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Trump in Hell: Part 2



Hitler and Trump got in the habit of having lunch a few days a week. Trump found the hamburgers over-cooked, as was everything else. But he liked Hitler.

“Oh, by the way,” Hitler said, daintily nibbling a chocolate éclair, “The Boss especially liked it when you told people to inject bleach.”

“That was a good one, all right,” Trump giggled, adding, “Do you think I could meet The Boss?” Trump looked at Hitler hopefully.

“All good things come to those who wait,” Hitler replied. Trump scowled. Hitler changed the subject. “You know, we have a Lake of Boiling Bleach here. It’s where Eva and I spent our honeymoon, shortly after we arrived. Lovely spot. Wonderful bleach-tinis at the bar.”

Trump was no great fan of history, but he knew who Eva Braun was. “Melania was—is—a great fan of Eva’s, Mr. Hitler. She always said how stylish she was.”

“Call me Adie.”

“Adie. Incidentally, who figures out who goes where? I mean, here or the other place?”

“Well, in some cases, it’s obvious. Mine, for example. If you murder enough people, you’re automatically entitled to Hell. Same for you, although you didn’t kill people, you just killed the idea of America. You would have come here even if the Russians hadn’t got you elected, which, by the way, I had a hand in, thank you very much. On the other hand, someone like Harry Truman, who killed hundreds of thousands of Japanese with his atomic bombs, somehow got into—the other place.”

“It seems pretty arbitrary. But who makes the decision, anyway?”

“The One whose name we dare not mention here.”

“You mean Jes—?”

“Shhh!” Hitler hissed. “Yes. Him.”

“I never believed in Him, until I ran for president and realized I needed the evangelicals. They convinced me. Franklin Graham, Jerry Falwell, Jr., Jim Bakker.”

“Ah, yes. Great Men of Satan. We trained them all; we’re preparing for them all. The Boss finds their insincerity inspiring.” Hitler grinned, reaching for another éclair. “Eva is always telling me to cut down on the calories,” he said, patting his expansive belly. “But I tell her, what does it matter anymore? When I was Chancellor, I had to keep the weight down, as I’m sure you, a politician, understand…or don’t. Speaking of the Reverends Graham and Falwell, both of their fathers are here, although Rev. Bakker’s wife, Tammy Faye, whom he jilted, is in the other place. Do you know,” Hitler whispered conspiratorially, eyes glittering, “they still preach fire and brimstone. Don’t you find that ironic?”

But Trump’s mind was wandering. He was watching a beautiful young nymphet, who had just entered the Café. She was his type: tall, statuesque, with long blond hair, a great ass and a heavily made-up face. “Say, Mr. Hitler—sorry, Adie—who’s the babe?”

Hitler looked at her. “Why, don’t you know? That’s your daughter, Ivanka.”

Trump was stunned. “But, but, when did she die?” Before Hitler could reply, Ivanka made her way to their table.

“Daddee,” she said. She was very beautiful, except that her face kept melting, only to be replaced by another beneath it. Trump reached for her. “My little girl! My baby! What happened?”

“Oh, Daddee, Jared left me for…for…Kayleigh McEnany.” Ivanka put her head into her hands and wept. “I couldn’t stand it, so I went to the top of the Washington Monument and jumped.”

“A very beautiful and courageous act,” Hitler interjected. “We saw it live on The Boss’s Instagram. He was quite impressed when your head hit the pavement.”

At that moment, a burst of light, as brilliant as the Sun; and who should walk into the Café but Donald Junior. And Eric, followed by Tiffany and the beauteous Melania, in a colorful Dolce & Gabbana coat with a floral print. In other words, Trump’s entire family, sans Barron. Once again, Trump was stunned. His tiny mouth drooped open, his jowls quivering as they hung down to his man breasts. Hitler explained, “I’m so sorry, Donald, I should have told you. But it all happened so fast.”

“What?” Trump stammered. “What?”

“When the U.S. COVID-19 death toll hit 500,000,” Hitler explained, “and people learned you had a financial interest in hydroxychloroquine and bleach, through a dummy corporation in Bangladesh, Mar-a-Lago was stormed by an angry mob, complete with flaming pitchforks. They burned the place down. The Secret Service refused to intervene. In fact, they shot anyone who tried to escape, except for the servants. Your entire family was killed.”

“Wha, wha?” Trump was blubbering. Drool bubbled from his lips, only it wasn’t drool, it was blood.

“But look at it this way: you’ll be together again with your family. For eternity. And The Boss, Hail Be His Evil Name, has upgraded your living quarters. You now have a one-bedroom condo in Char-a-Lago, right on the Lake of Boiling Bleach, with a view of the fiery pit. The place is crawling with coronavirus, but don’t worry: you can’t get sick and die, because you’re already dead.” Then Hitler said, “Oh, by the way, The Boss, May He Rule the Flies Forever, has invited you and your family for Bleach-tinis this evening. Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

Trump didn’t intend to be late. He wanted to meet The Boss—the ruler of Hell, whose job he coveted.

TOMORROW: Trump Meets Satan

  1. You’re so funny!

  2. : >

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