand of ugliness too. Had the local people known that he was despised, laughed at, and neglected at home, they’d have perhaps not taken against him in the way they did. But for them, little x2√en was simply the younger version of his loathed father, who would eventually grow up to be his replacement.
The young boy had not yet contracted the woke mind virus that had killed one of his siblings, but K-holeBokX could see it coming in him, and decided that it would save a lot of time and effort all round not to like him from the get-go.
The middle brother wasn’t as good as X, but he was tolerable in a way that the younger brother wasn’t, so BokX just put him in the Halogens.
It was a strange world in which the three boys were raised. The old king had gone, and the new world coming hadn’t yet begun. Most people didn’t know what to do, and lived as if the old king was still about. When his empire folded in on itself, most of them believed that King Donald had died with it, standing in his ballroom as the walls collapsed around him. But he hadn’t. When he saw trouble coming, he did a midnight flit, and went into hiding, leaving the kingdom without a ruler.
It happened one day that X wished to go into the forest to cut wood, and before he set off, his mother gave him a delicious deep-fried pencoke and a milk teapot, so that he might not suffer from hunger or thirst.
When he came into the forest a little grey old man met him, who wished him good day, and said, “Give me a bit of your pencoke, and a small cup from your milk teapot. I am so hungry and thirsty.”
But the youth, trained by his father’s own Bots, answered, “I earned this food from my dedication to my father, and by being born with the sort of intelligence and capabilities that will always distinguish me from the likes of you. Do one you little tramp, and earn your own corn.”
And leaving the little man standing there, he went off. He didn’t believe in rewilding, or the environment generally, for that matter, and there was a chance that one of his father’s driverless cars might be heading this way soon, so he began to fell a tree. He had not been at it long before he made a wrong stroke, and the hatchet hit him in the arm, so that he was obliged to go home and get it bound up.
Tiny Tony Fauci, for that was the little grey man’s name, watched all this from behind a nearby tree, and thought to himself, “I’d get that seen to if I was you, before infection sets in.” Then he added, “Or you could always inject some disinfectant into it when you get home,” and he laughed his head off for ages.
A few days later, the second son, F9, also went into the wood, and the mother gave him, as she had to the eldest, some pencoke, and a milk teapot. Tiny Tony met him also, and begged for a little bit of his picnic. “Can’t you see. I’m smaller than Bezos the Pig-me and Zuckerman the (p)Imp put together, and I’m shrinking by the day.”
But F9 spoke out plainly, saying, “What I give you, I lose myself,” for his father had lent him an encyclopaedia about business. “So be off with you.” And leaving Tiny Tony standing there, he left and went to work on the same tree. As he was chopping away at it, he hit himself in the leg so severely that he had to drag himself home.
“Get your whore of a temporary mother to shine some light up into the open veins. That should do the trick,” said Tiny Tony to himself, and started laughing so hard that he did a small poo in his slacks.
Then, said x2, who was particularly unpopular that day because he had tried to read a real newspaper. In front of his father, mind you! “For once father, let me go into the forest to cut wood, to show you what a good and loyal son I am.”
And his father answered, “Your brothers have hurt themselves by so doing; and you, with your woke mind virus, which is developing very quickly, will probably feel sorry for the tree, and end up chopping your own hand off on purpose.”
But the simple boy went on begging so long that the father said at last, “Well, be off with you; you will only learn by experience, as I did that time when I found those cissies who’d invented PayPal, shortly after I’d received my legacy from the emerald mine, and so I made them give it to me for a bit of that, then made it all miles better by changing the logo and everything.”
Which was strange, because x2 thought that Cissy was what people called his father.
The mother, who had been changed since the last mother, because that one had shown too much empathy for the first two sons, and as a result, ruined them, gave him a cake that had been made with water, and baked in the ashes of the fire, and with it a flask of sour Bok’s Beer made from the piss of a swamp pig.
