While brushing his newly coiffed hair, Donald Trump noticed a woolly cocoon clinging to the pearl handled brush. To his mortification, thick clumps of matted reddish-brown hair had become embedded in the bristles (This curious event occurred before the mysterious transformation, which I am about to relate to you). Terrified, Donald was about to call out to Ivana, his wife of the moment, summoning her to his bedroom. I say his bedroom because they no longer cohabited the same sleeping quarters. Nonetheless, Donald needed Ivana to confirm whether he had contracted a dreadful disease of the scalp. Suddenly, he froze, realizing that in moments Ivana would be on the phone with his pal David Pecker and that tomorrow morning, emblazoned on the cover of The Enquirer, would be a headline screaming:
“BALD OVERNIGHT! TRUMP LOSING HIS HAIR.”
He also knew that Ivana would not stop there. Next, she would be on the interview circuit with every network that would have her. At that point, the only way he could stop the Ivana Express would be to give her the divorce she’d been demanding – on her terms.
Pressing close to the illuminated magnifying mirror while viewing the reflection from every possible angle, he breathed a sigh of relief at discovering there was no detectable hair loss – except for what was trapped in the brush.
Using a comb, he hurriedly scraped the matted hair from the brush and tossed it into the waste can. But, watching the fluffy mass float to the bottom, it occurred to him that the housekeeper would certainly recover it, and, because he was always so rudely dismissive of her (as well as all the household staff) she would waste no time in handing the evidence over to Ivana.
While considering his present dilemma and how complicated his life had become, Donald was fondly reminded of those long-ago Sunday school lessons from his youth that so vividly described how Delilah brought down the mighty Samson. It was easy to envision Ivana bringing down the temple of his vanity with the same ardor, leaving his self-esteem in a pile of narcissistic rubble; just as the strong man had singlehandedly destroyed the Philistine temple.
It was at that instant that he sensed a dark presence in the room.
Glancing toward the overstuffed chair next to the four-poster bed, he spied a bizarre, demonic figure. A man, or at least a man-like visage, wearing a black frock coat who sat studying Donald. The stranger, fingertips steepled together, observed him with a sardonic smile that projected a sinister intent.
Startled, Donald gasped “Who are you and why are you in my bedroom. I’m setting off the security alarm.”
“Oh, but you won’t” sneered the menacing apparition. “But, since you so politely inquired concerning my person, my friends refer to me as Phisto – short for Mephistopheles. Regarding my presence here, I could tell you that I’ve come for your soul, but you surrendered that worthless relic long ago.” The demon’s widening smile now revealed two rows of sharply pointed teeth. “I, in fact, am deeply disappointed at having to deal with such a sub-standard specimen as yourself. Time was when I was given subjects with mental powers far superior to anything you could comprehend or aspire to. I am reminded of the magnificent Dr. Faustus. Just to think that I was in the process setting up a constellation in his name – until, that is, he got himself saved by the Old Man.”
With his tiny thumb poised, Donald shouted, “What makes you think I won’t push this button?”
“Because, my vain psychopath, you are so flattered by my visit you would never forgive yourself for passing up the opportunity to escape your mediocrity.”
“Mediocrity? Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m richer than anyone you know!”
Without regard to Trump’s comment, Phisto said “Tell me, Donald. This little problem with your disappearing hair. How long can you hold your stable of consorts together when they will no longer do photo shoots with a bald, overweight ape?”
“Bald? Me? Even if that were true, there are dozens, maybe hundreds, of hair loss remedies on the market and even more doctors ready to prescribe them. Besides, who are you to talk about hair? You and your pal Dracula should be making 1940’s vampire movies with that slipped-back rug of yours.”
“Always the joker” smiled Phisto. “Donald Trump – a walking encyclopedia of nuanced hyperbole. Listen, Narcissus, I haven’t got time for this. I’m here to make you an offer you could never hope to receive, Even from HIM. In short, I’m going to make you into the next POTUS.”
