The Last White President

A heavy fall of white snow did not cause the old woman who stood at the lectern on a dais at the western from of the Capitol building to relax her gleeful smirk. She waved cheerfully at the mariachi who strummed their guitars and clicked their castanets in wild abandon around her. Some white corpses of white men in policemen’s uniforms dangled from ropes; signs with the words, “Black lives matter” had been punched into their hearts. Black youths, with their trousers hanging down exposing their nether curvature, and for some, their steatopygia, grinned mischievously at a group of whites dressed like plantation owners from the antebellum era. The youths giggled malevolently as they cakewalked towards a buffet laden with puddings in the shape of the heads of white presidents from George Washington to George W. Bush. In the near distance, a muezzin called to the faithful from a minaret of a mosque that annexed the US Congress. Hillary smiled pleasantly at the call and bowed her head towards Mecca. A few streets away, a bomb exploded in Saint Cyprian’s Catholic Church, and the muezzin called out, “Allahu Akbar.” The black youth stopped their cakewalk; the mariachi paused their music; the Muslims in the audience dropped to their knees and pointed devoutly towards Mecca. Together, all the crowd cheered, even the whites dressed in their tattered finery from the Antebellum. Sayyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei who had come from Iran for the swearing in of Juliano Castro glared at King Salman who sat on a chair opposite him, hissed, “The infidels are not safe even in their capitals from the scourge of the Shi’ite.”

King Salman whispered back, “The Sunni scourge!”
President Hillary said soothingly, concerned that her friends would quarrel, “I’m sure both are excellent scourges. Smiling broadly, Hillary now raised her hands signalling her wish for quiet. The king and the ayatollah restrained their dudgeon till later. The crowd hushed and she began, “America, today is a great day for post-racial America, and maybe the world. We have routed the Trumpistas. There are still pockets of white bigots and racists, Hitlerian supremacists and other vile toads who treasure European history, tradition and values. But my successor, Juliano Castro, will root them out. By the time his presidency is over, there will be no more white privilege. Hopefully, there will be no more whites, in post-racial America. There will never be another white President. I am the last white President of the USA. That is my legacy, a legacy that only a woman could give you. America I present to you President-elect Juliano Castro.”
Wild applause filled the air, especially from the Cubans and Mexicans in the front rows of the gathering. There were long lines of undocumented immigrant members of various gangs who joined together in Mexican waves. Not only did they link hands with members of rival gangs; but even with blacks and Koreans. There was a good deal of gunfire as the gang members shot off ragged salutes with the weapons President Hillary had confiscated from wicked white people. She understood the importance of disarming them to prevent them safeguarding white privilege. But as she told her husband Bill, “There’s no point having all these guns rusting away in government warehouses. We might as well make some money out of them by selling them to the gangs.” But once she’d sold off all the guns, Hillary couldn’t remember what she had done with the money.
The new Commander-in-Chief stepped onto the dais, as President Hillary sat down next to Bill, and began his address to the nation. “Hello, guys. I am the new president. Anybody, especially any white cracker, calling me Julie going to work on my Uncle Fidel’s sugar plantations in Guantanamo Bay. Anyway, we don’t want talking about that now. I’m thanking the old woman, the Hillary for getting out of Oval Office. And for giving me America. Sure, we got problems. We got twin deficits. We got 300% of GDP in government debt. We got 87% unemployment. We got higher murder rate than Mexico and South Africa putting together. I being honest with you America. Under me, corruption is being no worse than under Hillary. Well, maybe just a little.” The crowd of black and brown Americans broke out into spontaneous cheering, firing off more rounds of Bill and Hillary Merry Munitions ammunition. Luckily, Hillary had set up stalls around the Capitol where bona fidemembers of minorities could replete their magazines. When the barrackers went to replenish their bandoliers, President Castro continued. “America, so we having some little problems. But we got the clean air, from shutting down the filthy factories; and stopping the fracking and the oil drilling; and the mining; and the beef and sheep industries. There’s no working for most but nobody really want working; now everybody got free time.” Cheers and gunfire. “Most people voting me never having job anyway. And we got no money. So all the prisons empty, and now all your friends and family together. So I think old woman Hillary do good job.” Loud applause and clapping. “But America still got one big problem. The false President Trump in the rump state of the Trumponia, in the Northwest. Is still bastion of hatefulness, with big wall blocking out minority people, and homosexuals, and feminists; even white liberals who want to share the love. In my first term as autocrat-sorry, as Presidente- I am promising to smash open the wall that stopping the rights of the illegal immigrants from United States to invade Trumponia. Then we gonna make those crackers give all their money to pay for the benefits of the minorities who come to America for those benefits. We also got to fix the sewerage system. That’s other priority I got. And get rid of the rats and the garbage. See, I got agenda. But maybe our Saudi and Iranian friends gotta help us with bombs and stuff to knocking down that Trumponia wall. It’s a tough wall.”
Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Samuel Alito, now stepped forward holding a volume of The Communist Manifesto, and beckoned to President-elect Castro. “Mr. President, I hereby request that you take the oath of the office of the President of the United States.”
“I am happy for do that.”
“Repeat after me:
I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, destabilise the institutions of the family and the Christian churches so far as they continue to survive; amend and remodel the Constitution of the United States in so far as it still safeguards individual liberties and white privilege; and strive to defeat the state of Trumponia and all the treacherous citizens of that perfidious rebel travesty of a sovereign state that pretends to have seceded from the United States of America.”
“Please saying again, Judge. You talking too quickly. Please say little bit by the little bit; next time, this oath going to be Spanish language; I not going to tolerate this oppression,” declared the new head of state. In due course, the oath was delivered, and the white people dressed as antebellum slave owners were gunned down by members of the Gangster Disciples, Ghetto Brothers and Dominicans Don’t Pray. The other gangs were too far away to get any shots in, so some of them shot each other, as the presidential part hurried into bullet proof limousines that King Salman had lent to the US government for the occasion. President Hillary had sold those belonging to the White House and had forgotten what she did with the money.
There weren’t enough cars so Hillary had to follow the presidential car on foot pushing Bill in his wheelchair, and was mugged along the way by some members of the Black Spades who lost their jobs on her security detail when she was shedding staff in preparation for her retirement. But before they could get the wheels off Bill’s chair a group of the Bounty Hunter Bloods, expecting a reward, came to her assistance. While the two groups of youths were brawling with knives, knuckledusters and firearms, Hillary, charged with possibly her last spurt of adrenalin, sprinted off towards the White House Lawn. But after that, she lost contact with Bill and never found out what happened to him.  But when she arrived, there were no seats left; she had sold a lot of furniture during her tenure in the White House but she couldn’t remember what she did with the money. She might have put it in the Bank of Trumponia; that was the safest bank in all of North America; at least that’s what Bill had told her. Anyway, President Castro found a milk crate for her, and she used her handbag as a cushion; she had managed to escape the black youths on Pennsylvania Avenue with it because of their fascination with Bill’s wheelchair.
A band of transgender musicians in see-through latex gambolled merrily in front tinkling triangles and banging on toy drums. A few had harmonicas and recorders but didn’t seem to be able to play them. They were followed by a float on which some Muslims were demonstrating the lapidation of of an adulteress. Next came a float on which Mexicans acted out crossing the Rio Grande and climbing over the border wall. Another carried an effigy of Donald Trump hanging from a telegraph pole-though few of the telegraphs still worked in the United States, they could still be used for thought criminals and others found guilty of white privilege by People’s Tribunals. On the law itself, an arena had been set up using barbed wire.  Some officers from the Army of Trumponia who had been captured were brought out, bloodied and bruised, in the shabby, tattered remains of the uniforms. One after another they were chained to brown or black adversaries, always much more powerful than the man he was opposing, and armed with a small knife that was useless against the other’s cleaver. On each occasion, it was a slow, gruesome struggle as the captive was sliced and gouged; he was only allowed a coup de grace when the crowd became bored with his inability to defend himself. But up to that point, the gleeful mood was uplifting and contagious. Though on one occasion, the Trumponian was victorious, which meant that a few in the audience made a windfall from their wager, he was immediately set upon by a dozen others and hacked into a bloody, groaning mess and left to die in his own time.