When he came into the forest Tiny Tony met him, and greeted him, saying, “Give me a bit of your cake, and a drink from your flask. I’m so hungry and thirsty.”
And x2 answered, “I have only a flour and water cake, and sour beer; but if that is good enough for you, let us sit down together and eat.”
Then they sat down, and as the kind simple boy took out his flour and water cake, it became a lovely deep-fried pencoke with Nutella spread all over it, and his sour beer turned into a milk teapot; then they ate and drank, and afterwards, Tiny Tony said, “As you have such a kind heart, and share what you have so willingly, I will bestow good luck upon you. I can do things like that, I’m a scientist you know, which is almost as good as a magician round here. Yonder stands an old tree; cut it down, and at its roots you will find something,” and thereupon, Tiny Tony took his leave.
x2 went to the tree and hewed away at it, and when it fell, he saw sitting among the roots, the letter P made of pure gold. He lifted it out and took it with him to an inn where he intended to stay the night.
The landlord had three daughters who, when they saw the P, were curious to know what wonderful kind of thing it was.
“It’s a relic of old King Donald’s reign,” said their father, his eyes wide with delight, and wonder. And not a little curiosity about the odd fellow that had brought it in with him.
He regaled his daughters of a time not so long ago when Donald sat on the throne. A time when egg prices went down just by Donald proclaiming that it be so. Of course, it was easier for the innkeepers than others, because he had the contract to supply the castle with ketchup. But then his reign suddenly ended.
His girls could see that it made the old innkeeper sad just to say the words.
“When the farmers rose up and went with their tools intent on destroying everything that stood before them, brave King Donald just disappeared. All the great buildings that were constructed in honour of our king were torn down; and his name, which had adorned them, was destroyed too —mostly to be taken away to be melted down by wicked people.” He wiped away a tear, “People have spoken of finding fragments all over the place, but never a whole P before.”
The girls never knew whether their father was happy or sad, in moments like this. So Crispy, the eldest and bravest of the sisters, who went out hunting, and was seldom scared of saying anything, especially when she held an assault rifle in her hands, which she always did, decided to ask a question. It would be one of those that would sound like it was related to the things her father had been saying, but wasn’t. The way he’d taught her to.
“Hey daddy,” asked Crispy, “how come we don’t know it’s a lower-case letter b —but upside down, kinda?”
Her father, choked back the tears.
The other two girls stared hard at Crispy. She was always making things worse with her problem-solving initiatives, and probing questions.
“You girls would have still been too young to remember this, but late on in the life of his empire, Donald discovered that the word dumb, the one we put in front of demagogue, deceiver, dissident, when we’re saying our prayers at night, wasn’t spelled D-U-M like everyone thought. It was dum with a b on the end —which turned out right, once the scientists took a look at it.
Well, you know what they did? You know what those people did to that great man? They tore down the Bs from every public monument where Donald had put his name, and they took the UM from trump, and they went round and they made a dumb, and put it in front of whatever was left!”
The daughters put their hands to their open mouths.
“Don’t you worry, Donald knew what to do,” said their father.
“What did he do, daddy?” said Natalie, who loved Donald already, she could just tell.
“He took the letter B outta the alphabet, and anyone caught carrying one, they were shot dead on the spot. I iced a couple of them here, myself, over by the barroom billiards in this very bar.”
They stole the Bs from you daddy?” she asked.
“No. But they were going to, I could tell. Well, from that day forward, there weren’t no Bs available to put no place. But that Golden P the Hayseed brought in, well, it’ll signify; you can rely on that.”
The second sister, Jesse, gave a little cough. Everyone called her Waters, because she was always helping out in the inn, and doing everything she could to keep her father’s friends happy. She worked so hard and fast that the drinks she served were spilled everywhere, and she was invariably soaked whenever you met her in the nighttime hours, particularly her knickers, which you always found drying on the radiators. She was often reluctant to ask difficult questions in case her father or his friends didn’t like them, but she plucked up her courage, made a little cough, and caught her father’s attention. “What about the Ds that they put at the start of dumb?” she asked. “You know the Ps they had to switch around to put at the front of the word?”