“Sure, and how do you plan to do that Mr. Festus or whatever it is you call yourself? Of course, I understand why you need, me. I’m the face of clever American intelligence and prosperity.”
“Sorry Donald, but those attributes, describe you least of anyone. We need a blond, blue-eyed WASP. Someone who can appeal to the baser populist attitudes of white, uneducated, working-class males.”
“Why Blond?” whined Donald whose vanity was crushed. “And what’s this populist business? I’m the richest capitalist you’ve ever met. Besides, how do you figure you’re going to engineer this stunt? I’ve never wanted to be a politician. I just want to own ‘em.”
“Well,” shrugged the demon, “for one thing, you will need to start listening instead of pontificating-and, maybe even exercising a little humility. That would make a good start. But, since that’s not about to happen, the first thing we got to do is fix that hair. That ocher dye your barber uses looks worse than it smells. At the rate it’s dropping we can’t waste any time so we need do a complete scalp replacement – immediately! Just so happens I’ve got the perfect the man for the job.”
“And who would that be?” asked Donald, who was slowly beginning to appreciate the possibilities of becoming the world’s most powerful man. Flattered by Phisto’s plan, he began to hang on the villain’s every breath.
“He is, shall we say, an ‘experimental’ surgeon who lives in the little Brazilian village, Cândido Godói. Although very old, he remains remarkably skilled. Nonetheless, with your lack of historical awareness, you would never recognize the name: Joseph Mengele.”
“Sounds Jewish,” scoffed Donald.
“Strangely interesting irony. Never considered that – German, certainly. Anyhow, pack a bag. We’re off to Brazil.”
“You’ve got plane tickets I suppose?” Snarled Donald, not thinking this was really going to happen. He was now becoming suspicious of the stranger’s motives. This guy looked to be a con artist – a quality with which Donald had a good deal of familiarity.
“Unnecessary” snorted Mephistopheles. Then, before the fact could register, Donald was aware of standing in the middle of a small Brazilian farming village on the Argentine border.
“What a strange, little, backward place” mused Donald, as they strolled through what appeared to be the village square. Donald, who is not usually so observant, commented “everybody looks alike. Some seem even identical.”
“That’s because they are” sniffed Phisto with a sarcastic smile. “Wikipedia has it that ‘the phenomenon is compounded by a high level of inbreeding among the population, which is composed almost entirely of German speaking immigrants.’” “Furthermore,” he continued, “‘Cândido Godói is a statistical phenomenon distinguished by having the highest birthrate of identical twins.’”
“And, why is that?” Asked Donald in another uncharacteristically curious moment.
“Oddly,” considered his guide, “local legend has it that the mysterious Dr. Mengele, who escaped Germany at the end of the Second World War, was said to have conducted experiments on women in Cândido Godói that resulted in a baby boom of twins, many of whom have blond hair and light-blue eyes.”
“My kind of people,” mused Donald.
“See here. We have arrived at the doctor’s estate,” said Phisto gesturing toward a classic Bavarian country manor. They had been trekking along a primitive country road for a good 3 hours. Donald had never walked this far and certainly never had to carry his own luggage.
“The doctor is expecting us in his operating room. We are to walk in, prep you for the surgery and perform the procedure immediately.”
Donald was too exhausted to argue. Besides, by now, he was all-in with Phisto’s project, even at the prospect of being scalped. The promise of a youthful restoration was too much for his vanity to resist.
After some formalities of introduction and a speedy physical examination, the “Auschwitz Butcher”, as Mengele is referred to by Holocaust historians, pronounced Donald to be a reasonably fit subject. The only difficulty being that Phisto wanted blond tresses for Donald. “Something like Jon Bon Jovi’s,” murmured Phisto, framing Donald’s head with thumb and forefingers imitating a director doing a photo shoot.