When the games were finished, all the available Trumponians being dead, a mariachi band played La Bayamesa. No one knew how to play the Star Spangled Banner any more.The President stood smiling and lifted his hands as if signalling dismissal of the crowd. The Marielitos who were to form his bodyguard unclicked the safety catches on their assault rifles and loaded the magazines signalling it was time to disperse. Hillary was admiring the distinctive tattoos of patron saints, and arcane symbols from Tarot cards when President Castro took her unawares, saying, “Please, old woman, be giving back the milk crate. In the Oval Office I don’t got much furniture anymore.”
Hillary gave the milk crate to the President and hurried to a spot obscured by an overgrown hedge where Hillary found her daughter, Chelsea, waiting in a rusty, old Volkswagen, decorated with scarred, fading portraits of Karl Marx and Che Guevara. A Mexican flag was tied to the car aerial. Chelsea was dressed in a poncho striped with all the colours of the rainbow over a plain, white, cotton smock; she also wore a wide, straw sombrero so that it was difficult to Hillary to recognise her. But as Chelsea had told her where she would be, she was sure it was her when she opened the door. “Mother, where is father? Is he philandering?” asked Chelsea.
“Honestly, Chelsea, what a revolting idea. I don’t know where he is. I think he went off with some Mexican gang members.”
“Doesn’t he know we have to get to Trumponia before President Castro’s blockade shuts it off?”
“Don’t worry about Castro or your deadbeat father. They’re both useless,” advised Hillary as she put on the poncho, smock and sombrero that Chelsea had brought for her. “Do you have enough petrol?”
“Yes, I think so mother; it’s under the crates of chickens on the roof of the car; about 70 gallons, a little more than we need. And there are some automatic rifles under the blanket on the backseat.”
“Where are your children, Chelsea?”
“Oh, I knew I forgot something. Do we need them?”
“They might have been useful at checkpoints, but otherwise it should be a less unpleasant trip without them.”
The car chugged out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, swerving to avoid the missiles thrown at them by exuberant youths, but running over some of the vagrants who littered the potholed road that was now rarely used except on state occasions, such as the inauguration of presidents. Trumponia was over 1,100 miles away, its wall beginning at Topeka in Kansas and going north as far as the Canadian border, and west through to the Pacific Ocean, separating North and South California. So Hillary and Chelsea drove for three days, stopping only to sleep. But one of them was always awake watching out for bandits or citizens searching for outlaws guilty of white privilege. There were few places where they could buy food; and nowhere they could get fuel. The towns they passed through were often deserted or populated with outraged looking people seeking opportunities to vent their sense of injustice. Often, when driving along the neglected highways, Hillary and Chelsea would have to put snow chains on the wheels to prevent the car sliding on sewage that had escaped from fractured cisterns. Now and then road pirates would give pursuit, but as they rarely had snow-chains, they would often slide through the barriers along the sides of the roads once Hillary or Chelsea punctured their tyres with a well-marked shot.
The mother and daughter were quite cheerful as they came in view of the wall that marked the border of Trumponia. Hillary chuckled, remembering, “That Donald is such a clown. I always told him you can’t keep migrants out with a wall. That’s just crazy.” But as Chelsea brought their vehicle closer, the multicultural, multiracial crowd of refugees that milled around its base had a very defeated air. There was even a line leading away from it, going nowhere in particular, but simply accepting the obvious.
Nevertheless, Hillary felt reassured when the bold image of Donald Trump, sporting a broad grin, loomed up on a huge video screen. “I see you made it, Hillary. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Hi, Donald, old pal. Can you open the gate? Chelsea and I are all in. And I think I have some assets in your bank.”
“Yeah, those assets are frozen, Hillary. I use them to maintain the wall, to protect the American people from unwanted immigrants, cultural Marxists, homosexual rights activists, corrupt and opportunistic politicians, and feminist trouble-makers. I think you fit in there, somewhere, Hillary; and Chelsea, too. If she remembered her children, I might have let her in.”
“Gee, Donald, you are one vindictive son of a bitch. Where do you expect me to go?”
“I haven’t given it much thought. But you might try Canada. It’s about 20 gallons of petrol away. Bye.” The video-screen turned blank, leaving Hillary and Chelsea in a flurry as they checked the jerry cans under the chickens on the roof of the car.


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