“They’d have tooken them from Donald, you chowderhead,” said Crispy.
Jesse looked ashamed for her silly mistake, but then she thought, and had started to say, “But then it would have just said dumb onald, or…” when the innkeeper chuckled gently, and ruffled her hair. “Don’t you mind about those Ds,” he said. “Donald didn’t outlaw them. He was kinda attached to a D. Besides, the scientists done told him that D was in all sorts of words, and B hardly ever.”
Little Jessie smiled, blushing, and felt that moist feeling down below again.
“So, this is one of Donald’s actual Golden Ps?” asked Natalie. “Can we be sure it’s real?”
“Of course,” said the innkeeper. “Vladimir the imp haler —you remember him? Donald’s great ally, stands about so high,” and the innkeeper put his hand, palm downwards by the side of his knee. “He had his ambassadors film all of Donald’s big erections. And they would always be sure to catch the final P, to prove that the entire project had been guaranteed by Donald. Those tapes were kept under lock and key in a castle in faraway lands owned by Vlad. Don’t worry about that Golden P little Natalie, there’ll be records of it any place that matters.”
Natalie longed to touch it. She loved all kings, and this was the closest she’d ever got to one. And he was her father’s favourite too. She thought, “I will wait for a good opportunity, then I’ll just walk by it, as if I am going to dust it down, and I’ll bend down and get a lick of it as I do.”
And so, when x2 had gone out to take a stroll after dinner, she seized the P by its long end, intent on licking all the bare parts exposed to the air —but before her tongue could reach, there her finger and hand had to stay, held fast.
Soon after Jesse came by. First, she was going to touch and rub it, as her sister had planned, then she was going to scrape off some gold for herself to keep. She approached quietly in the dark, thinking that another soaking was coming her way as soon as she rubbed herself against it. Scarcely had she touched the big P, and she also was obliged to stay, held fast.
Lastly came Crispy with the same intentions; but as she did, the others screamed out, even though they knew her to be tough, and to have killed all her pets. “Stay away! For heaven’s sake stay away!” they shouted. They knew that when she sensed their presence, she’d be inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. “It’s us, lay down your weapons first,” cried little Jesse, her underwear now well and truly soaked.
She recognised her sister’s voice, and consented to lay down her rifle, but then, despite their continued entreaties, continued towards them. And when she reached her sisters, there she stopped, hanging on with them. And so, they had to stay all night without a morsel to eat or drink.
So dozy was x2 , the next morning he took the P under his arm and went away, unmindful of the three girls that were stuck to it. Its lower limb was reasonably long to be fair —to say it was the height of Bezos, or Zuckerman, was to damn it with feint praise. It was a short distance, that’s acknowledged, but in the world of civic lettering, it wasn’t that bad.
The three had to run after him, left and right, wherever his legs carried him, which was not straight. He seemed compelled to change direction, not by his instincts and will, but by an external force that drew him onwards. A bit like the way Moses went to live in the desert for forty years and made everyone go with him.
In the midst of the fields, they met parson Nick Fuentes, who, when he saw the procession, decided that it wasn’t Christian, Holy, or Nationalistic, for young women to run after a boy carrying a P, instead of a cross. To him it indicated that they followed the paedophile caucus of his church, rather than the Males In Celebration of Christ faction, to which he belonged. “Look at them,” he cried, “everyone knows that they’ve got underwear on under their dresses!”
He ran to catch them, doing that unathletic arm swinging version of running, that nerdy arseholes who’d never left their bedrooms, mistook for actual running —it was essentially effeminate, to be frank.
“Shame on you girls, running after a young fellow through the fields like this,” he shouted. He reached out to grab Natalie by the hand to drag her away, but hardly had he moved towards her, when the forward most part of the central area of his cassock brushed against the back of her leg, he too became part of the procession, obliged to join the daisy chain.