“The skin color is all wrong for blond hair” murmured Mengele. “This man’s complexion is so pasty he could double for the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I’m going to need a cadaver that has a DNA match closer to that of our subject.”
Mengele asked Donald to produce a photo of his parents. “I always carry this photo of Mommy from 1997. See her gorgeous blond hair? Oh, that mine could only look like hers” he sighed.
“And, so it shall” exclaimed Mengele. All we require is her scalp.”
“But Mommy’s been decomposing since 2000. Besides, she’s buried in the Queens Lutheran Cemetery. This is insane!”
“Not a problem,” announced Phisto. “Get your sycophant attorney on the phone, have him start digging at midnight. Tell him we’ll meet him there.”
“Something’s bothering’ me about this scheme.” worried Donald. “I’ve been wondering. What’s in this for you? Why am I suddenly your big project and Just who the hell are you anyway?”
“Quick answer: HE sends me to do his dirty work.”
“And HE is?”
“Well you know him as Lucifer, or Satan but he prefers ‘The Prince’.”
“Oh – HE’s a Saudi?”
“I suppose one could say that” considered Phisto. “Strange that you should mention it. HE does resemble MBS. Interesting observation – never saw that one coming – especially from you.”
Mephistopheles’s patience with his new protege was beginning to grow thin. This was becoming a longer pull, harder, by far, than he had anticipated.
Given the time differential between their present location and Queens, New York, Michael Cohen would have arrived and begun the exhumation by now. “C’mon POTUS – we got work to do,” wherein Donald abruptly found himself standing in front of the Trump family gravestone. At the bottom of a deep hole, his “fixer”, sweating profusely, had just thrown the last shovel full of dirt over the top of Mary McLeod Trump’s grave.
“Hey! Watch what you’re doing dumb-ass,” screamed Donald brushing the damp, black soil off his face and head.
“Oh, sorry Donald. Didn’t see you standing there. Been shoveling for six hours – look at these blisters. What’s this all about and who’s the guy with the pointy beard?”
“How soon they forget” hissed Phisto. “Think for a moment Michael. Remember our little pact? The matter of your, uh…, soul? Poor recollective ability for a lawyer.”
Alarmed by Phisto’s harsh aide-mémoire, Michael turned to Donald with pronounced unease, and whispered, “Listen sir, you need to rethink whatever business you’ve got going with this guy. You may have some HUGELY regrets.”
“Enough, fool” Phisto snarled. “Remove that casket lid and drag the old woman’s body up here. Good, now lay it on this stone bench.”
Soon, the withered cadaver was stretched out full length, head hanging over the end of the bench. Then, before Donald could object, Phisto drew his rapier and with one lightning flash of the blade, the head fell from the body as cleanly as if separated by a laser beam scalpel.
“YOU! Lawyer! Toss that carcass back in the coffin and rebury it – not a blade of grass of out-of-place.
Handing Donald a rotted burlap sack he had brought from the village, Phisto ordered: “Head in the bag – careful the hair,”
In the next instant, Michael found himself standing alone, holding a headless corpse, left to finish the grizzly work he’d been charged by the demon.
Meanwhile, the sudden return of the mysterious pair was not lost on the villagers. Nor was the boisterous, condescending attitude of the one who called himself ‘The Donald’. The commerce between the two strangers and the old doctor had been the subject of constant discussion among the villagers, over fences and in pubs since their first arrival. So many years had passed since there had been any discernible activity at the cottage laboratory that many wondered if “the butcher”, himself, had finally succumbed to the black reaper’s scythe.
On this day, however, the pair was spotted at the village center, the American holding a rotted burlap sack containing Mary Trumps severed head. It was not too difficult to distinguish the outline showing through the bag that was reminiscent of the dried shrunken heads used by the old forest shamans to frighten away evil spirits – spirits purported to have previously inhabited the bodies of the heads before they were sacrificed.
Seeing that they were the object of suspicious stares, Phisto and Donald quickly departed, heading directly for the chalet.