Not long after that, sexton Jeanine crossed their path too, she wasn’t very clever, but she was good at shouting, especially when she was drunk, and as it was 10 a.m. in the morning, her pipes had been greased.
Seeing the respected parson following at the heels of the three girls, she called out, “Ho, your reverence, whither away so quickly? You forget that we have another baptism to-day, and they’re all conversions!” and she seized hold of Fuentes by his gown; but no sooner had she touched him than she became part of the chain too.
As the five tramped on, one after another, two peasants with their hoes came up from the fields, and Fuentes cried out to them, and begged them to come and set him and Jeanine free. They refused.
Then, when Fuentes shouted to them that it was a Golden Donald P, and to remember about all the cheap oil that he had provided for them, they shouted back louder, “That dang Venezulu gasoline gone make our tractors break and our teeth fall out.”
“King Donald loves y’all” shouted Jeanine, but the peasants just laughed, shouting back at her that they couldn’t sell their soyabean crops because Donald had given all the business to his friends in Brazil and Argentina. And then they told her how they’d sold up, and were waiting to hitch a lift to Californie so that they could go pick oranges now that all the foreign people had been sent home, and there were, at last, some well paid jobs for real citizens like them.
It brought relief to the parson and sexton, who shouted, “That’s where we’re all going,” putting eventually in brackets, like this: (eventually); and saying it very quietly so that the men didn’t hear. It was enough to make the peasants approach the P procession, but no sooner had they touched Jeanine’s sexton parts than they had to join in too.
And now there were seven, following x2√en and the P.
By and by they came to a town, which was rumoured to be the place where a king reigned. Some said it was old King Donald, who’d gone into exile there, biding his time for the people to come round to associating the penury in which they lived with a new ruler, whereupon he’d come back and save them.
He had an only daughter who was so serious, that no one could make her laugh. It was true, you should have seen the gob on it. It was difficult to say, as many did, that she was born with a poker up her arse, for all that had gone on since, but, you know, she gave you the distinct impression that that might have been the case.
So serious was her condition, that as a young girl, he had sent her to his friend Jeffrey’s island, where everybody had fun morning ‘til night, and often through the night too, every day of the year, apart from when the courts were in session, and when it was term time at the open prisons.
It was a place where his good friends Cowherd Nut-Lick, who was still the official idiot in the innkeeper’s village, and Bezos the Pig-me, and x2√en’s father, had wonderful times, even though they’d never been, and had just looked at the island from a distance; or watched videos from it that other people had sent to them on the Signal app. Then he had her engaged to Jarheed, son of a very good friend of his (as soon as his friend had paid to get out of prison). Jarheed was said to be a young buck of high ambitions, and blessed with a desire to live life to the full. Unfortunately for Donald’s daughter, he thought that meant being an international criminal conspirator, and shagging high-end prostitutes that had been trained in Vlad’s palace.
It was for this reason that the king had declared that whoever could make her laugh, should have his daughter in marriage. x2 , when he heard this, went with his P and his hangers-on into the presence of the king’s daughter, and as soon as she saw the seven people shouting, complaining, and following one after the other, she burst out laughing, and seemed as if she could never stop.
And in this way, x2 earned a right to her as his bride. At first, on seeing the troupe of people, ex-King Donald’s eyes lit up, “That’s one of my P’s,” he said. “I’d know it anywhere. That’s the one I used to rename Tallahassee, Trumpgrad.”
“No it isn’t,” said his daughter. “It’s the P from Trumping Meadow, Queens, when you rebranded the US open tennis tournament.”
“My home town,” said Donald, “Queens, now Trumpsville, New York. It does look like one of those dark yellow Ps from the old days, now you mention it. It might even be one from the MacDonald-Trump burger chain. Anyway, I don’t like him for a son-in-law, even with a Golden P. I’m giving you away too lightly. The rules have changed.”
“But daddeh,” said his daughter. “You’ve promised now.”
There were no two ways about it, Donald did not like him for a son-in-law and that was that. For one, he was ugly, like his father who Donald had met when he was king. Plus, that same father had a head that looked like it was a cross between a Kim Jong Un lookie-likie, and a box designed in one of his factories to look like a humanoid robot —all topped off with one of those “beret” wigs, which Donald knew were manufactured in a poor part of Vlad’s kingdom from the stuff you found under a sofa, and the hair that prostitutes were forced to shave from their vaginas.
“What’s the matter with you white South Africans,” he shouted at the boy, “You all look like you sat too close to the camp fire! I don’t want you her in my exile, melting all over me women.”
Then he said, “That thing about making sour-face laugh was just part one, to qualify. Now you have to face a real challenge, whatever your name is.”
“This is just like the old king days,” he said to himself, laughing, “when I could just make stuff up and everyone did it without objecting.” He thought very hard, to make sure he came up with something that no one would want to do, and as soon as he thought of a project that he wouldn’t like to do himself, he realised he had it. He set x2 the task that he must find a man who could drink up a whole cellar of wine, then have him do it.
“I need the space for prescription medications, not sour coke,” said Donald. “I want it all gone. Every drop.”
Fuentes immediately scanned the grounds for Sexton Jeanine, but she was asleep under a tree and had already vomited down her vest.
And the task puzzled x2 too, but after a while, he thought that perhaps Tiny Tony would be able to help him, and went out into the forest in search of him. And there, on the very spot where he felled the tree, he saw a man sitting with a very sad countenance. x2 asked him what was the matter, and the man answered, “I saw you and that procession of people earlier today, and one of those girls, I can’t remember which, because I’d had a few, but one of them, when I was staying at her father’s inn not so long ago, I gave her a right seeing to. She was as flexible as a contortionist, and didn’t say no to anything. Well, I saw her there, with her skirts blowing in the wind, and I thought I’d go and take a couple of Tequila shots off her bare arse for old times’ sake; and as I got closer, the more I wanted to do it. Then I saw you all sticking to each other, and I realised that I couldn’t touch her. It’s made me very sad indeed. And when I’m sad, I get a real thirst on. A great thirst, which I cannot quench: cold water does not agree with me; I have indeed drunk up a whole cask of wine already, but what good is a drop like that?”
“Then,” said x2 , “I can help you; only come with me, and you shall have enough.” He took him straight to the king’s cellar, and Pete Kegsbreath, for that was his name, sat himself down before the big vats, and drank, and drank, and before a day was over, he had drunk up the whole cellar-full. When he’d finished, he shouted, “Fucking doddle, now bring me that bird.”
But x2 didn’t hear. He was already off in search of a golden goose of his own, now won, but the king was still annoyed that a wretched fellow like x2√en should carry off his precious daughter.
As far as Donald was concerned, x2√en was no better than his father. He was just as ugly, but whereas K-holeBokX got away with it because of a sort of spectrum-based faux confidence, this nonentity had obviously had the self-esteem knocked out of him since birth, and couldn’t even bring that to the party. He didn’t even have enough self-confidence to be annoying —despite the idiot’s mug on him.
And so, Donald decided to add further conditions, so that now, x2 if he still sought the hand of his daughter, was to find a new man: one who could eat up a mountain of brioche burger buns. First off, there was no meat left since he’d run away from being king, not even horses, and they were shite anyway, too stringy. And second of all, since he’d gone into hiding, some arsehole had come up with these sweet soft brioche buns for burgers, made out of cake mixture! As if they lived in fucking France! Vlad, by the way, was already supposed to have bombed that lot back to the Iron Age.
So, Donald wanted a decent supply of regular American burger buns —ones that were too big, and went stale as soon as you opened them, but were the right size for the sheets of plastic cheese you got from the wholesalers; the ones that were made of proper chemicals that didn’t fall apart in your hands. And he wanted rid of these feminine sugary buns. When meat came back, and it better had, now that K-holeBokX was back on the scene, it was going to be eaten out of baps like milkmaids’ knockers; not buns like a ballerina’s pussy.