Dr. Mengele, anxious to begin, took the burlap bag from Donald and emptied its shrunken contents onto the laboratory counter. “It’s pretty far gone but I think it can be restored by using a free-flap-reconstruction procedure. It will need to soak in a solution of Propecia, henna and peroxide in order to restart the hair growth and restore the color.”
“What are the risks?” asked Phisto.
“POD,” murmured the doctor. “Postoperative delirium. POD is a cerebral disturbance characterized by fluctuating patterns of disorganized thinking, altered levels of consciousness, and varying degrees of inattention. “
“He’s already got that,” Phisto grumbled. “Better get on with it doc.”
The hair of the desiccated scalp had discolored from its original strawberry blond and was now shriveled into a mummified patch of blackish-orange leather embedded with splotches of matted hair.
When it appeared that the anesthetic had taken hold, the ancient surgeon took an equally ancient scalpel in hand and, despite his palsied shaking, cut a precise line around Donald’s hairline. After circumscribing the head and then grasping a rusted Bowie knife, he began slicing the scalp away from the skull as though he were skinning a freshly killed deer; carefully slicing through the layers of cranial fat while lifting the scalp off and discarding it into the disposal tray.
Remembering that the replacement was still weeks away from being ready to attach, Mengele cursed and began wrapping Donald’s unfinished head with gauze leaving his patient resembling the old Lon Chaney mummy from the original 1940’s movie.
Although a close associate of Phisto over many years, Mengele was not yet privy to the demonic plan to make Donald Trump into the President of the United States. But now, becoming impatient, he questioned the demon, who, in elaborate detail, revealed to the surgeon his devilish plan to capture the Presidency.
“But America is a Democracy,” Mengele reminded Phisto. “Your plan requires the initiate to become a dictator; a first-rate dictator at that. How do you expect Dumbo, here, to pull off what amounts to a total overthrow of the American Government? Why not get a professional; someone like, say, Duterte, who could really do it up right?”
“Too complicated, but, we are going to have to re-educate him.” Phisto thought aloud. “First, we need to introduce him to the principles of fascism. From there, it should be simple to convert him to White Nationalism – he’s practically that already. That’s where I need your help doctor. You helped bring most of the German medical profession into the SS for Hitler.”
“And just how do you propose to teach someone, who hasn’t read a book since first grade, to assimilate a concept, even as simple, as becoming a dictator?”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult. The ‘carrot and Stick’ approach works well with scatterbrained children. We simply reward him with a bucket of fried chicken when he memorizes a chapter.”
“OK – that’s the carrot – what’s the stick?”
“He is allowed to eat only broccoli until we get his undivided attention.”
“Might work. But I’m guessing we’re going to be buying a ton of veggies. That should please the village grocer” grinned the doctor.
During the period of his convalescence, Phisto and Mengele frequently brought Donald into the village and paraded him in front of the locals. When their curiosity had sufficiently overcome their suspicions, the villagers began to quiz the doctor about his intentions.
“Are you planning to transfigure the American into a mummy for a new movie?” was most frequently asked. In each case, the doctor told them he was creating a new miracle and assured them they were witnessing the birth of a new saint who would revive the fame of Cândido Godói.
When finally, the days of Donald’s re-education were accomplished, the doctor determined that the restored scalp was ready to attach. Helping his patient onto the operating gurney, he began the removal of the gauze bandage.
“Horrors!” exclaimed Mengele after a few minutes. “Phisto – come quick! It’s ruined – a total failure!”
Leaping off the couch where he was deliberating his next move, Phisto flew into the operating room. There, standing directly in front of him was a newly coifed Donald Trump whose complexion had changed from pasty white into an uncannily radiant, brightly-hued orange – but only from the hairline to the bottom of his forehead.
“How did this happen?” gasped Phisto.
Apparently, the henna from the old woman’s scalp leeched into his skin and osmosed from the stitches down to his eyebrows. “I had never considered this to be a possibility. I have no idea as how to reverse it!” moaned Mengele. “There has to be a way! Otherwise, both of us will be swimming in a lake of flaming petrol while trying to explain this mess to HIM” screamed Phisto.
Inspired, no doubt, by the probable fate awaiting him, the doctor gasped “I think there is a way. All we need is the rest of Mommy’s cadaver. You see, at one time I was performing experiments with the idea of re-coloring human skin. The experiments were not completely successful, but they were promising.”
“So, what are you proposing? He’s not going to get many votes making campaign promises sewed up in Mommy’s skin. Although, he does have the boobs for it.”
“Here’s what has to happen” explained Mengele. “We transplant skin biopsies from Mommy’s corpse and stitch them into his skin. After a sufficient waiting period, his epidermis will assimilate the implants and the color will osmose just as it did with the scalp. He should appear uniform in color, but I must warn you – he’ll be orange.”
“No matter” growled Phisto, “it’s all we got.”
“Donald,” shouted the demon. “Wake up! Get that harebrained fixer of yours on the phone. Have him dig up Mommy’s corpse and ship her down here. Tonight!”
After Michael had received his instructions, he thought to himself “No way am I going back to that cemetery and go through that business again.” So, after long and careful scheming, this is the plan that Michael Cohen devised.
That very next morning, Michael made a visit to the Central Park Zoo where he became on friendly terms with the primate keeper. It was only a very short time, with the encouragement of a stream of large bills pressed one-by-one into his palm, that the keeper became more than willing to carry out Michael’s instructions.
“All you need to do is hold a chloroform-soaked rag under his nose, inject him with the contents of this syringe then place him in a shipping crate and send him off to Argentina.”
Within a few anxious hours, a very anesthetized, bright-orange Orangutan arrived at Mengele’s villa where it was immediately uncrated and strapped onto a gurney situated next to Donald.
“This is all wrong” grumped Phisto. “How do you figure the transplants are going to grow and expand? They’re different species.”
“Couldn’t have worked out better” smiled the doctor. “Humans share 95 percent of primate DNA. Dummy here is probably closer to 100 percent. Not only that but this donor is alive.”
It was simpler than either Mengele or Phisto had hoped for. Within a mater of hours, the transplants were stitched in place and the simian, after reviving, was released into the nearby tropical forest to swing happily through the vines – a newly free monkey.
Weeks later, after innumerable buckets of fried chicken and reading volumes detailing the political philosophy of Fascism, Mengele’s plan was about to materialize.
Exactly six months to the date of Donald’s first arrival, Mengele began removing the gauze bandages with Phisto anxiously looking on. Soon, Donald stood naked, radiantly orange and looking for his next bucket of greasy poultry. Donald’s endocrine system had completely assimilated the primate DNA and spread it completely through his system. The transfer had even replaced the tar-stained orange left by Mommy’s withered scalp.
“He’s perfect” hissed Phisto. “Re-bandage his head. We’re taking him back into town and present him to the villagers as your new miracle.”
Maneuvering the gauze shrouded Donald to the podium in the village center, Mengele made an impassioned speech reminding the people that it was he who transformed their village into a garden of blond, blue-eyed clones. He promised that this new transformation miracle will give Cândido Godói a new patron saint. And then, with the accomplished flourish of a snake oil salesman, the doctor removed the bandages and revealed the finished product to the villagers.
The Mayor, who was among the throng and had witnessed the transformation miracle, instantly sent for Father Agonistes, Bishop of the Brazilian Diocese of Santa Maria in which the village is located. Immediately, on his arrival, the Bishop contacted the Vatican requesting an immediate beatification of the new patron saint of Cândido Godói: St. Donald the Orange.
Having never seen a human subject, the color of a ripe orange, the citizens, led by the Priest and the Bishop, fell to their knees and, to a person, pronounced in unison: “Hail to St. Donald! Hail to the Chief!”