Simple little x2 did not hesitate long, and ran off quickly to the forest, and there in the same place sat a man who had fastened a strap round his body, making a very piteous face, and saying, “I have eaten a whole bakehouse full of rolls, but what is the use of that when one is as hungry as I? I have been in prison for years and my stomach has shrivelled like the nuts that hang somewhere below it. I am obliged to strap myself together, that I may not die of hunger.”
“Who are you?” asked x2.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man said. “The fucking Thought Police?”
x2 told the man of his story.
“You’re not from Miller’s lot, are you? Cos, I order the fucking eliminations round here, not that High School jerk off cosplay fascist.”
x2 assured him he was not.
“You’re weird and ugly. You could be him,” said the man.
“I swear I’m not,” said x2, “I am the estranged and rejected son of K-holeBokX, the South African thing, who claims he is American, and invented everything. That is why you find me ugly and weird.”
“You poor fucker,” said the man, “You’re in a worse state than I am. I am merely hungry; you’re the son of a prick but worse! You look just like him too! That’s a poor hand to be dealt. My name is Bannon,” said the man, laughing. His breath enveloped poor x2 , and it smelled as bad as one of Donald’s leaks.
But, on the whole, x2 was quite glad, and said, “Get up quickly, and come along with me, and you shall have enough to eat.” He led him straight to Donald’s place, where the mountain of brioche rolls stood in front of him.
“And don’t bring that croaky voiced MAHA imbecile in here, telling me what to eat, or tipping some fucking dead insects into it. I mean it, if that dick comes round here preaching, I’ll shove his scrawny neck up his schoolgirl’s arsehole, and he’ll go the way of the rest of his family,” said Bannon, settling himself down before the food. In one day, the whole mountain had disappeared.
Then x2 once more asked for his bride, even though, by now he’d got a look at her, and it was right what they said, she was a right sour-looking puss. Still, it was as good as he was going to get, being the spawn of K-holeBokX, who was bald by the time he was twenty-five, and twice as ugly. Besides, he’d have a seat at the restoration court.
The king, however, found one more excuse, and said he must have a ship that was able to sail on land or on water. “So soon,” he said, “as you come sailing along with it, you shall have my daughter for your wife.”
He made this final request, because last time, when he ran away, the farmers would have lynched him if they’d caught him, and strung him up on one of his T’s, and he wanted to be sure of a quick getaway next time, just in case.
x2 went straight to the forest, and there sat Tiny Tony with whom he had shared his cake, who said, “You know the drunk? He’s even more stupid than Donald. In the old days he was in charge of the armed forces, and he crashed most of their equipment because he liked to go out with them on manoeuvres, where he’d take charge of everything and messed them all up. For a crate of Johnny Walker, the arsehole will give you an amphibious landing craft that he thinks is a write-off.
“Won’t he be too busy?” asked x2.
“Him? Busy watching the game and drinking Bud Light, you mean? Naah, he takes his wife to work, and she does it all. She’s the only one in the family who can spell.”
Tiny Tony pointed to the edge of the forest, “It’s over there in the ditch, and only needs pulling out. Get that fat fuck to do it for you. Put a plate of chips just beyond his reach, and harness him to the vehicle.
Soon, Bannon was pulling the empty vessel back to Donald’s caravan, as if he was Silvester Stallone in one of those made-for-morons movies about the derring-do of a half-wit wearing camouflage gym fatigues, and a girl’s head band. When Donald saw it, he knew he could no longer deny his daughter to her suitor.
“Take her,” he said, “I’ve never really liked her since she started cheating at my beauty pageants, and wouldn’t let the other girls come for their interviews.”
The marriage took place immediately, and when the king died of congestive heart failure two weeks later, x2 came to possess the kingdom. He lived a long and wretched life, in part because his father was always round begging for favours and bail outs; but mainly because of his wife, who was even worse once you got to know her.
Dickie White's Diary 